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corrupte3d-mindz · 6 months ago

Text

Behind Closed Doors

Cillian Murphy x F! Make-up Artist Reader

Summary: Cillian uses you.

Wordcount: 8.3k

Warnings: THIS IS RAPE

Smut with a plot! but the plot sucks?, unsafe sex, switch! Cillian, extremely perverted! Cillian, virgin! reader, cherry-popping, peer pressure, threatening, gaslighting, manipulating, whimpering, whining, begging, crying sort of, m! oral receiving, f! overstimulating, fingering, semi-cockwarming, forced swallowing, forced kissing, face-fucking, spitting, breeding, choking, degrading, belittling, slapping, and no aftercare!

Cillian sat in his trailer on the bustling movie set, the faint hum of activity outside seeping through the walls. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, a habit he often indulged in when lost in thought. Today's scenes were relatively straightforward, nothing too demanding, but he knew the importance of being fully prepared. The makeup artist would be arriving soon, and he wanted to tidy up his space before she arrived.

The trailer was a small, cozy haven amidst the chaos of the film set. It was sparsely decorated, with a few personal touches here and there—a framed photograph of his family, a well-worn book on the table, and the faint scent of his favorite cologne lingering in the air. Cillian moved about the space with a quiet efficiency, straightening up the few items that were out of place. As he worked, he hummed a tune under his breath, a habit that helped him relax and focus his mind. The melody was soft and soothing, a stark contrast to the bustling energy outside. He glanced at the clock, noting that he had a bit of time before the makeup artist was due to arrive.

As he sat there, lost in thought, memories of his early days as an actor flooded his mind. The struggles, the rejections, the moments of doubt—they had all shaped him into the actor he was today. He had fought hard for his place in the industry, and he was grateful for every role, every opportunity that had come his way.

Cillian patiently sits in the make-up chair waiting, twiddling his thumbs, and kicking his feet which are just a bit off the ground. His presence in the room commands attention, his posture relaxed yet poised, exuding an air of quiet confidence. The soft glow of the vanity lights highlights his chiseled features, casting subtle shadows that accentuate his sharp cheekbones and intense blue eyes. As the door opens, Cillian's smile widens, a genuine warmth lighting up his face as he sees her enter the room. He stands up slowly, a graceful movement that speaks of both strength and elegance, and walks over to her. Setting aside her belongings, he opens his arms wide, inviting her into a warm embrace. His embrace is comforting, his body language conveying a sense of familiarity and affection.

Their hug is long and meaningful, a silent exchange of emotions that transcends words. Cillian holds her close, his arms wrapped around her in a protective embrace. He can feel the tension melt away from her body, replaced by a sense of peace and comfort in his presence. As they finally pull apart, Cillian looks into her eyes, his gaze intense yet gentle.

His gaze lands on her, and he can't help but look her up and down, his eyes lingering on her figure clad in a provocative outfit that leaves little to the imagination. She stands before him, unaware of his scrutiny, adjusting her attire with a casual nonchalance that belies the effect she has on him. She exudes confidence, a sense of knowing that draws him in despite his best efforts to resist. Cillian's thoughts drift, his mind replaying their interactions, each moment etched vividly in his memory. He knows he shouldn't be looking at her like this, shouldn't be feeling this pull towards her, but he can't help himself. She's a temptation he can't resist, a forbidden fruit that beckons to him with every glance, every smile.

Cillian settled back into his makeup chair, the cushion sighing softly beneath his weight. He ran his fingers through his hair, the strands slipping effortlessly through his long, dexterous fingers. The action was habitual, a subconscious attempt to smooth out the day’s dishevelment. His hair, a striking shade of dark brown, shone under the soft, warm lights of the vanity mirror. He glanced at his reflection, his piercing blue eyes momentarily locking onto the mirror’s surface, analyzing the man looking back at him. His trailer was a sanctuary of sorts, now becoming where the magic of transformation happened daily. The air was tinged with the scent of various cosmetics, an olfactory mix of powders, creams, and the faint hint of hairspray, she always smelled like that but he never cared about it. The lighting, strategically placed around the mirror, cast a soft, flattering glow on his features, emphasizing the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the chiseled contours of his jaw. It was a far cry from the harsh, unyielding lighting on set, which often required these moments of touch-up and refinement.

The makeup artist, a petite woman with a keen eye for detail and a steady hand, stood behind him. Her presence was a familiar comfort, a silent partner in the daily ritual of transformation. She was unlocking her makeup case, the metallic clicks punctuating the quiet hum of the room. She paused, glancing at him through the mirror with a soft, inquisitive expression.

"So how did you sleep?" she asked, her voice gentle yet curious.

Cillian chuckled lightly, the sound rich and warm, echoing softly in the intimate space. He flashed a soft smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and brought a touch of warmth to his otherwise cool demeanor. "Oh, I slept pretty well," he replied, his Irish accent infusing his words with a melodic cadence. His voice was calm, reassuring, a testament to the restful night he had enjoyed. As she began her work, her hands moving with practiced precision, Cillian closed his eyes momentarily, savoring the sensation. The soft brush of the makeup sponge against his skin was almost therapeutic, a soothing counterpoint to the often chaotic world of film production. He could feel the gentle pressure as she applied the foundation, blending it seamlessly to create the flawless canvas that the camera demanded.

His mind drifted, thoughts meandering through the events of the previous day. It had been a long shoot, the kind that left him both physically and mentally drained. Yet, the exhaustion was tempered by the satisfaction of a job well done. He thought about the scenes they had captured, the nuances of his performance, the subtle shifts in emotion that he had strived to convey. Acting, for him, was a dance of precision and passion, a delicate balance of technical skill and raw, unfiltered emotion. The makeup artist’s touch brought him back to the present. She was meticulously blending the makeup around his eyes, her fingers feather-light yet purposeful. He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze in the mirror. There was a silent communication between them, a mutual understanding forged through countless hours spent together in this very chair.

"Any dreams?" she asked, her tone light and conversational. It was a question she often posed, a way to fill the silence and perhaps, glean a bit more insight into the enigmatic man before her.

Cillian tilted his head slightly, considering her question. "Nothing too memorable," he said after a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Just the usual mix of nonsense and fleeting moments." He rarely remembered his dreams, and when he did, they were often abstract and fragmented, a tapestry of images and emotions that made little sense in the waking world.

She nodded, her focus shifting back to her work. The next phase involved the subtle enhancement of his natural features, a process that required both skill and artistry. She applied a touch of concealer here, a dab of highlighter there, each stroke designed to enhance his already striking visage. Cillian watched her work, admiring her dedication and expertise. His thoughts wandered once more, this time to his family. The demands of his career often kept him away from home for extended periods, a sacrifice that was both necessary and bittersweet. He cherished the moments he could spend with his wife and children, the rare pockets of normalcy amidst the whirlwind of his professional life. They were his anchor, the steadying force that kept him grounded even as he navigated the turbulent waters of fame and success.

The makeup artist moved on to his hair, her fingers deftly arranging the strands into the desired style. Cillian felt the gentle tug and pull as she worked, her touch both firm and gentle. His hair had always been a defining feature, a canvas for transformation that allowed him to slip seamlessly into his various roles. Today, it was being styled for his latest character, a man as complex and layered as the roles he often gravitated towards.

"Looking good," she said softly, stepping back to admire her handiwork. There was a note of pride in her voice, a reflection of the care and attention she put into her craft.

Cillian opened his eyes fully, taking in the final result. His reflection was a blend of the familiar and the transformed, a testament to the collaborative effort that brought his characters to life. He smiled appreciatively, meeting her gaze through the mirror. "Thank you, my darlin'" he said simply, his voice carrying a note of genuine gratitude. She nodded, her own smile warm and satisfied. "Ready to go?" she asked, knowing full well that the transformation was only part of the journey. The real work, the true magic, happened in front of the camera, where Cillian would once again bring his character to life with a depth and authenticity that was uniquely his own. He nodded, rising from the chair with a fluid grace. "Let’s do it," he said, his tone imbued with quiet determination. The day ahead was sure to be demanding, but he was ready. He always was.

After a slow day on set, Cillian felt the fatigue of the day seeping into his bones as he made his way back to his trailer. The air was thick with the remnants of the scenes they had shot, the weight of his character's emotions still lingering. He shrugged off his jacket, feeling the fabric slide from his shoulders and crumple into a heap on the small couch by the door. The quiet of the trailer enveloped him, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the set. Cillian took a moment to stand still, absorbing the silence. His eyes flitted around the small space, eventually landing on the book he'd borrowed from his co-star. It was an old, worn copy of J.P. Donleavy's 'The Ginger Man' and he had found himself lost in its pages during the few breaks they'd had. He picked it up from the bed, flipping to the page where he'd left off. The words flowed easily, and for a while, he was no longer himself but a mere observer in J.P. Donleavy's.

He found a stopping point, a natural pause in the narrative, and sighed as he set the book down on the bedside table. He pulled himself off the bed, stretching out the stiffness that had settled in his muscles. Moving to the makeshift kitchen, he leaned against the countertop, feeling the cool surface press into his palms. He reached for the knob of the small cabinet above, opening it to reveal a solitary whiskey glass. Cillian didn't usually drink after working on set. The lines between his roles and reality blurred enough without the haze of alcohol, but tonight felt different. He'd had a couple of tough days, the weight of his character's struggles bleeding into his own thoughts. He set the glass on the countertop with a soft clink, bending down to open the bottom cabinet. The familiar shape of the semi-filled Irish whiskey bottle greeted him, and he pulled it out, setting it beside the glass.

As he poured the amber liquid, he let his thoughts drift. The day had been long, the scenes emotionally taxing. He turned around, leaning his back against the edge of the countertop, the glass cradled in his hand. He took a slow sip, savoring the warmth as it spread through him, mulling over the complexities of his character and the nuances he tried to bring to life. His free hand ran through his hair, a habitual gesture of frustration and contemplation. The weariness was etched into his features, the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes more pronounced under the harsh lighting of the trailer. Pushing himself off the counter, he made his way back to the bed, placing the whiskey glass on the small bedside table next to a framed family photo. His fingertip traced the edges of the frame, a brief touchstone to the world outside the roles he inhabited.

Just as he was beginning to relax, a sudden knock at the trailer door pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced at the alarm clock; it read 11:42. Rolling his eyes, he muttered to himself, 'Who needs me at basically twelve o'clock at night?' With a resigned sigh, he picked up his whiskey glass and made his way to the door. When he opened it, he was met with the sight of the makeup artist, her expression a mix of nervousness and determination. She smiled tentatively, "Hey, Cill... Sorry to bother you, but I think I forgot one of my brushes at your vanity. Can I take a look around?"

Cillian offered a tired smile in return, stepping aside to let her in. As she passed by, he couldn't help but notice the subtle grace in her movements, the way she carried herself with an air of quiet confidence. He shut the door behind her, the click of the latch echoing in the small space. She moved with purpose, her footsteps light but determined. Her voice was soft, almost apologetic, "I've gone to everyone else and they don't have it, so you're the only one that might have it..." Cillian watched her as she spoke, noting the slight flush in her cheeks, the way her eyes darted around the trailer, searching. "Sure, take a look. I know how important those brushes are to you lot," he said, his Irish accent softening the edges of his words. He took another sip of his whiskey, the warmth a comforting presence as he leaned against the edge of the kitchenette.

His eyes never left her as she moved around the room, searching for her brush. The late hour brought a stillness to the room, broken only by the occasional clink of glass and the soft rustle of her movements. He admired her dedication, the way she methodically lifted items, peering beneath them, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her body moved with a fluid grace, every motion purposeful and precise. She was barefoot, her toes curling slightly against the hardwood floor as she knelt, her dress riding up just enough to tease him with a glimpse of smooth skin. She was completely absorbed in her task, unaware—or perhaps all too aware—of the effect she was having on him. He took another sip of his whiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through his chest at the sight of her.

The silence between them was a comfortable one, the kind that spoke of familiarity and a deep, unspoken understanding. He appreciated these moments, the rare times when words were unnecessary and their presence alone was enough. But tonight, there was an undercurrent of tension, a barely-there edge to his thoughts as he watched her. She was teasing him, he was sure of it, the way she moved, the way she lingered just a little too long on the floor, presenting herself to him in a manner that was both innocent and provocative. He could feel the stirrings of desire, a slow burn that started in his gut and spread outward, his gaze darkening as he watched her. She had to be doing this on purpose. He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, the sharp taste a jarring counterpoint to the softness of her presence. Setting the glass down on the vanity counter with a decisive clink, he huffed slightly, the sound low and rough in the quiet trailer. His fingers moved almost unconsciously to his wedding ring, the metal cool against his skin. He slipped it off and let it drop into the whiskey glass with a muted clink, a symbolic gesture that seemed to echo in the silence.

His eyes never left her as he moved towards her, his footsteps soft but deliberate on the floor. There was something predatory in his movements, a barely restrained intensity that spoke of his desire. She was still on her knees, her back to him, her hands busy with her search. He stood behind her for a moment, taking in the sight of her, the curve of her spine, the way her hair fell around her face in a messy halo.

Slowly, he knelt down behind her, his breath warm against the back of her neck as he leaned in close. "You have no idea what yeh doin' to me do yeh'?" His voice was a low murmur, his Irish accent curling around the words in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. She paused in her search, her body going still as she registered his presence. He reached out, his hand brushing lightly against her back, fingers trailing down her spine. She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. "Cillian.." She said softly, her voice almost a whisper in the quiet room. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, a mix of defiance and anticipation that sent a thrill through him. His hand moved to her waist, fingers curling around the fabric of her of her skin tight sleep shorts. "Yeah, say my name just like that.." he asked, his voice a low rumble. There was a challenge in his tone, a dark edge that hinted at the depths of his desire. She didn't answer, her eyes meeting his in a silent battle of wills.

The floorboards of the trailer cool against his knees, a stark contrast to the heat radiating between them. His breath came in shallow, measured puffs, mingling with the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and intoxicating that made his head swim. His hands, those deft, talented hands known for their meticulous craft on set, now played a different role. They rested on her waist, fingers tracing the waistband of her skin-tight shorts, feeling the soft material stretch over her curves. His touch was light, almost teasing, as if testing the boundaries of how much he could push her before she reacted. The proximity of their bodies was electrifying. He could feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric, and each subtle shift she made sent a jolt of arousal through him. His crotch, already straining against the confines of his jeans, brushed against her ass, and he couldn't suppress a low, throaty groan. The friction was exquisite, a tantalizing preview of what he craved.

"I know yeh want me," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly whisper tinged with his Irish lilt. The words were laced with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, yet there was an undeniable truth in them. He had seen the way she looked at him, the hunger in her eyes that mirrored his own. "I see it in your eyes..."

As he spoke, his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of her shorts, his touch deliberate and exploratory. The pads of his fingers brushed against the hem of her panties, the silky material a stark contrast to the roughness of his skin. He took his time, savoring the moment, feeling the tension coil tighter between them. The whiskey coursing through his veins only amplified his desire, blurring the edges of his self-control. His eyes, usually so clear and piercing, now glinted with a dark, simmering lust. He could feel the alcohol's warmth spreading through his body, making his movements bolder, more assertive. He was a man driven by instinct, his usual restraint slipping away with each passing second.

"Did you really lose a brush?" he teased, his voice dripping with mock disbelief. There was a playful edge to his tone, but underneath it lay a challenge. He pulled at the hem of her panties, the elastic stretching under his grip, and he could feel her body tense in response. "I bet you really didn't."

Her silence spoke volumes, a tacit admission of her game. He smirked, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he continued to toy with the fabric, enjoying the way it clung to her skin. His fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns along the edge, each touch a calculated move to draw out her anticipation. With a swift, practiced motion, he tugged the shorts down just enough to expose the curve of her ass. The sight was mesmerizing, and he couldn't resist the urge to run his hands over the smooth expanse of skin, feeling the way her muscles tightened beneath his touch. His thumbs hooked under the waistband of her panties, pulling them taut before letting them snap back into place, the sound a sharp punctuation in the quiet room. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "You're a tease, yeh know that?" His voice was a low, rumbling growl, filled with a mix of admiration and frustration. "But two can play that game."

As his crotch pressed against her ass, the hard outline of his erection unmistakable through the thin material of his trousers. It throbbed with a palpable urgency, each pulse matching the erratic beat of her heart. The heat of his body seeped through the layers of clothing, a suffocating reminder of how close he was, how trapped she was. She was rigid, every muscle tense as if bracing for impact, her mind racing to make sense of the situation.

"I've got kids and a wife at home," Cillian's voice was low, almost a growl, filled with a rough edge that made her stomach twist. His Irish accent gave his words a lilt that contrasted sharply with their crude content, making the vulgarity of his statement even more jarring. "But it's so hard to fuckin' keep my hands to myself if yeh look like this~"

His breath was hot against the back of her neck, sending a fresh wave of chills down her spine. She could feel the weight of his desire, an oppressive force that seemed to seep into her skin and paralyze her. His hands moved from her panties back to her waist, sliding up her sides, the touch both possessive and exploratory. The tips of his fingers dug into her flesh, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to convey his dominance. Her thoughts spun in chaotic circles, trying to pinpoint the moment when everything had gone wrong. She had come here for something as innocuous as finding her brush, a simple task that now seemed laughably distant. What had she done to give him the impression that she wanted this? That she wanted him? The internal questioning was a desperate attempt to find some semblance of control, but it felt like grasping at straws.

Cillian's voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, snapping her back to the grim reality she was in. "Yeh just want an older man to fuck yeh nice and good, eh?" His words were a taunt, laced with a dark amusement that made her skin crawl. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath warm and invasive. "Is that it, love? Yeh lookin' for a man who knows how to take care of yeh?" She could feel his cock twitch against her, the pressure intensifying as he shifted his weight. His hands roamed lower, slipping under the waistband of her shorts again, his fingers tracing the line of her panties. The intimate touch made her flinch, a reflexive jerk that only seemed to amuse him further. He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating against her back. Cillian's piercing blue eyes glinted with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. His breath was hot against her neck, mingling with the faint scent of cologne that clung to his skin. Every inch of his body radiated a primal need, a hunger that was both terrifying and compelling.

"Cillian, please—sir, don't do this..." Her voice trembled, each word a desperate plea. The reality of her situation crashed over her, a suffocating wave of helplessness. She had seen him on the screen, admired his talent from a distance, worked with him personally but this man before her was a stranger, a predator cloaked in charm and sophistication. She couldn't understand how things had escalated to this point, how she had become ensnared in his twisted desires.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her earlobe as he spoke. "Yeah, but the fing is all'yeh bitchin'....isn't goin' help yeh, is it?" His voice was a silky whisper, each syllable dripping with dark amusement. "I love when yeh call me sir, luv." The words were like a physical caress, sending a shiver down her spine. His accent, rich and lilting, wrapped around her like a vice, making her feel even more trapped. Her heart pounded in her chest as he continued to explore her body, his touch both possessive and tender. She hated the way her body responded to him, the way her skin tingled where his fingers roamed. It was a betrayal, a sickening reminder of the power he held over her. She could feel the heat of his arousal pressing against her, a silent promise of what was to come.

Cillian's lips trailed down her neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. His teeth grazed her collarbone, eliciting a gasp from her lips. He chuckled softly, the sound filled with satisfaction. "Such a pretty little thing," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Don't fight it, luv. You'll only make it harder for yerself." His words were both a threat and a promise, the dark undertones sending a thrill of fear through her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the sensations, the reality of what was happening. But he was relentless, his hands and mouth exploring every inch of her, breaking down her defenses one by one. She could feel his breath against her skin, his lips pressing kisses that were both tender and demanding. It was a dizzying contradiction, the way he could be both gentle and forceful, making her body betray her mind.

"Open yer eyes, luv," he commanded, his voice soft but firm. She obeyed, her eyes meeting his piercing blue gaze. There was a darkness there, a hunger that frightened her.

His breath was warm and whiskey-scented against her skin, the closeness of his body both a comfort and a torment. “Yeh’ve got no idea what yeh do to me,” he murmured, his Irish accent wrapping around the words like a caress. His lips brushed against her ear, sending another shiver down her spine. His hands moved lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. His touch was firm and confident, his fingers gliding over her skin with a surety that made her breathe catch in her throat. Her body betrayed her, hips arching slightly to meet his touch, a soft moan escaping despite her best efforts to hold it back. Cillian’s grin widened, a predatory gleam in his blue eyes as he watched her reaction. “That’s it, lass,” he said, his voice a husky whisper. “Don’t fight it. Let me see how much yeh can take.”

His fingers found the slick heat of her arousal, and he groaned softly, the sound vibrating through her body. His thumb brushed against her throbbing clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her veins. She bit her lip to stifle another moan, hating how easily he could unravel her with just a touch. But there was no denying the effect he had on her, the way her body responded to him even as her mind screamed for her to resist. Cillian’s movements were slow and deliberate, each touch calculated to drive her wild. He slid a finger into her dripping cunt, feeling it grip him tightly, the sensation drawing a guttural groan from his throat. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, his voice rough with desire. “Just imagine my cock inside yeh…”

She whimpered at his words, the vivid image making her pulse quicken; she didn't want that to happen. His breath was hot against the back of her neck, the scent of whiskey haunting her senses. “Fuck,” he groaned again, his voice thick with conflicted emotion. “I love my wife, but… yer makin’ it so hard…” His confession was a knife to her heart, but his touch was even worse, the pleasure he gave her a cruel contradiction to the pain of his words. He grinned heavily, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke. “Yeh like that, don’t yeh? The thought of me, wantin’ yeh like this…”

She was denying it, but her body’s response betraying her even as her mind screamed for her to pull away. His fingers moved inside her, curling and stroking in a way that made her toes curl inside her shoes. Her nails digging into the trailer floorboards as she fought to keep herself grounded, the sensations overwhelming her. His fingers were slick with her juices, moving with a calculated rhythm that drove her to the brink of madness. Each thrust, each curl of his digits inside her sloppy cunt, elicited a desperate whimper from her parted lips. He could feel her inner muscles tightening around his fingers, a clear sign that she was teetering on the edge of ecstasy. His other hand, strong and commanding, encircled her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp for air, her pulse fluttering wildly beneath his grip. The power he held over her in this moment was exhilarating, a heady mix of dominance and desire that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Look at yeh,” he murmured, his accent thickening with the whiskey-fueled haze. His voice was a low, seductive growl, dripping with lust and control. “So fuckin’ wet for me… Yeh want this, don’t yeh? Want me inside yeh, fillin’ yeh up…” His words were a taunting promise, each syllable rolling off his tongue with a tantalizing slowness that made her body tremble with anticipation.

His thumb found her clit again, rubbing it with precise, circular motions that had her arching her back, pushing her hips towards him in a silent plea for more, why was her body doing this to her?! He added another finger, plunging deeper into her cunt, the slick sounds of his fingers moving inside her mixing with her breathy moans. Her walls contracted around him, a testament to her impending climax, and he relished the control he had over her pleasure. Her hands clutched at his arms, nails digging into his skin as she tried to find something to anchor herself to in the storm of a horrible sensation he was creating. Cillian’s lips curled into a smirk, his eyes never leaving her face as he watched the myriad of expressions play across it—pleasure and desperation; Cillian wrapped his hand around her pretty throat.

“Fuck, yeh look so beautiful like this,” he breathed, his voice rough with desire. His fingers continued their relentless assault, his thumb working her clit with a practiced ease that spoke of experience and an intimate knowledge. “Beg for it,” he demanded, his grip on her throat tightening just enough to make her gasp. “Beg for me to let yeh come.” He wanted her to bed like the dog she was to him.

Her voice was nowhere to be heard, being choked by the hand around her throat and the overwhelming yet disgusting pleasure coursing through her. He chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating through his chest. “Fuckin' whore..but don't worry I'll fix that mouth of yers’,” he purred, his fingers moving faster, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. He smiled darkly when he felt her walls squeeze his fingers tighter. “Good girl… come for me. Come all over my fingers.” Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her entire body convulsing as she screamed his name, her cunt clenching tightly around his fingers. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, riding out her orgasm with a relentless pace that left her gasping for breath, her body trembling from the intensity of it all.

As she came down from the high, her body still trembling with aftershocks, he finally withdrew his fingers, his touch gentle and reverent. He brought his hand up to his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers as he licked her arousal from his fingers, a look of pure sick and twisted satisfaction on his face. “Yeh taste even better than I imagined,” he said, his voice a low purr. He pulled the back of her hair roughly, making her look at him; leaving no room for argument, before capturing her lips in a rough-searing kiss, the taste of whiskey and her own fluids mingling on his and her tongue. She was forced to kiss him back, her hands pushing and clawing at his upper chest.

He broke the kiss and pushed off of he and quickly stood up, ee looked down at her, his eyes a mixture of lust and fury, clouded by the alcohol coursing through his veins. The flickering light bulb above cast eerie shadows on his face, accentuating his chiseled features and the intensity in his icy blue eyes. He pushed off her body, his breath ragged, and quickly stood up, his hands shaking as they fumbled with the buckle of his belt. His movements were frantic, driven by a primal need that bordered on the edge of violence. His belt clattered to the floor, followed swiftly by his pants, pooling around his ankles. He stood there for a moment, towering over her, his chest heaving with each breath. She lay on the trailer floor, the cold seeping into her bones, her body trembling not just from the chill but from the fear that had taken root deep within her. She could barely see through the blur of tears, her sobs muffled as she tried to stifle them, afraid of provoking him further.

"Get on yer knees for me..." His voice was low and guttural, carrying a hint of his Irish lilt, the words slurring together slightly from the whiskey. When she didn't move, he let out a frustrated huff, his patience wearing thin. Bending down, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her up with a roughness that made her gasp. The sudden pain was sharp, cutting through the fog of her fear and disorientation.

He dragged her to her knees, his grip on her hair unrelenting. His other hand moved to his boxers, pulling them down to reveal his throbbing erection, the tip glistening with pre-cum. His need was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to fill the cramped space of the trailer. He looked down at her, a twisted grin spreading across his face as he took in her disheveled appearance.

"Suck...my fuckin' cock..." The command was harsh, almost a growl, but she didn't respond, her lips pressed tightly together in a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of control. His grin widened, a cruel glint in his eyes as he moved his hand from her hair to her nose, pinching it shut. She tried to pull back, to escape his grasp, but he was too strong, his grip like iron.

As her air supply dwindled, panic set in, and she was forced to open her mouth to breathe. In that moment of vulnerability, he seized the opportunity, thrusting his cock deep into her mouth, the sudden invasion causing her to choke violently. Her gag reflex kicked in, her throat constricting around him, but he didn't relent, his hips driving forward with brutal force. Cillian's breath hitched, a guttural sound escaping his throat as he felt her struggle around him. He relished the power he held over her, the way she was utterly at his mercy. He tightened his grip on her hair, forcing her to look up at him, his eyes locking onto hers. The sight of her tear-streaked face, mascara running in dark rivulets down her cheeks, only seemed to fuel his desire.

"Look at yeh," he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain and lust. "Yer such a fuckin' mess... but yeh look so fuckin' pretty like this, don' yeh?" His words were punctuated by the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, each one causing her to gag and sputter, her tears falling more freely now. Her body shook with each brutal invasion, her hands instinctively coming up to push against his thighs, trying to create some space, some relief from the suffocating pressure. But he was immovable, his strength amplified by the alcohol and the dark urges driving him. He felt her nails dig into his skin, but it only spurred him on, the pain a twisted complement to the pleasure he was taking.

"Yeh, you fuckin' want it, don' yeh? Yeh fuckin' need it; don' yeh? Eh...?" His voice was a mocking whisper, each word laced with cruelty. He could feel himself getting closer, the pressure building as his grip on her hair tightened even further. She was trying to pull away, her body convulsing with the effort, but he held her firmly in place, his hips moving faster, more erratically. The sound of her choking filled the trailer, mingling with his ragged breathing and the wet, obscene noises of his cock driving into her throat. Her eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of pain and desperation, snot running down her nose and mixing with her tears. It was a sight that seemed to intoxicate him even more, his pace quickening as he neared his climax. "Yeh fuckin' like that, don' yeh? Yeh love it when I use yeh like this," he panted, his words barely coherent through the haze of alcohol and arousal. He could feel the edge approaching, the tension coiling in his abdomen, ready to snap. He didn't let up, his hips slamming forward with a brutal finality, holding her head in place as he spilled himself into her mouth.

She gagged violently, her body writhing as she tried to breathe around the thick, bitter fluid filling her throat. He kept her there, forcing her to take every drop, his fingers tangled in her hair, pulling it painfully tight. When he finally released her, she fell back, gasping and coughing, her chest heaving as she struggled to draw in air. She looked like. a fucking fish out of water. Cillian looked down at her, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He reached down, his fingers brushing against her tear-streaked cheek, smearing the makeup further. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice softening slightly, though the underlying menace remained. "Yeh did good..." She lay there, her body trembling, the cold of the trailer floor a stark contrast to the heat of his touch. Her mind was a whirl of conflicting emotions, the violation she had just endured clashing with the strange, unwanted sense of relief that it was over. But she knew, deep down, that it wasn't truly over, that this was just a momentary reprieve in a night that was far from finished.

His smirk was cold, a predator toying with its prey. "Yeh think I'm done with yeh… yer fuckin' wrong if yeh think that," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. He advanced towards her, the sound of his boots echoing ominously against the hardwood floor. She was cornered, her back pressed against the wall, eyes wide with fear. Tears streamed down her face like a waterfall, her cheeks glistening in the faint light. "Cill, plea-please… Don't… no, no, no… don't… I'm begging you don't…" Her voice was a broken symphony of desperation and fear. Cillian's response was immediate and brutal. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back and forcing her to meet his icy gaze. He leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. "Keep whining, keeps my cock hard… slut," he hissed, his words laced with venom. He released her hair, his hands moving with lightning speed to pin her wrists above her head.

With one hand holding her wrists in a vise-like grip, his other hand snaked its way down to her shorts. He practically ripped them off, pulling them down with such force that the seams tore. Her panties followed, yanked down to her ankles, exposing her vulnerability. The sight of her wetness made him smirk, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. "Yer fuckin' soaked… didn't think yeh'd be this ready for me," he mocked, his voice a low growl. She sobbed, her pleas becoming more frantic. "Please, Cill… stop… don't do this… I'm begging you…" Her voice was shrill, filled with terror. Suddenly, his hand struck her across the face, the sound of the impact echoing in the room. She cried out in pain, her cheek stinging from the blow. He pointed a finger in her face, his eyes blazing with anger. "Yer making me go soft… either yeh shut up or beg like yeh did before," he snapped.

His hand found its way down to her dripping cunt, his fingers barely grazing her wet folds. Her body trembled, and her cries grew louder. "Please… don't… I'm a virgin…" she pleaded, her voice breaking. Cillian froze for a moment, processing her words. "Fuck… luv… looks like I'll be poppin' yer cherry," he said, a cruel smile spreading across his face. Without warning, he removed his hand and positioned himself. In one swift motion, he shoved his cock into her cunt, bottoming out completely. She let out a loud, pained cry, her body convulsing with the force of his intrusion. Tears streamed down her face, her expression one of agony. Cillian grunted, the tightness of her virgin cunt taking him by surprise. He paused, adjusting to her snug fit, the scent of iron filling the air. He looked down to see blood dripping from her cunt. "Looks like I popped it, real good," he muttered, almost to himself.

He began to thrust, deep and hard, his movements rough and unrelenting. Her cries of pain spurred him on, each thrust more forceful than the last. He watched her face contort with each plunge, her tears falling in a steady stream. His hand moved to grab her thigh, pulling her leg up to allow him to fill her even deeper. Her body jerked with each thrust, the pain evident in her every movement. "Fuckin' tight… yer squeezin' me so good," he groaned, his voice husky with arousal. He could feel her walls clenching around him, her cries music to his ears. She whimpered, her voice barely audible. "Please… Cill… stop…" But he was beyond reason, his desire consuming him. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "Shut up, slut… this is what yeh deserve," he whispered harshly.

Each thrust was a brutal reminder of his dominance, his control over her. Her sobs grew louder, her pleas more desperate, but he paid them no mind. He was lost in the sensation, the intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure. "Yer mine… yeh understand? Mine to fuck, mine to use," he growled, his voice a possessive snarl. He gripped her thigh tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh. Her leg trembled, her body barely able to withstand his relentless assault. The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, her cries mingling with his grunts of pleasure. "Look at yeh… such a pretty little whore," he taunted, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. She tried to turn her head away, but he grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Don't look away… I want yeh to see what I'm doin' to yeh," he demanded, his voice cold and commanding.

Her eyes were wide with fear, her body trembling under his touch. "Please… Cill… it hurts…" she whimpered, her voice barely a whisper. He chuckled darkly, his grip tightening. "Good… I want it to hurt," he said, his tone devoid of any compassion. He thrust harder, his pace increasing, each movement more brutal than the last. Her body jerked violently with each thrust, her cries of pain echoing in the room. "Fuck… yer so tight… so fuckin' tight," he groaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and frustration. He could feel himself getting closer, the tightness of her cunt driving him wild.

The pain she was in seemed to only fuel his dark desire, his need to dominate and break her completely. He leaned over her, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol against her tear-streaked face. His fingers dug into her wrists, holding her in place as he thrust into her with brutal force. "Shut up… yeh can take it… yeh will take it," he snarled, his voice a guttural growl that echoed in the small space. His accent was thicker than usual, slurred slightly by the whiskey, giving his words an even more menacing edge.

Her pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. Each thrust was more desperate, more erratic, as he chased his own release. He watched her through hooded eyes, her pain and fear a twisted aphrodisiac that spurred him on. He felt the tight grip of her body around him, the way she clenched and shuddered with each violent movement, and it drove him wild. The edge of release was so close, a tantalizing promise just within reach. Finally, with a guttural moan, he bottomed out one last time, his hips slamming into hers as he found his release. His hot, sticky cum pumped into her, filling her completely. His eyes locked onto hers, a dark, predatory gleam in his gaze as he leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear. "Probably goin' get yeh pregnant...but yeh deserve it...because yer just a cocksleeve for me to use.." His voice was a low, dangerous whisper, each word dripping with venom.

He stayed inside her, his cock still twitching as he emptied every last drop into her womb. He reveled in the feeling, the way her body seemed to milk him dry, her tightness squeezing every bit of his release from him. Only when he was sure he had given her everything did he finally pull out, a satisfied smirk on his face. He let go of her wrists, and she fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, her body too weak to support her any longer. Cillian stood over her, watching as she lay there, broken and defeated. The sight brought a twisted sense of satisfaction, a dark pleasure that seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. He took a moment to collect himself, to let the last waves of pleasure ebb away, before straightening up and pulling up his boxers and pants. His eyes never left her, a silent command in their depths.

"Clean yerself up...and go," he said, his voice cold and detached. He watched as she struggled to move, her body trembling with the effort. There was no sympathy in his gaze, no hint of remorse for what he had done. To him, she was nothing more than a means to an end, a vessel for his darkest desires. As she finally managed to stand, her legs wobbling beneath her, Cillian took a step back, giving her space to gather herself. His eyes followed her every movement, a predator watching its prey. The room was silent except for her labored breathing and the occasional hiccup of a sob. He felt a twisted sense of power, knowing he had broken her, had pushed her to her limits and beyond.

She stumbled towards the door, her movements slow and unsteady. Her clothes were in disarray, her body marked with the evidence of his brutality. She paused at the door, casting one last, broken look over her shoulder. Cillian met her gaze, his expression unyielding. There was no comfort to be found there, no hint of the man he could have been. Only the cold, ruthless persona he had become. She turned away quickly, her hand fumbling with the doorknob as she hurried to escape. The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Cillian alone in the silence. He stood there for a moment, letting the reality of what had just happened sink in. The adrenaline was still coursing through him, a heady mix of power and satisfaction. He could still feel the ghost of her touch, the way her body had responded to him, had yielded to his every command. It was a high like no other, a dark thrill that he craved more than anything.

Cillian walked over to the vanity and picked up the whiskey glass; picking his wedding ring out of the empty glass and putting it back on. He moved quickly so he could pour himself another glass of whiskey. He downed it in one gulp, the burn a welcome distraction from the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. He knew he should feel something—guilt, shame, regret—but all he felt was a hollow emptiness, a void that seemed to grow with each passing moment. He poured himself another drink, the amber liquid swirling in the glass as he lifted it to his lips. His hands were steady, his movements precise, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him. He took a slow sip, savoring the taste, the way it burned down his throat and settled in his stomach. It was a familiar comfort, a numbing balm to his fractured soul.

Author's Notes:

Wow, this was very hard to write, not only because I'm afraid of the way you will react to it but also because I really suck at writing him in a dom light unless it's in this setup. It's really hard to write things like this because I always have to take breaks because it's such a dark topic.

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bananaproved · 1 year ago

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Top 6 shelved dramas that I would still really like to see

Ranked in no particular order, selection based on my personal tastes.

1) The Prisoner of Beauty

Plot : Adapted from the novel "Zhe Yao" by Peng Lai Ke, it tells the story of the arranged marriage between Wei Shao (Liu Yuning) and Qiao Man (Song Zuer). The fun thing about this marriage is that they both hate each other for complicated family reasons (in the novel Qiao Man's family is directly responsible for the death of Wei Shao's father), so they start they relationship by trying to make the life of the other a living hell. Ultimately, their relationship will develop as they are impressed by each other's ingenuity and discover common interests. There is also an important "let's protect the empire and the common people" plot behind the romance.

Why I wish I could see it : It looks good !! The main duo of actors are both really good looking, but the production in general looks really high budget, with good costumes and sets. I would love to see that. Just look at this trailer !

youtube

Why I am not seeing it any time soon : Song Zuer :/ bestie :/ tax evasion is bad !!

Can we have some hope ? : Not really, at this point of time, no c-actors caught for tax evasion managed to make an actual comeback in the industry (even really popular ones like Deng Lun or Fan Bing Bing). Song Zuer is still being investigated, so maybe we can hope to see her name cleared but it's a little unlikely because they don't investigate people just for fun. However Song Zuer was involved in a lot of high budget projects so I am sure a lot of people are really motivated to try to airdrop at least some of her projects if they have the possibility.

2) The Fated General

Plot : Classic high-budget historical drama telling the story of real life historical figure Huo Qubing (Zhang Ruoyun) during the Western Han Dynasty. It follows his military feats that got him the reputation of being one of the best military generals in the history of China.

Why I wish I could see it : First, the cast is incredible. We have Zhang Ruoyun (famous for being really good at choosing his scripts), Mao Xiao Tong, Bai Yu, Li Hongyi, Xu Yue, and others. It's really an all star cast except the drama was shot in 2016, before some of them became really famous, so it can be really interesting to watch ! Plus it's a really high budget drama, most of the outdoor scenes are shot in real landscape and not in a studio and it globally looks really good. For a better impression, look at this nice looking MV based on the different trailers of the show :

youtube

Why I am not seeing it any time soon : In 2019 (I think ?) the censorship rules changed concerning historical dramas and established the fact that dramas were forbidden to "distort" certain historical facts. This kind of put an end to traditional historical dramas as they became a way more risky investments, and stopped this one from airing as it already took some liberties in terms of storytelling. Huo Qubing is also a semi-controversial historical figure so it is not helping.

Can we have some hope ? : It's been 7 or 8 years and the regulations concerning historical fiction only got more restrictives in China so I would say no.

3) Immortality

Plot : I'm sure everybody knows the plot of Erha so I don't need to write it but just in case the important tags are : xianxia, dangai, shizunfuckers, reincarnation, blood spitting, stairs, ...

Why I wish I could see it : Outside of the obvious reasons (gay people on my screen, Luo Yunxi spitting blood), it's also produced by the same people involved in the production of Till the End of the Moon and Shui Long Yin, so I have I hopes for the artistic direction of the drama. Also for dmbj fans : did you know Liu Chang played a guest role in this drama ? Idk what he is doing here but I would love to see it.

Why I am not seeing it any time soon : We are all aware of the famous 2021 dangai ban, but in general the chinese government is not a big fan of massive and really agitated fandoms (in the way The Untamed fandom was), so Immortality is in a pretty bad position.

Can we have some hope ? : Yeah !!!!! Hyx TOMORROW !!! Believe in your dreams !!!

For real : Two options. 1) On a random morning of the year 20XX you wake up to danmei fans in your tl losing their marbles bc the 6 first episodes of hyx were randomly airdropped during the night with no promotion and no warnings. You cry some tears of joy and immediately go watch Luo Yunxi spit some blood on screen. 2) After many years hyx is still not out but there were so many leaks that the fans managed to recreate the entire series from scraps and now you can watch it in full. Look, they already started :

youtube

4) Night Wanderer

Plot : Zong Yin (Ni Ni) is a forensic expert living in Shanghai in 2021. She met, in her own apartment, a man, called Sheng Qing Rang (Deng Lun), claiming to be the owner of this apartment but in 1937. Together they discover that they can travel to their respective time periods through their shared apartment and start to develop a strong relationship, first as confidence and progressively as lovers. However, the situation get complicated as the Battle of Shanghai broke out in 1937 putting both of their lives in danger.

Why I wish I could see it : First, for lesbian reasons as I would never miss an occasion to stare at Ni Ni for 36 episodes (Wang Yuwen also has a supporting role here and I really like her ! Double win !). Second, it's actually a really nice and original plot for a CDrama and I have full confidence in both actors' capacity to pull off a really good performance to go with it. Look at this trailer ! It looks so promising !

youtube

Why I am not seeing it any time soon : Deng Lun !!! Tax evasion is bad !!

Can we have some hope ? : Even less than for The Prisoner of Beauty as Deng Lun is 100% proved to have committed tax evasion. There is often rumors about him coming back to acting but it's unlikely.

5) Winner is King

Plot : Based on the novel "Sha Po Lang" by Priest, set in a steampunk version of the Liang Dynasty. It tells the story of Chang Geng (Chen Zhe Yuan), a young man living in a random countryside village, who discovers after a raid on their village that the closest people around him were hiding a big secret about his identity. He also discovers that the people around him are not who they pretend to be, especially his yifu (adoptive father, played by Tan Jianci), and realizes that his life will never be the same.

Why I wish I could see it : Outside of the reasons already mentioned in hyx's case, Winner is King is also directed by the same director as Guardian and a Journey to Love. I really like his work and he proved that he was able to do really good things even with a really low budget, so now imagine with a decent amount of money ? It could be great. Also I really like the idea of an ancient china steampunk but I am too lazy to read the book.

Why I am not seeing it any time soon : Same reason as hyx and all the other dangais </3 Also I am not sure of how advanced the production was when it was stopped, because I feel like there are not as many content leaks.

Can we have some hope ? : If we can manifest hard enough the end of the ban, it is possible.

6) The Love of Hypnosis

Plot : During the end of Qing Dynasty, a (patriotic) young man named Yen Shen (Jing Boran) meets a fragrance shop owner named Lu Man Sheng (Liu Yifei). Man Sheng has the special ability/ mission to relieve the hearts of people suffering because of love, but it does not mean that her own romantic life is easier to deal with. Together they fall in love and have to navigate the really troubled times of the end of Qing Dynasty.

Why I wish I could see it : If you are familiar with Liu Yifei and Jing Boran acting I'm sure you can see the potential of this pairing ??? Just the poster has more on screen chemistry than some pairings have in 40 episodes. At this point the plot could be written by a cat walking on a keyboard and I would still have hope for a good chemistry. Also the drama has Liu Mintao in a supporting role and I am in love with her so it's a plus.

Why I am not seeing it any time soon : First, there are some copyright issues with the original manhwa author. Second, the second male lead, Zhao Lixin, got more or less canceled a few years back for political reasons (sorry I don't have the details).

Can we have some hope ? : I would say maybe a little. Copyright issues can be solved and I've heard that Zhao Lixin is still shooting in dramas, meaning that there is hope for some of his stuff still being released.

That's all <3

Sorry for depressing information maybe ? Next time I promise I will make a post about dramas I am looking forward to and that are likely to be released sooner or later.

#cdrama #the prisoner of beauty #the fated general #immortality #hao yi xing #night wanderer #winner is king #the love of hypnosis #hitting my head against the wall

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antics-pedantic · 7 days ago

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MUTANT MEDIA CLUB: GHOST OF A KITCHEN

*Lounge Lizard created by Osa Naomi

Volcanicook, as the name suggested, was a mutant human with a miniature volcano on her head, accompanied by a length of hair and brown skin. She was much beloved on the streets of New York City for her “Magma Munchies” food truck, a source of decently priced and tasty food for all those in the area, but especially to those in different circles of the entertainment industry.

She drove out to a spot where business was booming enough that she could usually tell law enforcement to buzz off. But alas, the crowd she was expecting did not in fact appear, and she was sent on the run. It was Vcook’s best guess that perhaps a rival truck had already made its way through, so she opted to use her truck’s CB radio set to contact anyone else out there who might have had similar trouble.

“Yee-up.” came the voice of a long-haul trucker by the name of Rudy-95, who often provided his patronage to the food trucks and thought of them as allies to himself and other hardworking cargo carriers. “Papa Howie’s Cajun Cart’s had no luck. Neither’s the Wallcrawler Family Chocklit Shoppe (On Wheels), and them other fellers around town’s been mighty troubled! I reckon it’s some kinduva goldurn curse, as is customary during eerie times such as these, Volcanicook!”

“It can’t be a curse!” said Vcook. “I bet it’s some newfangled restaurant. There’s always something with a brand-new joint that gets people wild about it.”

“But that there just ain’t possible.” said Rudy-95, chiming back in. He had detached the delivery trailer from the back of his semi-truck, and had been searching around the city. “Ah ain’t even seen no sign of a new place, or new places plural. Howzzit that a place with no presence can reel in so much attention?”

In the beginning, there was a total dweeb. His name was Clark Raut, and as far as he could remember he was destined to rage. His ideal was to become a critic and thoughtfully analyze media. But as time went on and he was forced to offer reviews on mainstream pop culture, his driving principle was whittled down to a more primal directive of trying to make people realize their favorite things were not underdog productions, in the loudest, most spiteful ways he could achieve.

That finally caught up with him recently: The rabid, right-wing fan army of some primordial influencer lead a campaign against much of North America for dominance. A campaign that included arguing live on their respective shows—Clark’s “Speakeasy Station” talk & variety show, and the fiend’s livestream. And subsequently, a bunch of fanatics showing up at Clark’s studio to beat the living man-shit out of him. Now, normally because of his mutation, Clark’s flesh melted into a green protoplasm. Or ectoplasm. Some kind of a ‘plasm. Usually after a while he would reattach himself to his skeleton and resume having a human shape. Except he couldn’t this time.

“AAAAUUUGGH!!”

He’d changed permanently. Now he was just a featureless green humanoid with pupil-free white eyes, no longer able to return to even an illusory humanity. And he realized this as he traversed the sewers, avoiding the countless medieval LARP feudal societies that lived in the tunnels, until he finally returned to the shared secret housing in the Triumph Studios lot. Housing that had been built up in the 1930s, and maintained since then for crews and talent to lay low. The talk show host grabbed an extra pair of glasses and a clean set of clothes. But something still didn’t feel right about all this.

“Heya poindexter! Where the hell have you been?”

He whipped his head around. There was Lounge Lizard, one of his acquaintances in this Mutant Media Club alliance. LL was clad in a moss green suit with red tie and a once-white shirt that had been worn down by the years, glasses of their own, a head of lengthy dark hair, and a large crocodile tail. She was also a mutant, though that was debated at first since her changes were the result of a magic curse.

“Dying at the hands of dirtbags.”

“Tsk tsk! Gosh, you’re really getting soft in your old age. You shoulda just let those knuckleheads have it!”

“… Have what?”

“I dunno, Clark!”

Just then, the talk show host scowled, and hunched over in his posture.

“No… that’s not me anymore… I’m CLOG now!”

But despite his attempts to reinvent himself on an inward level, Lounge Lizard just let off a great big guffaw, and went on their way with the same wide-stance swagger they always had.

“Seeya later Clark! Scrapsap and I are gonna need help stealing hubcaps. You’d better be there!”

But Clog just seethed. That was when the rusty robot his father invented (around the same time Clog was born) arrived, extendable arms, legs, and BBQ grill core. Scrapsap got along well with LL, was a friend to Vcook (and it helped that she was dating LL). Scrapsap’s connections to Clog however, would vary.

“Hey CLERK!”

“I’m… I’m Clog. I got mutated even more after I almost died.”

“Ohh shit! I heard about that.” said Scrapsap with a nod. “You still good to steal hubcaps later, Clog?”

Clog thought about it for a moment, before ultimately nodding. Scrapsap gave the slime man a pat on the back, before shuffling along towards a piano, where he proceeded to play the best piano solo imaginable. But only as long as he was singing.

“For we haaaaaave, the multitudes of all tiiiiiime, yooooouuu and IIIIIII…”

Unfortunately, Scrapsap sang songs very badly. LL didn’t care, it was just funny watching everyone else agonize over it, so they were right there beside him doing a little dance. And Clog was gathering his toolbox for the hubcap theft.

Years ago…

Under the tutelage of a chef at an upscale restaurant, Volcanicook was learning gourmet cooking. But the owner of the place—Soyer Toutain, ruled over the kitchen staff and the folk on the dining floor with a cruel streak. To Vcook in particular, if she offered food to hungry strangers outside the backdoor, he would force her to cook it first, to exactly the quality of the head chef—without the help of anyone mentoring her. Toutain seemed to know that this would make the taste wretched and drive off those desperate vagrants.

But even when she worked within the rules, Toutain still found ways to torment her. When she had managed to perfect her gourmet cooking, Toutain would demand she learn to increase the volume of her output, claiming that she had to be able to serve the entire seating capacity if everyone else suffered heart attack or stroke.

And harshest of all, as Vcook found it within herself to stand up to him for all those other things, Toutain would call back Vcook’s failed orders so they could berate her personally. And being young, she thought it was a matter of endurance. But all people have a breaking point, and Volcanicook’s involved an eruption that put Toutain out of business. And possibly injured some of her co-workers.

It was then that one of her co-workers, the sous chef—in their forgiveness, gave Volcanicook the keys to a vehicle. A food truck. Promising that one day they would return in a truck of their own, or a stall, maybe even a modest café. For the love of cooking had to push forward. And the best way Volcanicook could make it up to her co-workers was to lead her own enterprise.

And thus, she did. In time making friends within that community. Finding new openings for her old comrades, meager as they could often be. But where there was success, they shared it. But now, there was nothing to share. Not unless Vcook did something!

There was nothing to indicate the building was any kind of restaurant. No signage or other advertising, it pretty much resembled the sort of place marked as “FOR LEASE” with a real estate firm. Could have passed for an office space. But the address Vcook found for multiple restaurants operating out of the same area—the same building. She put on a trenchcoat and a lava-proofed, wide-brimmed fedora before entering. Couldn’t let these people recognize her.

Or they would have recognized her if anyone was actually there. There was maybe one guy at a large opening with an inner side countertop. Paper bags with stickers slapped on for each of them. One read “DUN-DUN-DUMPLINGS!” and had a halloween font, another sticker indicated a batch of burgers were officially licensed by some kind of sport racecar association. Now it was time to see the quality of their cooking, and if it matched up to the clever names people tried to give the restaurants.

What Vcook saw next was absolutely mortifying. There were a few cramped kitchens. Each equipped for different kinds of food prep depending on the style of cuisine, but they were filthy. Finished batches sat out in the open, crudely made and handed off for delivery as quickly as possible rather than to meet some standard of quality.

Vcook made her way towards the head office in the hopes of getting some answers. But when she arrived, the desk was manned by some kind of grinning puppet.

“…”

“WELL, WHADDYA WAITING FOR?”

The mutant flinched. She couldn’t tell if the puppet was alive, being controlled from elsewhere, or what. Just that hearing it talk was highly unsettling. She went forward by a couple more steps, but kept her distance from.

“NOBODY BOTHERS TO LOOK IN THE KITCHEN, LET ALONE TO COME BACK HERE. WHAT’S YOUR DEAL?”

“This place. You sell food here?” said Vcook. The Puppet just chattered its teeth a bit. Vcook could have sworn she saw it move slightly, as if adjusting its posture.

“ALL KINDS.”

Vcook wasn’t sure how far she could get in terms of answers. She wanted to ask why anyone would conduct a business like this. But after the silence, The Puppet just kept talking:

“IT’S PRETTY BRILLIANT. I OPERATE OUT OF HERE. I CAN CORNER MULTIPLE MARKETS. HIRE STAFF AT A MINIMUM. THE HEALTH INSPECTORS WOULD NEVER THINK TO LOOK IN HERE.”

“It’s NOT. That’s disgusting!”

The Puppet did not respond for a time.

“… YOU’RE NOT YOU WHEN YOU’RE HUNGRY.”

The puppet started to move. Jerky motions, as it traveled across the top of the desk, gathering an unreasonably clean paper bag with some wretched contents inside. Rather than letting the puppet overlord bring the food to her, Vcook stepped out and slammed the door shut. At which point, the utensils and equipment within each cramped little kitchen space began to rock violently. As the mutant walked by each kitchen, she should see screaming spirits crying out for release, before being forced into piloting ghoulish bodies, grown cheaply from within vats of green glowing fluid and minced people meat. They all got to cooking as rapidly as they could—sloppily, as they created bio-weapons incorrectly marked for human consumption.

And now they were gonna feed this slop to Vcook!

The mutant started to run. An errant volley of slop was flung in her direction with a wobbly spoon. Stale tortilla chips were drenched in a wretched excuse for salsa before being tossed at her. There were dumplings being launched from medium-sized catapults, steamed till scalding and painfully dry once airborne. There were rancid cheesesteak submarine sandwiches being swung at her like caveman clubs. All while the spirits trapped here wailed in agony.

*KRRRASSSH!!*

Vcook didn’t have to smash through the front glass doors at all, but bashing something with a steel chair was the first relieving thing she did all day, as she fled from that nightmare factory.

Scrapsap, Lounge Lizard, and Clog weren’t far off, currently working their way through a parking garage for the best possible hubcaps to steal. Clog would identify popular makes and models of cars, Scrapsap would pry the caps, and then Lounge Lizard would hide the caps in the sewers—after making sure no one followed them down there, nor any pre-existing dwellers appearing. The medieval LARPing Sewer Doers faction sometimes swung their swords in the gang’s direction.

“C’mooooon already!” said LL, waving up to Clog and Scrapsap. “Make with the dishes, fellas! My buyer’s not gonna wait all day.”

“Give us a sec, we’re keying someone’s Edison truck.”

Scrapsap had some car keys duct taped to his fingers, as he raked them along the driver and passenger doors of a vehicle with a polygonal shape. But instead of a vintage video game intention behind the design, it ended up just being a safety hazard since the vehicle had virtually no crumple factor. And the windows didn’t shatter easily, trapping its occupants inside during a fire or if the car fell into a body of water and started sinking, what with all the heavy metal that went into the frame.

“Hey wait a sec, isn’t that Vcook?” said Clog, spotting the cook running down the street with pure terror etched onto her features. LL perked up, and scrambled over to see what was wrong, with Scraps and Clog not far behind. A shaking Vcook relayed recent events to her friends.

“—That place was an affront to all cuisine!” howled Vcook. “It needs to be DESTROYED! But it’s full of the spirits of the eternal damned. They’re being made to… to power everything. And they animate these horrible ghouls that don’t even wear hairnets!”

Lounge Lizard looked back at Clog and Scrapsap. They were trying to figure out if the part about the hairnets was a good thing or a bad thing, to which Clog and Scrapsap conferred with eachother in silent gesturing, before Lounge Lizard waved them off and figured out the gist of what Volcanicook was saying.

“There there… You’re safe now. It’s over!” said LL. “I think.”

“No, no I’m not. No one is! Not while that festering hellhole is still active!” exclaimed Vcook. “Clog, are you still a little psychic?”

“What, like enough to dispel ghosts?” said Clog. “I can try, I guess.”

“And I ain’t no snitch, but maybe there’s a health inspector around.” said Scrapsap. “Just don’t tell anybody I went to ‘em for help.”

“And where you go, I go.” said Lounge Lizard.

“That’s what you always do.” pointed out Clog.

“Call that consistency, slime boy! Nyuck nyuck!”

Vcook couldn’t help but chuckle at LL’s attempts at levity. The plan was forming.

In this near-future where mutants ran around in droves and weird science was afoot, law enforcement alone was no longer enough. Now, a new breed of marshal was needed to bring order to the chaos. Unfortunately, one such example came in the form of the United States Department of Agriculture being allowed to prepare heavily-armed super-soldiers for the now vaunted role of health inspector. And none were as vigorous about the job as once Judge Piotr Bread. A man deeply devoted to clean food prep spaces and thorough dental care, who put on his colander-helmet, white jacket, and golden cow’s head shoulder pad on every morning to dispense hygienic justice. Such as he did just now, overzealously nearly murdering someone with a lead pipe for selling sodas mixed with candy and other unspecified additions.

“Judge—Judge, please!” cried the offender in question. “The syrup—the completely legal non-medicinal MAPLE syrup wasn’t part of the regular recipe, it’s a mistake!”

“No mistake, scumbag!” bellowed Judge Bread “That soda already had exorbitant amounts of sugar, and you thought dropping in a hard candy would lower it? Do you even have a license to push that Canadian tree sap crap?! That’s TWENTY years in the slammer, bucko!”

Judge Bread slapped on a pair of cuffs, and tossed the guy into the back of an armored food truck for depositing at a maximum-security facility. Just as Judge Bread was about to write a ticket for a mutant that was leaving a slime trail on the sidewalk, Scrapsap was approaching the man suddenly.

“Hey hey, Judge Bread! You uh. You remember me? We played video games together once.”

But Judge Bread recollected no such thing! He hadn’t played with this robot in ages. Clog might have jogged his memory after talking for a bit, but the gooey critic had no intention of socializing with Judge Bread again. Scrapsap had a gun pointed at him for his abrupt approach.

“And I can taste the rust on you from all the way over here. I could SENTENCE you for that.”

“Buh-but—” stammered Scrapsap, before a lightbulb activated inside his head, behind his eyes. “You’ll be letting all those filthy freaks over at the new ghost kitchen run free.”

The firearm was lowered.

“Tell me more.”

“Oh yeah sure. There are all sorts of… health code violations! They got undead douchebags cooking the food without hairnets, they’re hidden in a building where you can’t immediately see any of that either. Rotten as they come, Judge!”

Judge Bread scowled. He’d never heard of a worse place than this so-called ‘ghost kitchen,’ the burning desire to tear it down and prevent others from starting up was taking root in his soul. Taking the address from Scrapsap, Judge Bread returned to his USDA-provided chopper motorcycle with its massive tires and long handlebars, racing to the ghost kitchen building and smashing in the front doors. He jumped off the bike, drawing his sidearm, and unloading a dozen shots into the poor sap working the pick-up counter before they even knew what was going on.

“BOOT SPORK!”

And for good measure he stabbed some delivery drivers that walked in after the introductory carnage, getting them repeatedly between the ribs, by using his trusty boot-holstered survival spork. Scrapsap wasn’t far behind, waving Clog over. And Clog in turn was pressing his fingers to his temples, trying to using what little psionic power he had to try and shoo any tormented spirits they found towards the afterlife.

Because as Judge Bread would find out, the ghouls in his path would not stay down permanently unless the spirits forced to work in this building were able to move along.

“Hurry up, Clog! He’s trying to kill eleventy-gajillion guys!” said Scrapsap, as he slapped at Clog.

“I’m trying, this is giving me a horrible migraine!”

Every time Clog helped a handful of spirits pass on, he needed a moment to recover. Lounge Lizard tagged in, spinning around so her 48.44 kilogram crocodile tail would collide with a group of line cook ghouls, buying the rest of the group some time to catch their breath.

“Jeez, Clog!” said LL, shaking their head. “It’s like you’ve never faced down the legions of the damned.”

“I’m not built for exorcisms!” exclaimed Clog.

“Pathetic… now handle these peons, I’ve used too much of my energy.”

“Wh—”

Clog tried to focus on the oncoming enemy with both mind and his fists. Scrapsap was laughing while being dragged off by a swarm of the fiends.

“Bring it on, chumps!” howled Scrapsap. “I’m made of METAL and I don’t DIE easily! You guys may as well swim in hot dog water!”

But once Scrapsap realized they were trying to use the core of his frame as a BBQ grill again, he started screaming for help. One of the ghouls was bringing over a mess of listeria-ridden ground meats, and moldy bread they were going to heat up by converting his head into a toaster oven. Just then, Judge Bread burst into the room, ghouls latched onto his body, trying to hang on and dogpile the brute as he drew his sidearm—

“CAYENNE PARTY!”

And then, an automated voice from Judge Bread’s gun repeated the words”

“CAYENNE PARTY.”

An incendiary round shot off into Scrapsap’s open center. Although this was probably bad for his computer components, his BBQ grill physiology meant he could endure the flames for a while, as he started charbroiling ghouls with spewing flame jets. They fought their way back to Clog and Lounge Lizard, as the four stood back-to-back, trying to fend off the hordes. Lounge Lizard having pulled a shotgun, and Clog with his homemade ray gun.

They would soon be overwhelmed if the decisive blow was not yet landed…

Vcook had snuck in past the fighting in the kitchen area. Trying to make her way to the rooftop to enact her part of the plan. On the way up, she wasted a perfectly good machete by embedding it into the head of a ghoul, and then firing a large magma chunk from her cranial mutation. On another enemy, she would squirt two bottles of oil, followed by her tossing a lit zippo lighter in their direction. Using bottles of pepper on bandoliers she’d worn into the building as smoke bombs.

Now she was down to her last weapon. A spatula hidden underneath her forearm, that could be extended using a mechanism affixed to her wrist. She meant to wear two, but could only find one before the big showdown with the puppet ringleader.

“Milk, milk…”

Volcanicook whipped her head around, glancing from one side to another at the sound of that childish tone, uttering an odd choice of nursery rhyme.

“… Lemonade…”

Nothing. There was a rumbling from Vcook’s cranium, as smoke billowed out of her volcano-head nervously.

“Round the corner… fudge is made…”

Around a corner up ahead, someone or something was there. The shadow of a brute, apparent. Until the figure in question emerged, revealing they were actually a short fellow, covered from head-to-toe in puffy winterwear, sporting a backpack for “OOPER Delivery.” Guided here by the tormented spirits under the puppet ringleader’s control.

“Am your Ooper… You’re not going to the roof without a bite.”

Volcanicook turned to try and run, but the Ooper delivery guy used a hose attached to a canister from the delivery backpack to spray nacho cheese over the floor, causing Vcook to slip and fall. Ooper drivers and other delivery folk were loyal to whoever was paying them the most. The mutated cook hurried to pull out her phone and put in an order of her own. But not before the delivery guy pulled out a re-usable straw. Large and sturdy enough for boba tea or slushies and milkshakes, certainly. But it also had potential as a blowdart gun. One loaded with an after-dinner mint, made in bulk by a confectionary factory. And mixed in with deadly neurotoxins.

Vcook kept her mouth shut, but she had nothing to cover her cranial volcano opening. The optimistic interpretation was that she could generate enough lava before she absorbed any of the neurotoxin. But her physiology, like many mutants, was not always so absolute in its conveniences. And the rest of the world was equally weird, so she had to operate on the assumption she couldn’t be frivolous about these things.

The blowdart straw fired with a *PTHWOOT!*

And just after that, a ringtone from the Ooper Delivery Guy’s phone. He checked his new order while Vcook tried to generate lava to offset the dose of neurotoxin, as the perfectly aimed shot deposited the mint within her cranial volcano mutation. She focused as much as she could, feeling the poisonous projectile burning away. Trace amounts got through though, and she still ended up having a blackout.

The Ooper Delivery Guy grabbed Vcook by the back of her apron, and started dragging her upstairs.

Scrapsap was terrified. They were preheating his insides to cook whatever rancid slop they were going to serve once the others were captured. Judge Bread had been decapitated, and they were Frankensteining his head onto a small body made of a potato-ginger root hybrid as part of some twisted experiment.

“No! That meat looks all wet and mushy!” cried Scrapsap. “Looks like Ardbeez and their soggy ass sandwiches!”

“That’s because it IS Ardbeez, you dolt!” cackled a skeletal ghoul “They outsource some of their orders to us… AND SOME OF OUR ODORS!”

*BLAM!*

A shotgun went off, and the ghoul’s vital organs were reduced to meaty bits. Lounge Lizard (as carried by the struggling Clog) was taking aim while the gooey critic concentrated on mobility. As much as he could achieve, at least: he felt like his spine was going to break any second now. On top of that he was using what little psionic power he had to exorcise more tormented souls.

�� “Why did we have to enter the room like that!?” exclaimed Clog.

“Clog, old chum. Buddy-pal o’ mine.” said LL, helping Scrapsap up. “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.”

“You ALWAYS lie to me!”

“Uh. Cheetah spots, Clog. Cheetah spots.”

The three grabbed Judge Bread and tried to follow Volcanicook. The path was littered with leftover ghouls, Clog desperately using his limited psionic abilities to dispel and help the trapped spirits here move on. They made their way up to the rooftop, where they saw the Ooper Delivery Guy dragging Volcanicook. The puppet ringleader of this horrible place was trying to scramble into a helicopter. High-power executives and rich bosses just loved buying helicopters so they could get around town.

“Let her go!” hissed Lounge Lizard, loading the shotgun in hand. “Or else we’ll—”

But just as LL was about to make a threat, the Ooper Guy held up his phone to indicate he was now fulfilling a new order. Volcanicook’s order of antidote, and to be dragged to the rooftop. And being that the Ooper guy wasn’t finished with the mission from the owner of the ghost kitchen, she was brought along to kill two birds with one stone. The Ooper Guy proceeded to leave—squeezing past a horde of ghouls, while the group reunited.

“Now what?” said Scrapsap. “We’re about to get swarmed and the puppet bastard is getting away.”

LL proceeded to rest the barrel of her shotgun on Clog’s shoulder. Despite Clog’s protests, LL managed to hit the fuselage of the helicopter. They were aiming for the pilot, but didn’t calculate the shot whatsoever. Driven by his newfound frustration, Clog began to crackle to life with jolts of static. His forehead lines that appeared during strain began to wobble like waveform lines as his limited psionics sent out a burst that exorcised the last of the tormented souls trapped in this building. But the last remaining ghouls were still shambling along to the tune of the puppet boss’s orders.

“Go.”

Volcanicook stood up. Now it was her turn to finish this once and for all.

“Babe, you’re not thinking of—” gasped Lounge Lizard.

“Oh, but I AM.” said Vcook, as her eyes started to glow. And her cranial volcano mutation started to bubble. Clog just shrugged, and jumped off the roof, landing on the street below with a *SPLAT!* before gradually reforming, and inching away as quickly as he could. Lounge Lizard was scuttling along the side of the building, trying not to slip and fall before they got closer to the ground. Scrapsap jumped over to the helicopter that was spinning out of control. When the craft finally crashed, he was inside the building across the street.

At last. Volcanicook could finally erupt!

The lava flowed freely, trickling down across Vcook’s form, as she could endure her own power. Chunks of magma served as artillery, launching with prodigious force into any ghoul that tried to halt her destruction. Just as when Toutain spat on her dreams once, not so long ago. The floors below were totaled, from rentable office space and false condos, to the ground level kitchens, the puppet ringleader’s office, and the pick-up window upfront. Broken down by passionate wrath until she was back to ground level, waltzing out of there in a daze.

The sound of the food truck door slamming shut was music to Volcanicook’s ears. She waved her friends goodbye, as Clog headed for his building on the Triumph Studios lot where his show was filmed, Lounge Lizard was commuting to the comedy club, and Scrapsap did miscellaneous crew work around the place, shooting spitballs at people just to tick them off. Life was finally back to normal, as Vcook went back to her usual routes.

Or she would have, if not for the long arms in pencil-thin suit sleeves trying to strangle her: The Puppet Ringleader had survived and broken into her vehicle.

“DON’T SUP FROM THE PUP’S CUP!”

The Puppet’s ambush caused Vcook to swerve the truck out of control. Barely weaving through oncoming city traffic as she attempted to find some safe harbor where she could slam the breaks. No such luck: that left it to one last trick.

*KA-SHING!*

She was still wearing the hidden spatula. The mechanism protruded the kitchen implement forward, as Vcook used it to decapitate The Puppet Ringleader. After a session of screaming prolonged by the fact Vcook couldn’t find good parking, she eventually parked and gave her vocal chords a chance to relax. The nightmare was over.

For now.

Scrapsap was practicing with a deck of cards. A harrowed Volcanicook had returned to the secret underground housing within the Triumph Studios lot, currently watching television with Lounge Lizard. Clog was wheeling out a cart full of broken devices that he couldn’t salvage. That is, until Scrapsap accidentally tossed the entire deck at the slime man, followed by his being tripped up by Lounge Lizard’s tail. The commotion was so startling, Volcanicook accidentally launched a chunk of magma that Clog landed on with a yelp.

The green slime that made up his ‘flesh’ now melted into a pile of protoplasm, leaving a skeleton behind. Everyone just looked at each other for a moment, before continuing what they were doing. Clog putting his glasses back on, and extending a slime-feeler to grab his ankle and drag the skeleton with himself to the bathroom to reattach himself, and put his physical form back together.

THE END…?

“It #$%&in’ BETTER be!” exclaimed Vcook and LL in unison, slapping away the question mark on that prior line of the story.

Elsewhere, a group of interns training to become Health Inspectors piled into a classroom to the sounds of a marching band. On the desk, the altered Judge Bread was raising a Food & Drug Administration flag on a small metal pole, signaling his students to salute with him as the three initials came into view, and a bugle sounded off.

“At EASE, future HYGIENE DEFENDERS.”

Until his bosses could get him a new body similar to that of his old one, Judge Bread was being assigned to other duties. He proceeded to take up a heavy-duty handgun, marching towards the firing range. His students followed, arming themselves with similar such accoutrements, as the bugler played them in.

“Ready. Aim…”

Everyone was sweating a little. But Judge Bread was as cool as a cucumber. Even as the recoil on his sidearm knocked him flying back and through an indoor window into one of the offices of the Health Inspectors’ Academy. His students all looked at each other, before receiving one final order in the distance:

“Back to it, MAGGOTS!”

SO LONG FOR NOW.

#web fiction #antics-pedantic #mutant media club

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