#Scouts Den

[streetsofdublin]

SCOUTS DEN IN LEIXLIP

The present Church of Our Lady’s Nativity dates back to 1833 and replaced the previous church which was built around 1750.

THIS WAS A CHURCH THAT WAS BUILT IN 1750 The present Church of Our Lady’s Nativity dates back to 1833 and replaced the previous church which was built around 1750. This 1750 church was built on the banks of the Rye and is now the scouts’ den for the Leixlip Scout Unit. The River Rye or Ryewater is a tributary of the River Liffey. It rises in County Meath, flowing south-east for 19 miles.…

[incorrectstarwarslegendsquotes]

May the Fourth be with you!

[antiquesintheattic]

boy scouts pinewood derby nostalgia board

[misforgotten2]

Den Momma!

1964

[ivory--raven]

rebrand reminded me I missed my anniversary this February so

Aquila chrysaetos

golden eagle.

[insomnia-induced-mania]

Reblog and add a picture of the Scout-Schulranzen you had in der Grundschule

[kentopedia]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ panacea — levi ackerman

summary. it's been hard to talk to levi after the rumbling

contents. written with fem!reader in mind but no gendered pronouns used, ex-scout!reader, postwar!levi, established relationship, sfw, angst, comfort, references to ptsd and depression, early in the healing process — 2.1k

notes. writing post-war levi is a little intimidating, but i hope i did him justice <3 please ignore any spelling or grammar isses

the sound of a crash in the other room pulled you out of your sleep, tugging you out of a nightmare that you didn’t want to be caught in anyway. 

a groan came next—hushed but still audible, following the sound of something falling. though there was no need to be on alert, your heart hammered in your chest, your mind still caught in the titan’s den, not the place you called home. 

when you finally calmed down, reshaped your thoughts to reality, you shifted onto your other side, reaching out for levi. though, he wasn't in the bed besides you; the space had grown cold, the blankets thrown back. the shape of his head was no longer evident on the pillow. 

you sat up, moving quickly as you shook off the covers and padded into the other room. the brisk night air caused you to shiver, and the floor was even colder under your bare feet. still, you were too focused on the sounds you’d heard to even worry about grabbing a jacket.

there was a light on in the living room, a candle lit on table, and a book propped open next to it. clear signs that levi had been awake for a while, that sleep eluded him, even now.

“levi?” you said softly as you rubbed your eyes, your voice hoarse from misuse. “are you okay?”

you wrapped an arm around yourself, swallowing down any pity as you blinked at the dismal sight of levi next to the wheelchair, his expression screwed up in a blizzard of frustration and defeat. his legs laid out in front of him, and he stared at them, blue eyes hard as if trying to will them to do his bidding. 

this wasn’t the first time that levi had tried to push himself too hard, that he had tested his physical limits, and it wouldn't be the last. for years, he’d survived on sheer willpower. he’d gotten out of the underground from his own force and strength, his promise to erwin enough to keep him alive despite everything he suffered. 

though, for once, even his determination wasn't enough. it couldn’t rewind the clock, couldn't make his legs as they’d once been.

it had been an adjustment, and it still was—though, everything after the rumbling was an adjustment. 

for a while, after it had ended, levi hadn’t spoken to you. he didn’t want your help, and though you wanted to be by his side, you didn't want his anger. the last thing you wanted to do was make him feel smothered.

you tried your best to be patient. you’d continue to be patient with him, even when sometimes, you felt like he forget that you had lost, nonetheless.

“i’m fine,” he said gruffly, pulling himself up with the strength that he refused to let go of. levi was weaker now, his physical capabilities nowhere near where they’d once been, but he was still levi ackerman—he always would be. 

you watched him struggle for a moment, and you chewed your lip, taking a step forward. “levi…” 

“i said i’m fine.” he didn’t quite shout at you, but his tone was sharp, his voice raised in the commanding way he’d always used as a captain. 

since the day you’d met levi, he’d always been snappy, sarcasm dripping from his tongue, but he was never cruel. now, though, he was content to let his bitterness serve as a balm for his wounds instead of your affection. 

but things like that didn’t bother you anymore. a careless bite of snark couldn’t bother you when you’d been to hell and back with him. 

“okay.” you blinked, shifting on your heels, feeling stupid and confused and guilty. though for what, you weren’t sure. still, you could do nothing but stare as levi dragged himself back into the wheelchair, putting pressure on the leg that had not been completely shattered. “please be careful.”

“can you just—” levi snapped, but then his gaze met your own, piercing your lost, uncertain irises, and he softened. a long, careful sigh released, and he retraced his words, starting again. “i’m sorry. but you don’t need to worry so much. it’s been enough time.” 

you nodded, and levi turned back to his book, pulling himself closer to the table. as he glued his eyes on the pages, you glanced at his scars, his beautiful hands, a testament to his strength and all he’d done to survive. 

despite yourself, tears welled up in your eyes, and you batted them away, not wanting him to see. maybe, sometimes, levi didn’t feel the same... but you were grateful, every day, that he was still alive. “will you ever talk to me?” 

he turned, craning his neck to face you, playing the fool. “about what? i’m talking to you right now.” 

your lip quivered at his impassivity. “don’t do that again to me, levi. you know what i’m talking about. sometimes you're content to pretend like nothing’s changed, and it tears me apart.”

levi shifted his arms, regarded you with a long stare, his lips curled into something between a sneer and a frown. “then you’re welcome to leave. i don’t need a caretaker.” 

you gawked at him, knowing that he was only trying to push your buttons, but it annoyed you nonetheless. the comment was so out of left field that you couldn’t wrap your head around where it had come from. all you’d wanted to do was love him, show him your unwavering care and support, without feeling like a stifling annoyance. 

though, for a moment, doubt consumed you. maybe you hadn’t done enough. perhaps you had become a recluse of your own in the recent months, still recovering from everything you’d gone through. “leave? why would i leave?”

levi’s eyes narrowed, though more out of curiosity, a deep inhale escaping him. he peered back down at his hands, his legs, before deflating. “i’m not the person you fell in love with. i’m not humanity’s strongest anymore. i’m a man who can’t even stand on his own.” 

“levi—” you rubbed your hands together, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. “do you honestly think i care about that? you hate being called that anyway.” 

he snorted, but it was full of a defeat you’d never known him to show. “maybe i got used to it.” 

silence fell between you, and though you understood, knew what he was admitting to you, you found yourself at a loss for a words. talking with levi had once been so easy, but now, it felt like you could never say the right thing. 

you opened your mouth, willing something sensible to come out, but levi beat you to it, slicing his chest open and bearing it to you with bloodied hands.

“i just…” he began, his face pinched at the sound of his weakened voice. “i’m just not sure what i’m supposed to do now. i spent the past decade fighting. and the decade before that, fighting. and the decade before that…” 

your heart ached. you took a step forward, close enough so you could touch him. “but you don’t need to fight anymore. the war is over.”

“the war is never over.” the words didn’t leave as much of a punch as he intended. levi finally turned to face you, something sad in his dark blue irises. “those brats could barely win with me, imagine them without me.” 

you softened. levi’s pain was unending. perhaps a part of him still grieved for the man he’d been before the war, but you knew that was not the reason for his melancholy. you knew, even if he never said it, that he felt as if he’d failed all the kids he’d brought onto his squad. that he’d failed eren.

“levi, they’re not children anymore,” you said quietly, grasping his hand. you remembered being nineteen, being thrust into the bloodshed and misery of the world you lived in. at least, now, levi’s squad could try to live a semblance of a normal life. they got an early start, a chance to try again, even if still wracked by anguish and longing. “if they need to fight, they can fight. you’ve done your time, my love. you’ve given more than enough.” you brushed your fingers along his scars. “let yourself rest.” 

a beat passed before he answered.

“i don’t know how.” 

you swallowed, biting back the sadness that you didn’t feel warranted to. sometimes, knowing everything that levi had suffered, knowing the depths of his pain, made you feel undeserving of your disdain towards the world. even if you were hurting too. 

“i know,” you said, running your other hand through his hair, flattening the pieces that had been disheveled in his sleep. “but i want to be there for you. i want to heal with you. please don’t push me away, levi. if you think you’re doing me a favor, you’re not.”

“i’m never going to be the same as i was before,” he said sharply, as if that could somehow change your mind.

you brought yourself closer to him, releasing his hand so you could wrap your arms around him instead, bring his head to your chest in a warm embrace. for once, levi didn’t protest. he leaned against you, inhaling, letting his arms rest limply on his lap. 

“no one is the same. the rumbling changed us all. even me. you’re such a fool if you think anyone can look at you and see a weak man.” you squeezed him tighter. levi’s arms came around you as tears spilled out of your eyes, his palm warm on your lower back. “you’re the strongest person i’ve ever met. it breaks my heart that you could think otherwise.” 

tears dripped off your chin, falling into his hair. although you tried to stop them, letting go of levi and sniffling to wipe your eyes, you couldn’t cease the ache in your chest. you released the sobs you’d held back for his sake, for everyone’s sake. 

why should you get to cry when everyone else had lost so much?

“i love you, just as you are. i fell in love with you because of the kindness in your heart, and i will always love you because of that. i—”

“hey,” levi pushed you away, reaching up to wipe at the tears that lingered on your cheek. “i didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said, looking more horrified about that than he had the past few weeks of recovery and hospitalization. “i’m sorry. i’m sorry.”

“i’m okay,” you tried, lip quivering at the feeling of levi’s fingers on your cheek. it had been a while since you’d kissed him like you meant to, memories of war consuming every peaceful moment between you. 

“no. you’re not.” he sighed, stroking your face with tender eyes, the malice melting away from his expression completely. “you’re not. i should’ve noticed.” 

“i’m good about hiding it."

“that doesn’t make it any better,” he frowned, cupping your cheeks with both hands. “i know that better than anyone. i know you better than anyone.” 

you turned into his hand, kissing his palm tenderly, beneath the spot where his index and middle finger had once been, stopping him before he could apologize again. “and i know you, levi. i know we should both stop trying to hide our pain from the other, and try our best to move on together.” you sighed, smiling through your tears.  “can we do that?” 

levi stared at you for a moment, eyebrows knit together as he wiped at the wetness, the shadows under your eyes. though there was a battle behind his irises, a conflict, there always had been. for the remainder of his life, for the peaceful years you’d get to cherish together... even then, you weren’t sure levi could let go of the war. 

but that would be okay. after all, you’d always sworn to fight to the death by captain levi ackerman's side. 

the exhale from your chest breathed life through levi's inhale. a smile smile graced his lips as you finally stopped crying. he nodded.

“we can try.”

thank you for reading! reblogs appreciated!

[amoghbanagere915]

Scouts ‘2022 Fall Camp-out’

October 15th, 2022 – We set out to Johnsonburg Camp & Retreat Center for the all day ‘Pack 17 Scouts Fall Camp-out’. It was very meticulously planned and executed camp-out including: zip lining, boating, hiking, performing a skit, dinner and camp fire. Amogh had a great experience and exposure to plethora of new things. Zip lining It was his first ever time zip lining. Even though he was…

[lady-ace]

Brainrot

Captain Marvel is the designated den mother of most, if not all, younger heroes.

He's also seen by the younger heroes as a father or brother figure.

It just makes sense they would be a influence on one another, right?

...Well, now you have a man who everyone is pretty sure is an ancient, immortal being and that regularly says very old, 1940s slang exclaiming: “Let him cook”, and teenagers going “Dude, we need to take a powder!*”

──────────────────────────

While on a mission, Marvel was talking about some random stuff to pass the time — as they all had to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike, and that won't be for a while.

Jr: “Marvel, you're yapping.”

Marvel, stopping mid setence: “No i'm not. Stop the cap.”

Jr, a bit offended at being called a liar in front of the Justice League: “I'm being for real! You were!”

The YJ is trying to contain their laughter, since they are on a much more visible hiding spot, meanwhile the JL is just plain out confused at this. Is this some other old timey slang? What are they saying?

Wally, whispering and snickering to his comm: “Wow Jr? Calling Cap a liar? Boy scout cap?? Negative aura points.”

Jr, gasping: “YOU DID NOT-”

(He gets tackled by one of their targets, as he was distracted)

Mary, who saw that Freddy quickly got the target apprehended, and checked to be sure no other targets were alerted: “Second L in under four minutes, i think that's a new record.”

Jr, jokingly as he gets back up: “Once we're back, you three are cooked.”

──────────────────────────

* → To get away quickly.

[pattidickinson]

I loved him more than candy corn

I loved him more than candy corn

This beautiful man has traveled alongside me on this life’s journey. He has been the map, the steadfast we-can-do-this-leader. He has quietly made a difference at work, in the way he treated his employees. He put on countless magic shows for the kids’ first and second grade classrooms. He happily tramped through the neighborhood in the sleet and frigid evenings, overseeing the Halloween…

[hello-eden]

False information

based on this post

Damien is confused about his entire situation.

Mother had spoken of enemies in the den of his father's home but he can see now that she was completely talking out of her ass. he came in here with the intent to kill only for mother do not tell him that killing wasn't aloud and that the enemy is in the home were siblings. he has completely wrecked his first impression and now all of his new siblings are convinced he's a murder child. 

Damien has no idea if Mother set him up on purpose or she just doesn't understand. probably a mixture of both knowing mother. If he had known that father was a safe space away from the Assassins lurking at every corner he would have snuck Mara into Gotham. it would have been quite easy. Mara had manifested intangibility with invisibility not far behind while Damien manifested more Elemental abilities. 

Damien is trying to stop the bad impression but attempting to disarm and interrogate your future predecessor does not have good side effects. he didn't even try to kill Tim, he was just scouting to see how well-trained his supposed enemies were. of course no one listens to the murder child in their vicinity even though he's a trained killer and he wouldn't even have known he was there if he wanted him dead.

Damien has been trying to contact Mara for an entire week. He has finally gotten his hands back on his Ecto com after everything was confiscated by his father the first day here. It took months for everyone to finally agree he's on good behavior and then it took time to rebuild all the pieces after he dismantled the com so no one would realize what it was. it was better than them accidentally pressing the SOS and having Mara go Eldritch Horror on their ass. For all she doesn't have access to a complete set of halfa powers her psychological warfare skills have always been the best of the best.

[httpswritings]

if you were my little girl: the series

alexia putellas x child!reader; this story contains mentions of traumatic experiences as drug addiction, child abuse and similar topics. don't read it if you find those topics triggering.

A Barcelona Hope Blooms

Alexia never felt the desire to have kids.

She enjoyed being around them, but maternity wasn't for her.

You, however, were a whirlwind of seven years old, a hurricane of energy fueled by football. Barcelona Femení's rise, intertwined with the Spanish National Team's success, had ignited a passion that burned brighter than any birthday candle. And at the heart of this inferno stood Alexia Putellas, your idol.

Her laser focus on the pitch, the way she orchestrated every move with an almost telepathic precision, it all mesmerized you. You saw in her an ideal – relentless pursuit of excellence, unwavering dedication to the beautiful game.

The Eye of Barça: A Scout's Discovery in Barcelona

The rhythmic thud of the worn-out ball against your worn-out trainers was the soundtrack of your afternoons. Barcelona's bustling streets were your training ground, the chipped brick wall your loyal opponent. You weren't just playing keepy-uppy - you were weaving magic, dribbling past imaginary defenders, scoring wonder goals against a rusty shopping cart guarding a den of discarded tires. You were a queen on this dusty pitch, ruling with every flick of your foot.

Suddenly, a sharp tug sent you stumbling. You whirled around to see your mom, her face etched with worry as she glared at the man in the crisp suit towering over you.

“Who is this?“ she demanded, her voice a tight knot of concern.

The man smiled reassuringly, flashing a badge that glinted in the afternoon sun. “Don't worry,“ he said in smooth Spanish, “my name is Mikel, and I'm a scout for FC Barcelona.” He gestured toward you. “I couldn't help but notice your impressive skills.“

Your stomach lurched. Was he serious? Could this be real? Your mom's frown deepened, a million questions swirling in her eyes. Mikel sensed her apprehension and continued, “We have a fantastic girls' academy at La Masia, where young talents like your daughter can learn and grow. We'd love for her to try out.“

Barcelona's prestigious academy, La Masia, was a name whispered with reverence. It was a factory that churned out legendary players, a dream factory for any aspiring footballer. Your heart hammered in your chest, a frantic drumbeat against your ribs.

Your mom, however, looked unconvinced. “But she's just a kid,“ she protested, her voice softening. “Isn't she a bit young?“

Mikel chuckled, a warm sound that calmed her ruffled feathers. “We start training young, señora," he explained. "But don't worry, we have a great program for girls her age. It's a chance to see if she truly has the passion and develop her talent.“

You looked from your mom, her gaze filled with a mixture of fear and hope, to Mikel, his smile radiating both professionalism and genuine enthusiasm. This wasn't just a game anymore. This was a potential turning point, a fork in the dusty road that stretched before you.

Taking a deep breath, you met your mom's gaze, a silent plea unspoken but clear. A flicker of understanding passed between you, a silent pact forged in the gritty heart of Barcelona. With a hesitant nod, your mom turned to Mikel.

“Alright.”

Facing Alexia

The day of the camp arrived, a nervous flutter in your stomach battling with pure excitement. Stepping onto the field, you scanned the faces, searching for the one that graced your bedroom walls. And then, there she was, Alexia Putellas, no longer a poster image but a living, breathing embodiment of your footballing dreams.

The drills began, each touch, each pass judged by the watchful gaze of your hero. You focused on the ball, desperately trying to block out the pressure, the weight of Alexia's scrutiny. Yet, every now and then, you'd steal a glance.

A whistle blew, stopping the drill. Alexia walked towards you, her expression still unreadable. You braced yourself for criticism, for disappointment. Instead, she stopped in front of you, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

“I'm amazed,“ she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. “You have some raw talent there.“

You stared at her, speechless, the weight of her words settling on you. It wasn't praise from just any player – it was from Alexia Putellas. A wave of pride washed over you, a feeling far more intoxicating than any goal you'd ever scored. This wasn't just about drills or impressing coaches. This was about proving yourself, about earning a nod of approval from your hero.

Bruised Bloom

At La Masia, you thrived. Here, amidst your teammates, you weren't just a kid caught in a crossfire. You were a footballer, a budding talent with a future that stretched beyond the grimy walls of your apartment.

Training was your sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos that permeated your home life. The hushed whispers, the acrid smells, the constant tension – it all dissolved the moment you stepped onto the field. Here, the only pressure was the weight of the ball on your foot, the thrill of the game.

Back home, your world was a minefield. Your mother, despite the worried facade she put on at the park when Mikel first scouted you, was a ghost, lost in a world of her own until she felt it was time to punish you. Your father, a storm that brewed unpredictably, filled the silence with violence and toxic fumes.

The thought of returning after practice sent a knot of dread twisting in your gut. Yet, you faced it every day, a warrior donning a hopeful smile like armor. You knew you couldn't speak, couldn't reveal the truth behind your closed-door reality. So, you played, harder than anyone else, pouring every ounce of your hurt, your anger, your fear, into your game, hoping time would pass fast and you would reach adulthood and the possibility of escaping home.

The Girl Who Played with Ghosts

Days morphed into weeks, and the vibrant memory of Alexia's praise began to fade, replaced by a dull ache of missing her. It wasn't just the validation of your skills; it was the warmth in her eyes, a flicker of something that mirrored your own yearning for connection.

You were a child overflowing with love, a dam overflowing with affection that had nowhere to spill. Your home life offered no solace, your parents existing in their own desolate realities. So, you latched onto any adult who offered a sliver of kindness, a fleeting pat on the head, or a word of encouragement.

Alexia, with her quiet intensity and unexpected gentleness, had become a beacon in your world.

You would often daydream about her being your big sister, your mother, anything that made you feel secure. You craved her approval, not just for your football, but for your very existence. The thought of her watching you play again, that focused gaze that made you both nervous and exhilarated, filled you with a strange longing.

Alexia's Eye

One afternoon, during a particularly grueling training session, your heart sank as you saw Alexia emerge from the building. Your body ached, your muscles screaming in protest, but a surge of energy coursed through you nonetheless. Every drill, every tackle, became a silent plea, a desperate attempt to catch her eye, to earn another nod of approval, another fleeting moment of connection in this vast, intimidating world.

As practice ended, your teammates dispersed, their chatter fading into the Barcelona dusk. You lingered, hoping, praying Alexia wouldn't vanish like smoke. And then, as you were about to turn away, defeated, you saw her. She stood by the entrance, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes as she watched you catch your breath.

“I was supposed to watch you training but my day got a little derailed. Still, I hear whispers of a wonder-kid on the pitch today. Any truth to that rumor?"

Your heart soared. It wasn't the words themselves, but the way she said them, the unspoken recognition that ignited a spark of warmth within you. You weren't just another trainee anymore. You were someone she saw, someone with potential, someone who, maybe, just maybe, deserved a little bit of her time, a little bit of her attention.

"I... I just try my best," you stammered, suddenly self-conscious under her gaze.

"Well, that best seems pretty good," she countered, her smile widening. "Mind if I see a sample?"

Bittersweet Symphony

You nearly tripped over your own feet. Alexia, wanting to see you play?

Taking a deep breath, you straightened your shoulders, a newfound determination coursing through you. "I'd be honored," you declared, voice surprisingly steady.

As you ran through drills, fueled by a mix of excitement and nervousness, you felt a different kind of pressure. No longer was it just about proving yourself; it was about capturing that spark, that flicker of something special, in Alexia's eyes. You weren't just playing football anymore. You were playing for recognition, for connection, for a chance to forge a bond with the woman who had become your hero.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the La Masia training grounds in a warm glow. Alexia watched you with a smile, a hint of amusement and something deeper, a flicker of recognition, in her eyes.

"You're good, kid," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "Reminds me of myself at your age. Full of fire."

Your chest puffed out with pride. Alexia Putellas, your idol, was complimenting you! A warmth bloomed in your stomach, a feeling so foreign and comforting it made your eyes sting. It was like a hug, a feeling of love and acceptance you didn't think you'd ever experience.

Lost in this bubble of newfound joy, you didn't notice the other players filtering out, their chatter fading into the twilight. You were completely focused on Alexia, hanging on to every word, every encouraging nod.

Finally, a hand rested on your shoulder. You looked up, expecting Alexia's brilliant gaze, but instead, saw the concerned face of a coach. "It's getting late, kiddo," he said kindly. "Where are your parents? Are you leaving with them?"

You blinked, the realization hitting you like a cold wave. Your parents. You hadn't thought about them all afternoon, consumed by the warmth of Alexia's approval. Now, a knot formed in your gut. If they were late, that meant... you knew. The picture wasn't pretty, the familiar scene of their slumped figures reeking of alcohol playing in your mind.

Suddenly, the thought of a chaotic homecoming was a thousand times less appealing than the gentle reprimand of a coach and the lingering hope of Alexia's smile. You mumbled, "They'll... I guess they'll be here soon."

Alexia, who had been watching the exchange, now looked closely at you. The amusement in her eyes was replaced with a spark of concern, a question unspoken. You knew you couldn't stay here forever, but the thought of facing your reality was terrifying.

Behind The Charade

Then, there they were, your parents, their faces flushed, their laughter grating against the now-silent training grounds.

Your coach, Jordi, observed them from afar.

He knew something was off, but couldn't figure out what.

Jordi, your coach, watched them approach, a knot tightening in his stomach. Something was off, a forced joviality that didn't reach their eyes. They were experts at this charade, fooling people into believing their dysfunctional family was a picture of normalcy.

You, however, knew their routine all too well. A quick excuse, a feigned apology, and then the inevitable escape. You squeezed your eyes shut, a silent plea escaping your lips. When you opened them again, a desperate hope filled them.

"Alexia," you blurted, your voice barely audible, "would you… would you come watch me train next week?"

Alexia, who'd been observing the exchange with a growing sense of unease, met your hopeful gaze. Your fear, barely veiled, tugged at her heartstrings.

"Of course," she replied, her voice surprisingly firm. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Your parents seemed oblivious, their attention focused on their next conquest, whatever that might be. You knew the drive home would be a terrifying journey, a cacophony of drunken arguments and reckless driving.

Eyes Shut, Hopes Open

As your father lurched the car forward, you squeezed your eyes shut, a single image flashing before them.

The image of Alexia in your imagination, her strong hand clasped in yours, a silent promise of protection in a world that seemed far from safe.

The roar of the engine filled the car, but it was Alexia's voice, a whisper in your mind, that brought a sliver of solace: "We'll get through this, together." The destination might be uncertain, but for the first time, you weren't alone.

[foone]

So here's how the story goes. Four young adults are teleported away from 1940s earth, where it turns out they're the last descendants of the great sages who defeated evil all those years ago, but with his last breath banished the sages to earth. Now, 200 years later, evil has risen again: a vile sorcerer has raised an army and is threatening the peaceful kingdoms of a fantasy world, and only the Divine Bloodline can weild the Weapons of Light and defeat the rampaging hordes. The heroes take up their weapons and fight the good fight, leading the armies of man and elf and dwarf and beast against the evil orcs, who are vaporized by their touch. They cut a path through the horde and defeat evil's greatest champions, who were guarding the Gem of Control, an ancient artifact that gave the terrible wizard control over the orcish population. Just as one of them swings their hammer to shatter it, the wizard intervenes, and uses the last bit of his control to destroy his army, lest they join you in their freed state. As the pieces of the gem hit the floor, already losing their sickly green glow, they see the attacking orcs fade into mist. They'd killed hundreds in your crusade, sure, but he just killed all of them. They later learn, against all fervent hopes, that this extended to the orcish homelands. Men, women, and children, cooking in their homes, planting the crops, raising brutecows and hunting in the dark forests... All gone in an instant. The scouts report a silent land with tools lying in workshops, food left uneaten at dining tables, and bursting into tears at entering a house to find it was a schoolhouse: Quills lying in all the seats, with rough parchment next to it showing the first few letters of the orcish alphabet.

They redouble their efforts, now fueled with genuine hatred for the evil sorcerer. He shifts his tactics, relying on darker magics to summon undead minions, which don't need the Gem of Control. They don't go poof when a holy weapon touches them, but are still no match for the divine warriors. With a skeleton the size of a zeppelin smashing down towers around them, the warriors reach the wizard and drive a broadsword of light through his chest. The skeletons collapse back into their eternal slumber in little piles on the floor.

The warriors put aside their weapons as they're received with great cheer. They're invited to join the royal families of the four kingdoms, marrying into the human, elf, dwarf, and beast royalty. They spend the rest of their long reign ensuring peace returns, monuments are made for the fallen orc nation, and the remaining undead who fled are not allowed to prey on the peasants, only taking up arms again to fight a den of vampires left behind.

In their old age, the wizard who brought them here reappears. It's taken him decades to develop the right magics, but he can finally send them home. They abdicate, letting their hybrid offspring take control, certain in their ability to run a kingdom with wisdom and justice. They leave behind their holy weapons, in case evil rises again. The wizard warns them that much may have changed in the world they left, as 80 years has passed there while it was only 40 for them, but they still want to see if London still stands and if their families or their descendants are alive.

They appear in the modern day, 2024. They're amazed at the technological progress, of course, but then there's a bigger shock. This isn't just an isekai story: this is a reverse-isekai story.

The holy weapons were forged using the same magics that brought them to the fantasy world in the first place. When they vaporized orcs, they didn't die, they were teleported. Teleported here. Every mind-controlled orc warrior that tasted their blade woke up uninjured... in Portsmouth.

And when the sorcerer tried to wipe them all out as the Gem of Control shattered, all he did was transfer that magic to every one of them. None of them died, except for a few elderly orcs who dropped dead from shock at ending up in England, Earth, 1943.

It's now 2024. The Orc population of London is 3 million. There's twelve orcs in parliament, and another in the house of lords. The world has changed a lot since they left, for the better, the weirder, and the greener.

[sinisterexaggerator]

Hancock x F!Reader [ A03 ]

Summary: You are important to John Hancock; there is a radstorm brewing. As a skilled and reformed scavver, you’re after a part for a decommissioned lounger—it belongs to Doc Amari’s famed Memory Den.

Hancock's tense; he should have gone with you, but it’s not too late to search you out. He would be glad to have you home safe in his arms, only things don’t always go as planned, nor do you go unpunished for your negligence.

Explicit: NSFW / 18+ for PWP, PiV sex, fingering, cunnilingus, dirty talk, whump / hurt and comfort, angst, gun violence, light bondage, praise, light sub/dom undertones, edging, use of chems, alcohol, foul language, and canon-typical violence and behavior. Other worthy mentions include fluff, romance, a worried and protective Hancock, and love confessions.

Notes: I am normally a Star Wars writer. This is my first time writing for Hancock, and my first fic for the Fallout fandom. I see Hancock as multifaceted, which I am having fun exploring. I have many ideas, but one fic can only contain so much! I used a few lines of dialogue from the game because they stuck with me T__T. I will also most likely try my hand at Nick Valentine at some point, (and maybe even Coop), but this ghoul stole my heart.

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Feedback appreciated. Like? Reblog! <3 Requests accepted!

Eyes as black as tar pits searched the ground at his feet, though no answers would present themselves, the cold, grimy filth of the Commonwealth something he could relate to on an atomic level. Flecks of barren soil and bits of detritus vaulted upward in a stagnate aggregate of dust, cavalier leather boots—having seen better days—leaving a swirl of varied particulates in their wake.

Hancock paced, the Mayor of Goodneighbor impatient as a hungry mole rat, the man left to stalk before the door that led to the Financial District. A dreary, dark green pall signaled to anyone with brains that there was a storm looming on the horizon, and yet you had not returned.

“Where the hell is she?” a raspy voice asked its sparse audience, two ghouls dedicated to his cause doubling as bodyguards, though if he felt safe anywhere, it was here among his brethren.  Besides, it wasn’t his safety he was worried about, it was yours, and he wasn’t afraid to convey his feelings to the whole of town.

“Startin’ to get antsy. Gotta hand it to her, she’s got me sweatin’ like a whore in church over this. Hope she’s havin’ fun at my expense.”

Scavenging was lucrative, or it could be if you managed to score the right loot. You had to know where to look, or where not to look; danger was always in the cards. It was a game Hancock didn’t like to play, and especially not now, not when lightning streaked the sky, rain clouds pregnant with radiation threatening to burst open like a feral’s head looking down the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun.

He knew what it was like to be forced to scour the bare bones of buildings, filching anything that was ripe for the picking. A single find could feed a man for weeks, and places like Goodneighbor just didn’t just build themselves. People needed things. Lucky for them, Hancock was able to provide. It was his one claim to fame—his rep was solid—but he didn’t look down on you for being one to scout for buried treasure.

“She’ll turn up,” one of his companions offered. It was a piteous attempt to console him, Hancock all but ignoring his dismissive comment. He felt his concern was obvious, yet his bedfellows were none of their business. Either way, he brushed it off like a decent man instead of snapping like he wanted to—the guy’d done nothing wrong.

Thunderclaps echoed through town, the first of many droplets pelting his marred face, the ghoul’s faithful tricorn not doing much in the way of shielding him from the dirtied water that had begun to trickle down onto its weathered surface.

He rued allowing you to go out on this wild-mongrel chase to begin with, not to say that you weren’t capable. What he might say is that you’re too good for this world, too good for him, but that hadn’t stopped him from falling head over heels.

You weren’t anti-social like most of your kind; you had a good heart, gave paying customers fair deals, and somehow you had kept the ruins from tarnishing your cheerful outlook; you sported a chipper disposition even at the worst of times.

In other words, you were his little ray of sunshine; Hancock had no qualms with telling you that to your face. And things as precious as you were to him? They needed protecting. It was becoming more obvious by the minute that he should have done the job himself.

“If this is her definition of ‘fast,’ we’re going to need to have a little chat to clear a few things up. Should have fucking gone with her, don’t know what I was thinking,” fried vocal cords scratched out, words tinged with worry as he made his way to the reinforced slab of steel that was Goodneighbor’s single entry point, not counting the alley behind Rexford.

“Maybe you weren’t thinkin’ at all, John…” that little voice inside his head nagged at him, reminding himself at every turn of the ways he’d failed, this on the verge of being one of them.

“Want us to look?” the other rejoined, aware you had been sent out on a job to find a replacement circuit board for Doctor Amari, as one of the memory lounger’s had been marked out of service. The doc would pay you well; everyone’s gotta eke a living somehow. Hers was made by sellin’ a man’s own memories back to him, and yours was made by sellin’ spare parts.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t have skipped out on his Mayoral duties for one evening, Hancock mentally scolding himself, his sentiments leading him toward the need to kick his own ass.

Quick, adept and clever, he had no doubt you could pull it off, but you were used to traveling in a group, used to back up and a lookout. You had willingly ditched your crew and settled here for him, making Goodneighbor more or less your permanent home. He couldn’t help but feel like he was ultimately responsible for you and your well-being—so far, so good. He’d be damned if anything happened to you on his watch.

The coming radstorm was starting to sound like a stampede of angry Brahmin. Not even those of his ilk should be out in this mess. Technically immortal, sure, but not immune to accumulating all that bad stuff brewing in the atmosphere; he was comfy right where he was, but not without his lady by his side.

Their self-elected leader ignored the question, reaching into the confines of his red frock coat to unveil the firepower hidden just out of sight. His break-action, double-barreled 12-gauge had most of its stock removed for easy concealment; he knew better than to step foot outside Goodneighbor without packing heat.

“No, you might say this is a personal problem. Not to say she wouldn’t make a damn fine Ghoul,” he stated with deadly calm, kicking the door open with reckless abandon despite his unflappable demeanor, not caring what awaited him on the other side.

“I’m going with you, ain’t safe,” words spoken over harsh winds, a breeze not in the least bit refreshing having descended upon the Commonwealth as Hancock slipped out into the mounting tumult, both men following close behind. Truthfully, he was grateful for their loyalty.  

“Suit yourself, but don’t go gettin’ yourself killed. Would defeat the purpose of a search and rescue, ya feel me?”

A question not needing a response, he ventured forward, running headfirst into the growing tempest, chaos reigning overhead in the form of a blinding light show.

Hancock called out for you, yelling your name over the deafening commotion that was going to get worse before it got better, not about to go home empty-handed, even if it took the whole damn rest of the night. He hoped you were smart enough to know when to quit, or that you’d taken those Mentats he’d stuffed in your pocket on the way out.

“Get back here, scavver!”

Footfalls echoed in the dark, brisk in pace, inky, depthless eyes narrowing as the ghoul searched out the source. He had taken no more than half a dozen steps before he was forced to witness you at a full-fledged run, two burly raiders belting out insults and expletives hot on your trail.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion, but he was stone-cold sober, time standing still as you dove into Hancock’s open arms.

“There’s my girl,” the scoundrel purred into your ear, sinewy limbs enshrouding you as the sound of gunfire and discarded ammo casings nearly went unnoticed. Hancock let his own weapon fall to the ground to accommodate you, your pursuers dispatched like the trash they were. The members of the Neighborhood Watch who had accompanied him outside the walls made short work of both men; they deserved a drink and some chems on his dime.

“John,” you breathed out, smiling up at him, eyes sparkling with mirth as you held up that piece of scrap you were so proud of. His name off your tongue was musical, a warm sensation spreading through him like wildfire, better than drugs—it was a high he would never come down from.

“I—I got the part,” you spoke softly, your tepid breath tickling the remnants of a disfigured ear.

Hancock almost shivered.

But oh, no. He wasn’t about to let you off that easy, not when he’d felt that pang of anxiety and the sickening feeling in his gut like someone had shanked him with his own knife. He held you back by the shoulders, breaking your embrace, his face taking on a displeased, stern shade.

“What’s wrong with you, huh? Makin' me all kinds of nervous. Scarin’ me half to death. And some might say I don’t look too far off.” He breathed in nice and slow, exhaling through exposed nasal cavities, Hancock emitting a sigh to emphasize his disappointment. “Can’t be doin’ things like that, or you’re liable to give this old ghoul a—”

“—Sunshine?” His heart sank, as if the universe was out to prove he had every right to worry, Hancock’s attention inexplicably drawn to the red staining your fingers—it neared the color of his coat. You only now seemed to notice, that radiant light swept from your beaming face as you acknowledged the presence of your own blood on your hands; no wonder it had been so hard to take those last few steps.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, eyes blown wide as you apologized for upsetting him. You would collapse into a heap, the adrenaline that had carried you home seeming to dissipate all at once—at least your fight-or-flight response had done its duty.

---

“Move over, out of the way. I ain’t askin’ twice,” Hancock seethed, the distraught man’s threat to bowl over anyone who stood in his way not to be taken lightly, though his tone was traitorously even and his despondency well-masked. He stormed the Old State House, ascending the spiral staircase to the second floor, carrying your limp body to a tattered red couch.

Refuse and empty Jet inhalers, along with half-drunk bottles of alcohol and boxes of Mentats, were all swept aside, Hancock throwing open cabinet doors and dislodging drawers in his haste.

“Oh, you’re really in it now, aren’t you, sister? Just had to make a few extra caps!” he chided, the ghoul’s husky voice rising in volume as he took to another part of the room.

Having not yet succumbed to blood loss, you were barely cognizant as you fought to stay awake, your beloved Mayor nothing more than a blur of motion and splotches of red as he systematically searched every nook and cranny for the syringe that would save your life.

“Hang on, dollface, you’re not dying today. Not if I have anything to say about it—and you know how much I love to run my mouth.” Hancock spoke to reassure you and himself, filling the silence with something other than the curses he wanted to dish out every which way to the wind. You couldn’t help but to smile again despite your predicament, eyelids drooping as you thought about the idea of sleep.

“There you are,” he growled, your vision starting to glaze over, though you were aware Hancock had come back to your side. His scarred, yet deceptively handsome face hovered inches above your own; it was an acquired taste you had no trouble in accepting.

“This is gonna hurt, but it’s better than the alternative,” he provided in short warning, withered fingers fumbling to unbutton your top, exposing first your sternum, your ribs, and then your belly.

“Shit, they got you good,” Hancock grumbled, your hand rising to cradle his jaw as he had peeled back the flaps of fabric to inspect the wound in your side. You were surprisingly calm, thinking that if today was your last day on Earth, at least you had been blessed to experience his company. 

“I’m glad it’s you here with me,” your voice, meek and mild, declared. Hancock hesitated for one precious second, caught off guard, but pleasantly so.

“Don’t go gettin’ sentimental on me! Ain’t like these are your final moments or nothin’,” he assured, an audible tremble causing his words to waver, voice rising in pitch. He went on to stab you without ceremony, the needlepoint of a stimpak and its revitalizing medicine at once injecting itself into your damaged flesh and pulsing through your bloodstream.

You moaned in pain, hips arching as you lifted slightly up off the cushions before you settled once more, allowing yourself to finally relax as Hancock watched the regenerative process take hold, much to his relief.

---

You awoke, finding yourself supine atop a mattress, with Hancock crossed legged on the floor beside you. He had brought it down from upstairs, wanting you to have somewhere more comfortable to recover; the drifters weren’t using it, but he was sure he could scrounge another one up should the need arise.

The door was shut, the rest of the room empty, the man teetering off the edge of a high he wished he could prolong; he had pumped himself full of all those things that made him feel better. Riddled with guilt, he had imbibed both chems and alcohol, his body slightly swaying from left to right as he could not sit entirely still, yet he was too far off in his own head to notice you had come back to him.

You shifted, realizing he had draped his frock across your body to act as a temporary blanket. This simple gesture caused a flutter behind sore ribs, biceps activating so that you might push up and rest on the flat of your palms.

John was idle, near-dead to the world, eyes closed as he kept up that gentle rocking, back and forth, as if lost in music or in deep meditation. You only desired to watch him, studying the intricate, striated patterns of his ravaged flesh, gazing over the hollow of his once human nose, and admiring his sullied, foppish tunic that was a part of his infamous ensemble.

While some might consider him a monster, he was a being of light. He had superficial, obvious flaws, but he was no more guilty of sin than anyone else in this day and age. He was a beautiful soul, inside and out, and your opinion was the only one that mattered to you. Hancock always tried to do the right thing—it’s what drew you to him—even if that meant taking out a few loose ends. 

Your heart stirred, natural chemical processes taking hold that would prompt you to touch him, your hormones dictating that you wanted this man carnally.

The ghoul’s eyes bolted open as you shuffled forward on your behind; you set his coat aside almost reverently, folding your legs like his, knees brushing as you leaned forward to kiss his wiry lips. Soft flesh against textured skin, rough in comparison, felt no less wonderful, Hancock groaning out a throaty sound of appreciation as he slowly shut his eyes again.

That was all the encouragement you needed, pressing closer, crawling onto Hancock’s lap as his hands found the meat of your ass to give it a squeeze. “Someone’s feelin’ better…” he quipped, allowing himself to lie back on the floor. His smile was lackadaisical and content, his touch roving to your thighs as he gazed up at you, noting you were tugging off your already unbuttoned top to reveal your shapely breasts.

“How’d a guy like me get so damn lucky…” he drawled, Hancock’s normally assertive way of speaking temporarily replaced by a calming cadence—it was dreamy—his indolent tone arousing your most base instincts.

You didn’t answer at first, thinking you’re the one who’s lucky. You had wanted and needed a change of pace, not happy with the way your business partners were operating, willing to bring death to others in order to get what scrap they could. You only took things from the ruins, or from those who deserved to be robbed, the idea of senseless violence proliferating thanks to people like your ragtag group something you decided you couldn’t live with.

You’d come to Goodneighbor looking for work; Hancock had been willing to give you a chance, and you didn’t disappoint. After a few heady conversations and risqué flirtations at the Third Rail, you had wound up in his arms—a place you found yourself never wanting to leave.

“I could ask you the same question,” you finally muttered, grazing his mouth, kisses repeating, small pecks placed from one side to the other in a physical show of adoration. The ghoul laughed a wry, salacious little laugh, head turning to allow for this impromptu bout of affection, stretching one arm out behind his head to act as a pillow as he relished the attention.

Then, his smile faded, the chem’s effects lingering like background radiation, less intense than before—the high lasted mere minutes if that, his faculties gradually returning. The hand left free gingerly touched your side, just below where he had administered the stimpak hours earlier. Concern was apparent in glistening eyes, so dark and lovely, starry pupils reflecting the faint luminescence of his surroundings.

“Not lettin’ you out of my sight again,” he promised, every shred of levity fleeing to be replaced by austerity, low, somber notes causing a visceral reaction as the onset of something warm and fuzzy spread throughout your core.

“Bein’ out here with me? Means you don’t gotta work, but I should have had your back, sunshine. Ain’t got no excuse.”

“You can have me on my back,” you playfully retorted, the simple suggestion unleashing a purr from the bowels of the ghoul’s throat. The idea of being a kept woman pleased you, but you were more interested in pleasing him.

“You better watch your mouth, or I can’t be held responsible for all those things I’m going to do to you,” Hancock countered. He talked big game, but he was still feelin’ shook. He didn’t want to risk getting too frisky on the off chance your body needed more time to heal; you were only human, after all.

“I’m shaking in my boots,” you simpered. Hancock was quick to snark back.

“I know that’s a lie, ‘cause you’re not wearing any.”

You gasped as Hancock flipped you without warning, pinning both your wrists to either side of your head. He drank in the smooth, supple flesh of your curves, hungry eyes making damn sure to get their fill.

He couldn’t stop himself, exploring the swell of a perfect tit, Hancock’s mouth becoming newly acquainted with the sensitive flesh of your nipple. He flicked its pert tip with the point of his tongue; you brazenly rolled your hips as you tried to contain the lewd sound that threatened to escape you.

“I double dog dare you, ” you tempted, not in the least bit afraid of what he might have in store.

Hancock didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t want to hurt you, love, but let’s say I give it to you nice and slow… Or as slow as I can give it; hard to keep promises, lookin’ the way you do,” he argued, ruined lips applying pressure as he began to suck, his growing erection gently grinding into the meat of your thigh.

“You won’t hurt me.” You shuddered as he pulled back, gazing into murky, otherworldly eyes, their glow hypnotizing. You half-assed a struggle, wanting to pull your hands free if only to touch him, Hancock chuckling mildly at your efforts.

“Don’t be so sure, ‘cause I got a hankerin’ for human,” his voice dropped emphatically lower, toying with you, his dire inflection sending tingles down your spine. Coming from a ghoul, most people would run the other way, but you knew from experience, Hancock had a twisted sense of humor—it was something you loved about him.

“Eat me,” you jeered, snapping your teeth playfully like some creature that roamed the wasteland, Hancock pulling his head back just enough to satisfy you, as if he had a nose to bite off to begin with.

“That’s the plan, sister,” he snickered, finally releasing his grip on your arms.

You took the opportunity to take hold of Hancock’s already tousled vest, guiding him down to meet your lips. Your fingers busied themselves with its unbuttoning as the ghoul had his hands full, cradling the plump, healthy tissue of your blushing cheeks in the crooks of his palms.

Hancock fed a grating moan into your mouth before asking a pointless question he already knew the answer to, not one to miss out on a chance to have his ego stroked. “Somethin’ about me.. turnin' you on? Don’t know why you’d go for this ugly mug,” he conceded, fishing for a compliment. 

“You. You turn me on,” you whined plaintively, “everything about you,” you confessed, furling your tongue around his, willing him to shut his trap long enough for you to kiss him properly. He aided in the undressing, whipping his sash off in one fell swoop, an idea blossoming only to come into fruition shortly thereafter.

“That why you’re actin’ so desperate for me?” Hancock laced that bit of ragged flag around both your wrists, constricting them once more, his own arm extending to tauten its hold. He wouldn’t give you the chance to kiss him the way you wanted to, cinching its loose ends around the legs of the coffee table just behind your head, giving it a good tug to make sure you couldn’t break free.

In reality, it would have been easy to wiggle loose, but he knew you were the type to play along.

“What are you doing?” you asked, feigning alarm. The ghoul only grinned a shit-eating grin, crawling backward across your lap to adjust to a better position for his next course of action. 

“Makin’ sure you can’t skip out on me,” he said matter of fact, a mischievous lilt to his voice, “gonna have to punish you for all that worryin’ you made me do.” 

“But, Hancock—” you protested, realizing he was barring you from the one thing you wanted—full access to his person, unable to grope and caress all those parts of him you were so eager to touch and kiss.

“—Hmm?” he hummed, the bastard having the nerve to stand. He left you in a recumbent position with hands tied, unable to do anything but gaze up at the seductive set of motions he was now subjecting you to.

The ghoul painstakingly unfastened the remainder of his buttons, wizened digits fondling each in turn, his manner suggesting something that for now would remain unspoken. Then, Hancock shrugged his vest off, allowing his arms to hang as the garment dropped silkily to the floor. It was followed by a festooned shirt, leaving the man bare chested and amused; he wasn’t sure you had blinked even once.

“Like what you see?” he asked lazily, tracing a line across his gaunt pecs toward his navel with the curl of a finger, black eyes glinting impishly at the sight of you jostling your wrists as you failed to liberate yourself.

“Yes,” you breathed out shamelessly, unable to deny the effect his little striptease had on you. This in and of itself was torture, finding his brand of punishment entirely unfair.

“Good,” Hancock crooned, doing the unthinkable as he vanished from view. He even went so far as to walk beyond your peripheral vision. Instead, you were reduced to listening out for him, the ghoul shuffling around somewhere behind you. 

“John,” you whined, sitting up and scooting back against the coffee table the best you could. You endeavored to crane your neck, hearing the clink of glass preceding other innocuous sounds, the gentle thud of Hancock’s boots echoing across the rotting floorboards as he made his way back around. 

“You can say my name all you want to, princess, but it ain’t gonna change a damn thing,” Hancock stressed, words clawing their way out of cracked pipes as he nudged your knees apart with his foot; he knelt between your legs, a dispenser of Jet in one hand, and a dose of Rad-X in the other. “Open wide,” he instructed. 

You should have known what he’d been after, the drug-addicted ghoul popping the lone anti-radiation capsule inside his mouth after dispensing a heavy spray of the illicit substance into his lungs; its potency was limited in his case, but you were easily susceptible to its high. 

You gratefully obeyed, wanting any excuse to be close to him, Hancock’s silver tongue molesting you as easily as it had persuaded you to listen. He deposited the pill into your mouth, kissing you deeply, your beloved Mayor giving you a shotgun of thick, odorous chems without so much as a single protest on your part. 

Your heart thrummed, Jet leeching its way into your bloodstream to trigger a bodily response via your nervous system. In the meantime, you had almost forgotten to swallow your dose of Rad-X, Hancock prompting you by trailing the full length of your throat with a single, sallow finger. 

He massaged it down, feeling for the activation of those muscles that would help ferry it along, his thoughts drifting to the memory of his cock once upon a time being slopped on by the wet whorl of your tongue. His prick had throbbed almost painfully, sequestered snugly inside your zealous gullet, the powerful suction of your hollow cheeks threatening to wrench his soul from his body, or it sure as hell had felt that way.

He was drawn back to the present moment by the look in your eyes, your pupils dilating to rival the circumference of dinner plates. You gazed at the man before you; Hancock pulled back the edge of your bottom lip, exposing your gumline, the ghoul snaking another of his fingers inside your partially open mouth. 

The slender extremity would bypass your blunt teeth, saturating itself in your saliva. Even in this state, you had the wherewithal to pucker up, intaking that explorative digit to the knuckle, your plush maw behaving like a deluxe pre-war vacuum cleaner. 

The ghoul shuddered, though keeping his cool intact, lost in the depths of your unwavering stare. He slowly slipped back out, releasing your lip for it to snap gently back into place, Hancock satisfied with the knowledge you had swallowed the pill.

“Look at you, bein’ such a good girl for me,” Hancock praised, speaking in a low, sultry whisper. You did not reply, your desire for the man at its all-time high, that warmth in your belly having spread to complement the unparalleled ache of your loins.

“Hancock,” you whimpered, once more tugging at the cloth that bound you. You felt delirious with longing, your heart racing as you saw stars, euphoria overtaking all of your senses. You pushed forward, halted partway by that fucking flag that had you fettered like some common criminal, too blazed to even think about squirming loose. 

“Please,” you begged, lips reaching for his. Hancock evaded you, trailing a divot devoid of cartilage across your sateen cheek, directing it toward your lovely, intact nose. 

“Please, what, sister?” he ruthlessly teased, watching as your tongue tried to skirt his teeth; its vertex barely met its goal. Still, Hancock would return the gesture with a sweep of his own, flitting his against yours, inhaling deeply the scent of Jet off your breath as he was suddenly consumed by an almost feral need to taste your neediness—it was nearly palpable. 

“Please.. touch you? Please kiss you? Please.. fuck your pretty little hole?” he asked in a derisive tone, though his movements were languid, Hancock in no rush to oblige you, even as his veiny hands glided over every inch of your sleek skin.

“Is that what my little ray of sunshine wants?” the ghoul taunted, moving to unbutton the clasp at the top of your pants, then pinching the pull of your zipper, teeth parting to reveal clean cotton. You were nearly embarrassed by how damp your panties were, the chems only making your arousal ten times worse; Hancock wasn’t helping matters, a lecherous moan reaching your ears as the man slid back and realigned himself, bending forward to bury his face in the moist outline staining your skivvies.

“Shit, you’re so fucking wet—” he marveled breezily, “—is it all for me?” Hancock rasped, nipping you through the fabric, a desiccated finger tucking itself into its elastic hem. Hancock dragged it down just far enough to expose your sweet-smelling sex, the ghoul’s tongue slithering easily between slick folds. 

You inhaled a disjointed gasp for breath, voice cracking as you cried out in ecstasy, Hancock having barely swiped your thrumming clit. That alone was almost too much, your hips bucking beneath him of their own volition as you pleaded with him to keep his promise.

“Don’t tease,” you sighed, naked breasts rising and falling with every labored breath. Hancock’s eyes traveled up your fine as fuck body before meeting your gaze, a twisted hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his ghoulish mouth. 

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he snickered, fingers grasping the entirety of your waistband to help you shimmy off your bottom layer of clothes. Your hips wriggled all too desperately, overjoyed to finally be free of their constraints. 

“But that’s not fair!” you entreated, unabashedly spreading your legs in the hopes of providing him a suitable meal, ready and willing to be devoured if you could only convince him to take the plunge.  

“And why not?” he asked in all seriousness, nuzzling into the lush flesh of your labia as his silky tongue entombed itself, gathering your moist heat from its source. He dipped back out to your chagrin—you had inhaled sharply in preparation only to be left disappointed—Hancock licking a stripe to the cusp of your throbbing bud. 

“Because I’ll die,” you replied, overexaggerating, writhing in bliss, albeit temporary; Hancock seemed out to drive you mad, retracting once more to glance back up at you, reedy lips downturned in a disapproving frown. 

“No, you won’t,” he asserted, voice taking on a sobering, sincere quality; even if you were being hyperbolic, after the events that had just transpired, Hancock didn’t find it funny, resolving to dine on you good and proper, as if it would be the thing to save your life. 

“I—” You were cut off mid-thought, lightning crashing thunderously outside, the ghoul introducing two coarse fingers into your clenching cunt as the radstorm raged on. Hancock’s neck sank low as you arched your hips, the flat of a thick tongue bringing you toward rapture as he succinctly lapped your clit in delicious combination, playing you like some Old World violin. 

“Aren’t you glad you’re trapped in here with me instead of out there cookin’ alive?” Hancock asked offhand, digits curling to find the seat of your pleasure, warm, wet muscle dancing slow, precise circles across your sensitive nerves. You halfheartedly yanked at your bindings once more, wishing for nothing more than to ravish him like a woman starved, deprived of sustenance. 

“Yes, yes— please, just like that,” you answered, urging him on, the man encouraged to keep at it, long, languorous strokes titillating you toward release.

Then, he simply stopped, fingers glossy upon exit, Hancock sucking your slick clean off with a scarecrow smile, tilting his head like a curious animal as you bemoaned your plight, left to suffer on the edge of an orgasm. 

“Relax, I ain’t through with you yet,” Hancock remarked, lifting himself up to a seated position on his knees. You whined indignantly, made to watch as he unbuckled and unzipped his own pants.

The rogue stood completely, giving you another show, kicking one boot off after the other before slinking out of the rest of his clothes. 

You took a moment to admire him, skin pockmarked with scars, deep pits of tissue missing where cells had inevitably healed all too quickly, John a mosaic of gnarled, misshapen flesh and keloid. Yet he was so handsome, charming, and cavalier, the man leaving nothing on but his tricornered hat, returning to his previous enterprise by way of interring his roiling tongue into your aching center. 

“Oh, John,” you murmured, voice hushed, the man’s thumb working itself concentrically atop your little pearl. 

For once, he was quiet, his strokes inside you meticulous, the nearly silent room filled with a plethora of obscene sounds as he feasted on you like a Yao guai over a fresh kill. Just a little attention was all it took, nails digging into the palms of your tied hands as you twisted beneath him, vocalizing loud enough you were sure the whole State House would hear.

A shiver rocked you to your core, riding out your climax for as long as you could stand it. You were unable to push Hancock’s head back even if you wanted to, the ghoul finding a new way to punish you, continuing to stimulate your already oversensitive clit. 

“Hancock, please—” you begged him under different circumstances, the ball of your foot gingerly pushing against his blatant hard-on. The ghoul finally let up just enough to chortle dryly, obviously nonplussed.

“Done already? Thought we were just gettin’ this party started,” he flouted, sitting up properly, probing fingers caressing the curve of your slit as they trailed upward, ghosting over your navel to tweak your nipple. They didn’t stop there, reaching just behind you to nab a cigarette off the edge of the coffee table, your expression giving away your confusion as he struck a match to ignite the end.

“No, John— you’re supposed to fuck me!” you berated, another devious little chuckle let loose from wilted lips. The ghoul inhaled a deep drag of nicotine laced with radiation, though the amount contained therein was so trivial he didn’t bat a lash—not that he had any.

He gazed at you through a thin veil of smoke exuded from eroded nasal passages—a short burst of pressure from his lungs propelling it outward—a freakish sight to some, but you had grown accustomed to it. 

“So, that is what you want,” Hancock digressed, snubbing the end of his cig on the floor after a few more laggard puffs. The Jet was wearing off, Hancock having already sobered completely, its side effects leaving you feeling used-up and exhausted. Hancock had forgotten what it felt like to come down from such an intense high; you pouted pathetically up at him.

“Baby,” you whined, immediately capturing Hancock's attention. He dropped the act, eyes softening around the edges, colorless voids somehow the most expressive you had ever seen them.

“What is it, sunshine? Feelin’ all right? Need somethin’ to take the edge off?” he asked gently, concern present in his tone, the ghoul finally being kind enough to reach over your head to free you from your bindings. 

“I need you,” you implored, your speech sounding childishly irritable, tired, heavy arms lifting to wrap themselves around John’s neck; you couldn’t help yourself, having been prohibited from touching him for what felt like hours, when in reality it had only been a short length of time. 

“I’m all yours,” Hancock vowed, whisking a stray strand of your hair away. A soft kiss was pressed into even softer lips; the man was two sides of the same coin, like night and day. Part of you prayed you would never cross him, his temper volatile, like an active volcano lying dormant until such a time the right conditions were met, inevitably causing an eruption. 

But he was also kind, genuine, and a good person, only wanting to make the Commonwealth a better place; he held within him a righteous anger, and for good reason, determined to stick by him through thick and thin. 

"Nice and slow?" you asked, bringing the conversation full circle, ushering the ghoul down on top of you as you laid back, gazing up with heavy-lidded eyes. He searched your face, as if double-checking for something, needing to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing was wrong—you were only sulking. 

“You got it, sister,” Hancock replied coyly, the fullness of a finger returning to you as he tested the waters; you were still so unbelievably wet. It was a stark contrast to the dry, desolate landscape that stretched for miles just beyond his little town, the ghoul humming in gratitude as you kissed him once again. 

You wasted no time, slipping your hand between the depression of your bodies where hip meets hip, his weight a warm, inviting presence that comforted you like nothing else. Your fingers toyed with his variegated shaft, thumbing a bead of loosed pre-cum to moisten its tip; Hancock moaned lustfully as he buried himself deeper into the column of your throat, teeth raking tender flesh, barely withholding the intention to bite.

“I’m thinkin’ you must be the single best thing to ever happen to me,” Hancock confessed in a dulcet whisper, voice quavering with emotion as you carefully escorted his cock inside you, one delicious inch at a time. Jagged breaths found their way into your ear, distorted, ribbed flesh, more than adequate in length and girth, stretching you open, a subdued sound of longing and relief birthed from parted lips. 

“I love you,” you blurted out, unable to keep your feelings at bay, any and all movements ceasing before they had wholly begun.

You had closed your eyes; they fluttered open, fear wheedling its way inside your heart as Hancock gazed at you in silence. You cursed yourself, having never before expressed such a sentiment out loud, unsure how the man would take it, or if he even felt remotely the same—all signs pointed to yes, but you refused to be presumptuous. 

Then, he pushed up into your tight cunt with one slow, smooth stroke of his cock along your anterior walls, stimulating your G-spot. Pleasure radiated through you as you emitted a stilted breath, Hancock cradling your cheek, resting his forehead against yours to stare penetratingly into your eyes.

“Took you to be smarter than this, but I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear you say that,” he breathed against your lips, slipping a motile tongue into your mouth, wanting to desperately deepen your connection. 

You readily accepted, your own tongue writhing and contracting in unison with his, heart beating fervently behind a wall of blood and bone. Your fingers clawed and grasped at his narrow shoulders and the tendinous flesh of his back, exploring every inch of your ghoulish lover, from head to jutting hipbone.

Hancock drove his cock into you, back and forth, keeping a steady, equal rhythm like the beat of a drum. “Why now?” he asked, voice tempered, each pump of his thick prick inside you unhurried and sensuous.

“Nearly dying may have had something to do with it,” you jested in-between indecent, muted moans, Hancock’s deliberate pace driving you toward orgasm. The arm not supporting his weight curled tightly around you. He clutched you to his chest, and you wrapped your thighs around his waif thin waist in return. 

“Mmn.. that it?” Spindly fingers moved to grip the back of your head, digging into tufts of your hair; your back bowed to support you in joining with him more fully, Hancock massaging your scalp as he massaged your insides, debauch, rich sounds filling both your ears.

“And because I have nothing to lose,” you reluctantly answered, breath picking up speed as you pushed back against firm, rawboned pectorals with the palm of your hand; you had the intention of arranging yourself at just the right angle to please— a simple slant of your hips would make things all too easy.

Within moments, you came, pinpricks of light overwhelming your senses. You were elated, as if your consciousness had been overtaken by a nebulous cloud of love and electromagnetic radiation, a soul set adrift in a swirling haze of thoughts, feelings and emotions that would amalgamate into something beautiful—it caused you to cry out a sound of intense, heartfelt bliss. 

Your mind went blank, only registering that John had simultaneously shared in the experience. It would take you both a moment to calm.

Then, you squeezed Hancock tightly between your legs, a signal for him to not withdraw, but to stay awhile, the tension in your body settling as you laid back down.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.” Hancock would smother you with his scant weight, caressing the point of your chin, his thumb snaking across your bottom lip. He gave a faint exhalation of breath, the concave outline of his nasal cavity grazing the convex shape of your nose; it tickled.

“Nothing to lose but each other.”

[luxthestrange]

OP Incorrect quotes#41 Plan B...for buggy-

Operation win back Crocodile ex-secretary is a go...

You are enjoying your weekend off, when someone knocks on your door...not expecting to see Dracule Mihawk & Buggy the clown of all people at your doorstep

Buggy*Leaning on your door frame with "sauveness"* Hey, buddy!-

EX-Secretary!Y/n*door slams on their faces but as they knock again and open the door unimpressed with Mihawks attempt*...

Mihawk*is now in front of the door instead of buggy*Y/n-

EX-Secretary!Y/n*door slams on his face now*

They knock and you open to see them in suits with cleaning supplies

Buggy: Free cleaning service? 

door slams

Buggy: Census taker?

door slams

EX-Secretary!Y/n*Opens the door and stares at the two grown men...in Girl Scout outfits* "...Honestly the clown can pull pigtails"

Buggy: Good day, kind Mx Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies?~

EX-Secretary!Y/n*Takes a photo of the two with you den den mushi, grab the cookies*...

door slams

Buggy*Door hitting him right on the nose*-Ow! 

part 4 of:

[mr--zer0]

(I feel like a rp, feel free to tell me if you dont wanna rp)

*while scouting Wizard Island for possible base locations, you hear the clanging of metal, while high in the mountains. a fight? no, the clanging is to consistent and repetitive... sounds like someone hammering on metal, but the reason escapes you.*

( @dragons-den-forging )

( @dragons-den-forging )

*Mr. Zero climbs the mountain to see you what is happening there*

(Sorry for waiting, I was asleep)