#motorcycle armor leather jackets

[agenderarkham]

Working on my red hood cosplay again .. making like. Good progress on it for once .. maybe I’ll even finish it this time .. like 6 years in the making lmao

[hwan-g]

( 𝑻𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑯 ) ୧ ⠁

ೀㅤ۪ pairing. biker/drug dealer! chris x fem! reader : genre. age gap, dark romance, angst, smut : warnings. read at your own risk — mdni ! use of pet names, smoking, explicit sexual content, possessiveness, obsession, severe anger issues, violence, flawed characters that make mistakes : word count. 10.1k

ೀㅤ۪ synopsis. he was born with a gun in his hand, a ticking time bomb in his head. it’s been counting down since, the brain has festered into a landmine, a battlefield. no. peace is a foreign word. reserved only for you.

PROLOGUE.

You cannot begin telling this story if you don’t first punch your own mouth. His gun, safety off, shiny and awful in the dead of night, the barrel of it pointing at your temple, a patient irony. It’s three in the morning and the red bleeding is sweet, oh so sweet.

There’s no love without violence, sweetheart, and did you know? He loves you so much, he’ll kill you. He loves you so much, you’re calling for help. Of course, it cannot be your voice, and if he gives you another chance, you’ll say everything differently this time around like—this bed is where he fucked me slow and rough, I think he was trying to bury some part of himself in me, and here, you see, the sheets smell just like his cigarettes, and this, here, is where he brushed my hair, just like this, so careful, but never mind the cracks in the mirror, the shattering is always the same, it has nothing to do with me, everything to do with him.

You hear his voice in your head all the time, haunting, your dutiful ghost; he’s there when you sleep, he’s there when you wake up, a nightmare concealed as a daydream, and you want him to do his worst, you want it to hurt, to scar, to be a permanent mark, because it’d mean you’d loved him; that love has been here and it was ugly and terrifying, and you survived it, even if you could never survive him.

Upstairs, the bed is unmade, stained with wine and your climax. Chris is gentle in all the ways he is not, which is to say he kisses you with teeth, he holds you with fists. You saw him on a black motorcycle once, an impressionable girl in a dark place, lost, searching for purpose, and he looked like a knight in shining armor, he looked like hell and heaven combined, a savior and captor, and you’d wished to crawl inside, to make a home out of him. You’d smiled and waited, you've always waited, you always will.

When he came, he was so cruel, he burned brighter than fire—you believed in him; after all, how can a man be so consumed by flame and not put his own hands around his neck, not succumb to his charcoal painted flesh? You were a fool, and he saw it, and you paid the price for it. He wants to keep you forever now, he’s never going to let you go, do you understand that? Why, why, why did you go ahead and do that?

For what? A scrap of metal heart and a ribcage, bone and muscle?

What about your own heart?

What about the eternal winter residing when he's not there?

ACT ONE: before.

He smiles and the world expands. His face blooms into a thousand different shades; the pink of his mouth curving, the red of his cheeks rounding, the dark of his brow straightening. A stop motion picture, the beginning of autumn, the turn of the leaves, the crisp air replacing warm winds.

His fingers weave through yours, interlocking, thumb running down index, mouth a breath over yours, so close he could graze your lips if he wanted to. You look between you, noses touching, then back to brown so deep you imagine raw honey gliding, real amber in the face of the sun.

Chris. You whisper his name in your head. It sounds like a secret. Your best kept one. Chris, Chris, Chris . . .

There’s blood on his shirt underneath the leather jacket. There’s a loaded gun on his belt strap, a knife tucked in his boot, a razor engraved on the ring he wears, and he’s not so careful with it, and you don’t think you want him to be. You assume it’s normal to want this—if his blood mixes with yours, well, isn’t that enough to take you with him? Isn’t that almost a wedding ceremony, isn’t that almost a declaration of war?

Do you think I’m crazy, you think to yourself. Do you think I’m crazy, would you want me if I am, would you want me, do you want me? You don’t dare say it out loud, but he’s staring at you as if he could eat your face raw—a demon, a demon—and shove the rest of you in the deep freezer, so you decide to bite him instead. You get on your tippy toes and nuzzle into his neck, biting the soft flesh underneath his earlobe.

He doesn’t exclaim, not a hiss, not a gasp, not even the slightest of inhales. He withstands the pain you inflict him, and you feel his desire digging into the inside of your thigh. His arms reach out around you, pulling you to him in that all-encompassing way, and you’re left to witness what can only be the slow consumption of your beating heart. His bike groans under the sudden weight, but he’s got you. You don’t think, then, of what that entails.

“(Y/N).”

The night sky comes into focus, all dark indigo, starless, and the streetlights flicker bright, sounding the late hour. The light never seems to go anywhere near you two, it refuses, it hesitates, and back then you found it all so mysterious and exciting, ignoring the warning bells, swallowing down the instinct of danger, danger, danger.

“Yes?”

Your eyes fall shut at having his rough palm grabbing hold of your face, thumb tilting your head upwards to meet his sizzling gaze. You hold onto his wrist for support, your body floating, mourning the loss of his body heat against the biting cold. He notices this, and moves to shrug off his huge jacket, wearing it over your shoulders in one swift move.

“What will I do with you?” It’s a plea. A threat. Both.

Chris looks down at you, and the earth shakes to its core. He looks down at you, and you don’t want to be alone anymore. You want this, this, this, every day, all the time, forever. You wish to wake up in bed next to him and know he’s yours, wake up and not wish for some other dream so you can find him again. To be awake and want to be awake.

His big hands caress your face, sink into your hair. He stares at you intently, as if he’s holding back from saying whatever’s turning over and over in his head. It can switch so fast, that look, faster than you can blink, a clipped temper, a quick anger. 

You’ve only seen it once, and you’d been quickly turned away. He’s got people watching everywhere, he’s been haunted by darkness and shadows long before you served him that drink in The Bloody Muse. You almost forget about returning to your shift, time slipping away, responsibilities fading whenever you’re near him.

Seungmin will be missing you, Felix will be looking for his good luck charm before he goes on stage. Midnight means you return from dreamland. Still, you have a couple of minutes left. Enough to hear the gunshot, enough to panic and let out a scream and have Chris slap a hand over your mouth, willing you with his gaze to calm the fuck down.

You breathe hard, stiff with fear. He appears perfectly composed, relaxed even. It’s then you realize who he is and what he does, and how this is probably his or his club’s doing. There’s misdirected anger in you ricocheting on all corners. You want to bite his fingers, you want to demand an explanation. You work here, dammit, and he’s kept his bullets away from this place so far, for what you thought was your sake.

Chris was a handsome hypocrite, a skilled liar.

“It’s not what you think,” he says simply, removing his palm from your mouth, shaking his wrist off. “Don’t overreact.”

All of his previous warmth disappeared, instead, the cold, menacing man you know very little of and have never dealt with taking its place. You understand he has to be this way, but you hate that he has to act like this with you too. Because of your reaction. Because you couldn’t keep your cool.

Silly girl.

“What is it, then?” A naive question, so many untrue answers he could give you.

He passes a finger over the cut on your cheek. The cut he gave you. You lean into his touch, desperate for anything, hungry, starving, even. You don’t want him to leave, but he won’t stay. You hate, hate, fucking hate this part.

“Something that needed to be taken care of,” he chooses the words carefully, you can tell, and you decide that, if he wants you to stay in the dark, you will. You have to.

You love him.

“Someone,” you correct, quietly.

Chris smiles, mouth curving, and his hand moves to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is tender, affectionate. Something inside you cracks and caves, it melts. You would withstand too, you think then. You would deal with anything, put up with everything, for that single touch. For that one single look.

“Someone,” he echoes, his own voice smooth blue velvet, an overture. “You should get inside.”

A sharp pang of bitterness in your chest. “I should?” Because I questioned you?

He drops his hand, and brings his arms over his broad chest, crossing them there. Closed off and done for the night. You unconsciously take a step back, hurt from the sudden change, whiplashed and upset.

“If you don’t want to be late,” he states matter-of-factly, but he says it in this kind of open tone, a mere suggestion rather than a complete dismissal. Yes. “Don’t look at me with those damned eyes, sweetheart, what can I do against them?”

You wipe at your cheeks, and try to fix the mess, try to smooth over, to make right again. “I’m not, I’m sorry.”

“Come here.” A command. 

You go like a kicked puppy, your leash short, your loyalty unshaken, despite the scolding. He reaches out and slams you to his chest, a hand pressing the back of your head there, and you inhale him, all of him, memorizing his scent, trying to hold on to whatever parts of him you can in case he decides to never come back for you again. It’s pathetic and it’s pitiful, but this is what you know. This is all you know.

“You’re my girl, you know that?” He mumbles in your hair, his breath hot on your scalp. You lean into him, wrapping your arms around him, and almost cry yourself dry from the prospect of ever losing him. 

You’d die. You’d die, it’s entirely unthinkable. It’s the worst pain imaginable. 

“You’re my girl, baby. I’d never let anything happen to you. Do you believe me?”

You nod your head yes. He squeezes you against him tighter. You feel so safe, then, the safest you ever have. Of course you believe him. You’d believe his every word, you’d follow him into anything, blindly, willingly. You want to please him. To make him happy.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, suddenly and pulls you back to look at him. His eyes are manic, black. “I need your words, (Y/N). Do you believe me?”

“Yes. Yes,” you yelp, your mouth falling open from the sting.

In your stomach, something lights on fire. You rub your legs together, trying to relieve it. He glances down between you, curses. 

You started it. 

The descend. 

It was your fault. 

He’d never touched you so savagely before that night, he’d never shown the same need you had. That he could want you the same way you do. . .You felt so giddy you could squeal, so happy you would gladly reduce yourself to schoolgirl-and-her-stupid-little-fantasies.

“Is this fucking getting you wet?” And he pulls harder, tilting your head all the way. His tongue comes out to lick from the base of your neck all the way up to your lips. You’re on fire, you’re on fire! You moan hoarsely and try to keep your footing. “You like me being rough with you, sweetheart?”

You’re too embarrassed to respond. So, you guide his hand under your skirt. Chris curses again, more lewdly this time, nasty things, words you’ve never heard him say before. Oh, this fucking cunt, fuck me . . . So goddamn wet, baby girl, I bet it tastes so sweet. Will you let me? Will you let me have a taste right here?

“I— I have to go back, I’m—” but his fingers are already dipping into your underwear, his palm cupping your burning sex.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he growls into your ear. “You hear me?”

You jump, and look around, paranoid. He grabs your face and forces your eyes back on him. He’s got that crazed look again, the one that lets you know he’ll stop at nothing to have this. Out here, in the open. And he’ll fucking make it worth it. You succumb, too flushed, too bothered, unbecoming in his arms, as he backtracks you into the wall next to the exit door, and gets on his knees, tugging your undergarments down with both hands, hooking your leg over his shoulder.

Your fingers dig into his hair, dark eyes staring up at you. In your mercy, kneeling in front of you. Do you love me? Is this you, saying it? Is this your way of showing it? You caress the soft strands, staring back, overwhelmed. The beginning of the end for you. You’ll never escape him after this. He’d never accept it. You’d never survive it.

When his face gets lost in between your legs, you almost collapse, your entire body shaking with the forceful need to come. He licks and laps and sucks your clit into his mouth, and it’s too much, it’s fucking unbearable, it’s incredible, it’s so much, it’s everything, you want more, you want him to stop, more more more, oh my God, please, please—you’re being so loud there’s no way they haven’t heard that, that Seungmin hasn’t, he’s really only around the corner, and what about everyone else, oh God, oh God, you’re close, you’re so fucking close, if he could just—oh, fuck yes, fuck yes . . .

Chris pulls away, his lower face glistening with your juices. You whine at the loss of contact, your pussy clenching around nothing, aching. 

“Don’t fucking come,” and he’s getting up, he’s unzipping his pants, and you’re eager to help, you’re eager to reach inside and grab him, free him. “I have to get inside you, baby.” 

His cock is standing rock hard, angry. He wraps one hand around your neck, and the other slides over his length once, twice, you’re so entranced you can’t look away; he’s so big, he’s so erect, and you want him so fucking much, you’d do anything right then, you’d be anything.

He turns you around, and you barely have time to get a good grip on the wall, before he’s entering you with one long, violent thrust. You scream out, pressing your temple on the cool brick, allowing him to take whatever he needs. His fingers squeeze around your neck, tighter and tighter still, until all you see is stars, until all you feel is him slamming into you, his hot body over yours, your mixed moans of pleasure.

I could come to this image forever . . . Look at this fucking ass, you beautiful fucking girl, I never want to stop . . . fucking tear you apart, lay inside you . . . Taking cock so well, made for me, made for me, made for this . . .

His movements turned sloppy and primal, reaching the end, and you, forever following him, forever after him. He was no more than beast, pistoling into you with vigor, all animal, your sides bruised from the way he was holding onto you, but you loved it, you wished he’d never stop, exploding into a million pieces, coming apart under him in vibrant streaks of color and tears. His head dropped on your lower back, whispering there she is, there you go, sweetheart, there you are, my baby, as he gave one, two, three final thrusts, before reaching down and removing himself from your soaking cunt, flipping you around, and forcing you on your knees, his cock in his hand, on the verge of climax.

You open your mouth wide, and he shoves in, fucking into it no more than three seconds before you feel his cum hit the back of your throat, warm and salty. 

“You fucking vex me, woman. Look at the sight of you.”

You breathe through your nose slowly, as he grabs your face and makes sure you swallow, fingers rough, before pulling out at once, tucking his softening length back in his jeans, and lifting you up by the waist.

He fixes your skirt over your ass, and smoothes over the edges, making sure no indecent part of you shows. When you catch his eye, he winks at you. You bubble over like a soda can, spilling everywhere, and he chuckles low and raspy, before reaching for your hand and pulling you flush against him, trailing kisses on your shoulder, your knuckles, your cheeks, your brow.

This is the Chris that looks at you and sees you. The one you love, the one you miss the most when he’s gone. This Chris comes out only when you’re alone, when he’s forgotten what else there is, what he has to do after you go back to the club. For now, he loves you, no violence, no hunger.

You almost weep at the sight of him.

“I’ll talk to your boss,” he murmurs, pecking your lips over and over.

You giggle, and he twirls you once, your arms extending as you try to go towards the door. He pulls you back in at the last minute, handsome, glowing, smiling.

“I haven’t lied to you,” he says, and half of you doesn’t miss the solemn way in which he says it. “I won’t let anyone touch you. Ever.”

You pause for a split second, still remaining in the post bliss of your orgasm, but then you’re moving again, slipping from his grasp, heading back to your drinks and suggestive conversations.

“I wouldn’t want to be touched by anyone else, Chris,” you retort, blowing him a kiss, and disappearing through the big black door, letting it close behind you.

You don’t see the way you leave him standing there, how he closes his eyes and has to breathe through the loss of you; how he drags his feet to go pick up his jacket from the floor. How he inhales your sweet smell, and instantly wants you back, a corpse in his arms that can’t go nowhere.

The corruption began when you told him your name. It invaded his bloodstream and blackened his mind.

He’d rather kill you than have you walk away from him like that.

ACT TWO: in the midst.

Chris fucks you with the purpose of possessing you.

There’s not a minute of peace when you are with him, he envelops all senses, he erases all other thoughts, until all you know is him, his touch, his cock. Months into sharing a bedroom, and coming apart underneath him every night, he’s never once mentioned that incident, the first one.

He’s never apologized for how he treated you, never brought it up. But he’s never once treated you the same since. Now that you live together, he gets to call all the shots, know your exact whereabouts, control what you wear, what you eat, how you come, how many times—he’s fucked you in places you never thought possible. He’s fucked you in front of people, shamelessly; on the banister, in the pool, on the kitchen counter and the office. Against walls and on the hood of his car, parked in the garage, Changbin, the road captain, working on his bike not a few steps away.

No one ever said anything to you, tried anything. They didn’t have a death wish, or they respected Chris too much. His influence was a testimony to his abilities. No one questioned him, but everyone obeyed him. They treated you like one of their own, they protected you when their sergeant would leave the house.

Other things—the shitload of drugs hidden in every trinket, every crevice, places you’d never think to check, and the meticulous way they deliver said product, how the trucks come in the middle of night, motorcycles deconstructed, filled to the brim with cocaine and sent to wherever, distributed to whatever unfortunate person. Chris never touched the trucks, you never saw him near them.

That was Minho’s job.

You spent entire days in bed after the deliveries, fucking, improvising stories of hunters and angels falling in love, how the hunter is always attracted to the angel’s light, how the angel forgives the hunter for his nature, and willingly dies by his axe. Chris bathes you and washes your hair with lavender, then carries you over to the vanity and brushes the strands with such care, you think he’s always loved you, in every life. That, perhaps, he was born loving you, and that this was predetermined; inescapable, inevitable.

He doesn’t sleep. He spends hours making love to you, feeding you; he works for even longer, meetings with the president, meetings with the suppliers, mountains of paperwork that you see him burn afterwards in the fireplace downstairs. If he does close his eyes, it’s flitting, twenty minutes here, an hour there; after he comes down from the high of being buried inside you, after a shower, at night as he watches you sleep, you pretend to close your eyes and feel him get comfortable on your stomach, his lips kissing any spot of naked skin he can find. When he does drift off, you lift your head and observe a man such as Chris Bahng sleep, how he does it, so unaware and off guard, so unlike his usual self.

It’s endearing. You love him the most when you find him in those positions, so peaceful, and a part of you thinks, ashamed—at least no one is dying by his hand tonight. His soul is something you think about a lot, the wretched, poisoned thing, paying for his actions. You asked him once; what keeps him up, why is he so unable to fall asleep?

“Nightmares,” he mumbled against your neck, teasing the sensitive flesh there. “Every time I close my eyes . . . someone is waiting for me. It’s always different, but they always end up dead. Everyone I care about— you. When you’re in my dreams, I can’t stand it. I’m always the one holding the gun. You’re always falling, or— fucking . . . walking away from me. When I wake up, I always check if you’re next to me,” his hand travels to yours, interlocking your fingers. He avoids your gaze. “If you’re not, it’s . . . it gets hard to breathe. I think I’ve killed you, that I’ve finally fucking lost it and, and done it, and the walls close in around me . . . Christ, I sound fucking insane.”

It’s difficult for you to say anything after that, so you slowly make your descend at the foot of the bed, making sure to kiss every inch of him, to let him know you’re right there, that he’ll never lose you, that the day it’ll come to that you’d rather he does kill you, that he does make that decision for you, because you’d have clearly gone mad; you cannot see yourself beyond him, cannot see a future where he’s not there, even as a fixture, even as someone who’s loved you once, a very long time ago. A friend, a lover, it’s all the same, and it’s all him, and you’ll always get whatever version of him you can.

You know you sound crazy, and maybe you are, maybe you deserve each other in that way, but it’s irrelevant to this story. This is not for the faint of heart—loving someone like him does not come easy, it’s not one of those ridiculous words—fate or destiny—or anything simple like that; loving him is hard fucking work, it’s torment and agony, it’s excruciating, and it’s a choice you make every single day, because you need it to live. An addiction, perhaps, though you’ve never been an addict.

You know this is how it feels. The needle in the vein. The snow on your nose. The smoke in your lungs. The burning, the boiling. This is it. When you take his cock in your mouth, when you hear that broken gasp fall from his lips, the familiar groan, the guttural sounds from the back of his throat, and how he grabs the back of your head, forcing you down to the hilt of him; when you’re so full you might as well inhale him entirely, become part of his crotch, his most private part, the one he keeps to himself—you think this is what it’s like to wait on someone’s steps, a beggar, a desperate girl giving her heart on a silver platter for the one in the house, the one holding the reins.

Chris is kind and generous. He opens the door, he allows you to come inside. There’s light and warmth here, but there’s also shadows in the corners, there’s locked doors and no one else around. It’s a lonely house, but he’s right there, all you need, all you’ll ever need. He welcomes you with open arms.

You get lost in the labyrinth of him.

“What the fuck was I doing before you, sweetheart? Who was I, who was I without this fucking mouth, fucking hell, baby . . .”

It’s a savage act, some would call it cannibalism, but it’s only been known as love to you. Your insides are aflame, roasting a pretty crackling orange, when he finally comes on your tongue, his hips lifting, eyes shut tight, your head in his big hands, keeping you there, making sure you’re swallowing every last drop. You do. You do. You‘re licking circles around the shiny, swollen tip one moment, and he’s got you bouncing on it the next, manhandling your ass, facing you away from him, wrapping muscular arms around your waist, ravaging your back with his teeth, biting and soothing, putting out the forest fires himself, braving the danger.

A devouring hunger. Stripped to its most primal state. Everything within you is jumping. No one talks about this—screwing for the sake of the flesh. You need to come, and keep coming, and he does too. There’s no other thought, no other reason. He’d mount you if he could, knot in you for hours, pump you full of his seed. If this is the way it’s meant to be, then let it be. Let him fuck you until he’s satiated. Let him fuck you into your last dying breath.

But his words. You want those for yourself. He whispers them in your ears, his mouth everywhere, the hotness of his breath, the raspiness of his voice—just as lost as you. This is how you need him.

“This cunt is mine, fucking mine, mine . . . Say it,” he drills into you, skin slapping on skin, sweat like water, and your tears, so uncontrollable, so many— “Say it, damn you.”

“Yours,” you comply, your arm reaching out to wrap around his neck. He kisses your shoulder, he bites, he marks. “All of me. Forever.”

“Swear it. Don’t ever leave me.”

“No . . . no . . .” You moan loudly as he reaches deep inside, to spots that make you see stars.

He shoves your face in the mattress, and gets on top of you, pistoling his length into you, hard and fast, chasing after the high he craves. You cry out and take it. The pain is so intense, bleeding into pleasure, overwhelming your body. You can’t feel your own heartbeat anymore, only Chris, only his pounding.

“Such a goddamn slut. Look at you,” he slaps your ass once, “fucking look at you,” twice, three times, four. You sob into the sheets, grab onto them. He’s relentless, he’s so close, you’re so close— “Why are you crying, huh?” He pulls you by the hair hard, lifting your head. You gulp down air, you’re glutinous, deprived. “Did you need my cock that bad? Have I not fucked your needy little hole enough?”

“You have, you have, please . . .”

Let go for me, sweetheart, fuck, you feel so fucking good . . . Never get tired of this pussy, taking me so well, baby, so fucking well, come on, one more, one more, that’s it . . .

Coming felt like the gates of heaven liquifying inside you. Your orgasm tore through you so savagely, you forgot how to breathe for several moments, your limbs unresponsive and extremely sore. Only thing you could do was convulse under Chris’ massive body, and let him ride his own, his nails digging into raw flesh, voice groggy and incredibly deep after three rounds of sex.

“Did I hurt you? Did I hurt you, baby?”

You hadn’t realized you were still crying ugly, terrible sobs. You immediately missed the weight of him as he got off you at once and flipped you on your back, panic-stricken honey eyes searching your face, your chest, any part of you he might’ve harmed.

“Where does it hurt? What have I done?” He kisses your temple, your eyes, he tastes your tears. He’s so worried you almost feel guilty for not responding. “(Y/N), I need you to tell me, sweetheart, I can’t see it, I can’t—is it your—”

“I’m fine,” you pacify him, placing your hands on either side of his face. You’re still breathing abnormally fast, but so is he. The room is spinning. “You didn’t hurt me anywhere, I’m fine, Chris.”

“But if you were, you’d tell me, yeah?”

He was so handsome, so handsome when he loved you.

“I would.”

His gaze was piercing, honeycomb giving way to molasses. His hands were trailing off again, doing their own thing, what they knew best; how to please you. His thumb on your clit, rubbing soft circles, your creamy entrance making lewd sounds that had the man over you growing impossibly hard again.

“And what about this?” A warm, tingly sensation grew low in your belly. “Does this hurt?”

You trap his hand with your thighs, and he smiles. You smile back.

“Maybe a little,” you lie, stretching.

He doesn’t let up. His fingers slip inside again, his other hand moving on himself, veiny and sure. Chris masturbating to the sight of getting you off is perhaps the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. Your body is a tool he’s acquainted well with, and has made his sole expertise. So many hours on this bed, learning each other naked.

“Your cunt says something else,” he smirks, pumping his fist over his girth slowly, deliberately, growling low in the process, making you wetter, making you want, want, want. A chain of chemical reactions, you’ve become. “I wanna eat you out, (Y/N), you think you’ll be able to handle that?”

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

“I’ve been thinking about it all day,” he mumbles on your stomach, placing a kiss there, and traveling down, nose dangerously close to where you want him most. “Your face when you come apart on my tongue—I wish I could die between your legs, baby.”

“Don’t say that,” you hide your face in embarrassment, as you feel him get in position, opening your legs wide, staring shamelessly at your swollen pussy.

“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want,” he licks it once, tongue pressing flat on your clit and flicking, and you’re fucking gone. You’re writhing, trying to get away, moaning so loudly the whole house must’ve heard you. “This is mine, you’re fucking mine, and you’re so goddamn beautiful.”

He doesn’t get to work much on you, you’re coming apart in minutes. You’re so overstimulated, your legs are shaking uncontrollably, the muscles twitching. He doesn’t seem to care though, because he’s fingering all of your cream on his cock and finishing himself off, an ungodly sight, something out of a renaissance painting, the most explicit one, all well defined abs and veins popping on his neck, mouth formed into a perfect silent scream, as he pumps, and pumps and shoots on your thighs, white thick streaks, hot and sticky.

There’s a knock on the door, a throat clearing.

“Bahng,” Changbin’s voice. “It’s important.”

The room drops in the negatives. You see the abrupt change on your boyfriend’s face, his expression freezing over, his jaw clenching, moving, as he stares at the door like he wants to break it, and then beat his friend’s face in. You get on your elbows and whisper softly, “It’s okay,” to which he ignores.

“What the fuck do you want?” He calls out, furious, getting off the bed and grabbing a pair of discarded jeans from the floor.

“Meeting in ten,” his captain replies, and then there’s footsteps shuffling away.

“I need to shower, anyway,” you try to lighten the mood, reaching over the bed for your shirt. “We’ve been holed up here for hours. I don’t even know what time it is.”

“Why do you need to know?”

You don’t let his tone ruin what you’ve been building for the entire day. He was perfectly fine up until two seconds ago, it has nothing to do with you. You repeat this to yourself as you move around the room, clipping the hair away from your face, wiping the makeup from your cheeks.

“It’s really alright, Chris, you’ll only be gone for a bit.”

He ignores this as well. What he does—he takes two big strides towards you and grabs your face roughly. You meet his eyes, dark and menacing, and keep your cool. You don’t let his anger scare you, you’ve seen it all before. It has nothing to do with you, it has nothing to do with you.

“All you need to know, is I’m still in this fucking room and you smell like my cum, and there’s a lot of fucking things I can do in ten minutes,” he snarls, patting your hair down, bringing your hips together. “All you need to know is you have no use for clocks, because you’re not going anywhere. Am I fucking clear?”

You try not to let your body take over your mind, as it’s happened many times before. He knows your weak spot, he knows how good he can make it feel, and he uses it to his advantage any chance he gets. 

You will not be manipulated. You will stop falling for his words.

“You’re going to regret saying that,” you retorted, suddenly sad. “You’re only being like this because you want to stay.”

To that, he visibly calms, he mellows. “Of course I do. I never wanna be anywhere else. I wanna fuck you until you’re on the verge of passing out, and then I want to take you in the water and make it all better,” he tries to kiss you but you turn your head. There are no words to describe the hurt etched on his face, then. “You’re the only thing that matters, (Y/N). The only true thing.”

“Why do you treat me like this, Chris? Hot, then cold, again and again.”

You might’ve as well slapped him. He untangles himself from you at once, and walks over to the closet for a shirt. Your stomach drops. You definitely said something you shouldn’t have. Who knows how he’ll be now, what he might do. You might not see him for days. He knows how to hurt you and keep hurting you. One coin, two sides.

Nevertheless, you have to know. He never gives you any answers. You’ve given away so much to be here, to be with him. He walks the thin line of having something like that, a line between holding you—broken glass on his shaking palm, recklessly picking up the pieces when they fall, unafraid of the blood, of the cutting and maiming, and the repercussions afterwards.

His self destructiveness has never been more prominent before. Now it’s all you see.

“One true thing, Chris. Please.”

He looked so severe, the set of his jaw, the glint in his eye. When he punches the closet door closed and smashes the mirror with his fist, you don’t think he’s quite there in the room with you anymore. He’s in that faraway place again, in that hole, so hard to find.

Of course, the blood. The blood is always there. It’s been there from the start.

He motions for you not to move, his hair a mess sticking in all directions. Such violence and it’s all within him, there’s nothing you can do to pull it out of him. Only when it lashes out, only when he becomes the weapon.

“Don’t fucking come near me,” he barks, and you stop, you remain perfectly still, your gaze locked to his knuckles, bleeding profusely, staining the carpet. “I will never hurt you,” he rasps, and there’s iron will behind his words. “I will never fucking hurt you, I’d sooner die. I’d sooner fucking die . . .” His eyes fall closed, his breathing deepens, and you’re pretty sure you only have a few seconds before this all goes to shit.

You grab your clothes, and shoes, and where’s your phone, where’s your stupid phone—

“Get out of here. Get out of here now.”

You bite your lip until you taste copper. You won’t cry. You won’t fucking cry. This is not your fight. This is not your problem.

“I love you,” you squeeze out, before you throw the door open and spill down the stairs, the beast bellowing behind you, “GET THE FUCK OUT, GET THE FUCK OUT.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Changbin puts his hands out, grabs your shoulders. 

Felix doesn’t even have to look at you; he curses, and climbs the stairs three at a time, calling for backup. The demolition has already begun.

You won’t cry. You refuse, you refuse, you refuse.

There’s no love without violence, sweetheart, and did you know?

ACT THREE: intermission.

In a fight, he’s devastating.

You’d told him time and time again, none of it meant anything, not a thing, just some mindless flirting to get better tips, it was part of your job, it was silly, little, nothing, nothing at all. You’d warned him against coming inside the Muse. It’d only cause trouble.

He would only cause trouble. It’s why he had Minho permanently positioned in there, it’s how the club was under Strays payroll, it was his excuse for visiting that night.

Making sure the product was being distributed properly. Keeping an eye out. Bullshit. You were so mad at him. He never showed up for these things, they went through other people. Chris was too important for it. And yet, here he was, disrupting your workflow, beating your regulars into a pulp.

You didn’t recognize anything from the man he was the last time you saw him. He had none of the tenderness, none of the ember in his gaze, no softness; only sharp, obliterating cruelty and the gun on his strap. His fists were bloody, his anger palpable.

Your tables had emptied out, unpaid. You were so angry.

“Try it, motherfucker,” your boyfriend smashed the poor guy’s head against the hardwood floor, repeatedly, in succession, until your voice was scratched raw from shouting for someone to stop him. “Try getting near her again, let me see you. Walk a straight fucking line to my girl, see if you get to live another goddamn day.”

“I didn’t know she was your girl, man! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” The man had been reduced to tears, his face so beat up you could barely make out his features under all the blood.

Minho stood in one corner, observing passively, while Seungmin tried to keep his friend back, ever the security guard. Chris was gone, though. There was no way to bring him back. There’d be a death tonight, and all of you would have to pretend it never happened. You think about that. About the first time you lied for him. For them.

“Bet you wanted to fuck her, hm?” He pulls his head up, only to bring him to his knee, kicking his nose broken, and throwing him back on the floor, chairs wobbling and falling over in the storm of him. “That’s what you’ve been coming for, isn’t it, you sick fuck?”

The whimpering is what did it for you. “I didn’t know. Please! Please!” You couldn’t just stand aside; you couldn’t let this go on.

The stage was empty, the band long finished with their set, now sitting at the counter over at the bar, glancing curiously your way. It was infuriating how none of them wanted to get involved. It was too late for this. Too fucking late, and you were tired.

So, you walked over to where Chris was stomping on the man’s ribs, making sure you were in his line of vision. When you got as close as you could, you called out his name. Nothing. You tried again.

“Chris. Chris.”

“I’ll fucking kill him, baby, he’ll never look at you twice, he won’t be able to, I swear it to you.” In what dark, dark place have you crawled into, my love? How do I get there?

You try to keep your voice steady, reasonable. From the corner of your eye, you see Seungmin shaking his head at you, motioning you to step back, away, out from the line of fire. 

“I don’t want that, Chris. I want you to let him go.”

“What?”

“And then I want you to go home.”

In retrospect, you should’ve heeded the bouncer’s advice. This version of Chris does not belong to you, it has nothing to do with feeling or logical thought. It festered in some terror-stricken hole he’d found as a child, and grew into a large open wound, the heart tree of all inhumanity in him. You’d have to carve it out if you’re to ever save him. But to carve it . . . No. You couldn’t. Not you.

Two terrible things happened that night, things that you’d quicker forget than let yourself remember fully.

His calloused hand attacked your neck, wrapping around it with such brutal force, it knocked the air out of you. Immediately, four men jumped to your rescue, circling you like hounds, yelling at Chris, trying to snatch him away from you.

“Stand the fuck down,” he snarled at them, never taking his black eyes off you. “You think I’d actually fucking hurt her? She can take this, can’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod, willing yourself to breathe through your panic, to combine this touch with the one he uses when he makes you feel good, the pain only pleasurable, only flitting, almost enjoyable. He watches you do this, and something flashes in his expression, a recognition, a moment of clarity. It’s gone as soon as it arrives.

“Don’t ever tell me what the fuck to do, you understand? I’m doing this for you, so you can be safe,” he’s never raised his voice at you, and he’s not doing it now, either. You’d take the screaming over this eerie calmness, this polite rage.

This is the monster under your bed, the demon in your closet. You can’t do anything about this, you don’t even know what’s hiding there.

“I didn’t ask for that, Chris,” you manage to say, placing a hand over the one on your throat. No one speaks, no one moves.

“You’ve no fucking idea what’s good for you, do you?”

“Clearly,” you reply, calmly, bitterly.

You see him swallow, and fight with the shadows clouding his judgment. You see the split decision—and the way he shoves you away, the way he refuses to look at you any longer. 

“Have it your way,” he snaps. He’s still so beautiful to you, even like this, the way a severe thunderstorm is, the way gray clouds can cover an entire sunny day in minutes. Not despite, but in spite.  “But this fucker dies today.”

In a split second, your life—an infinite whirlwind, a dizzying dance with no end in sight—it changes, it shifts, because—Chris takes his gun out, a single click, and shoots the man on the floor beside you. All it takes. A blink of an eye. No one seems to get what happened, probably accustomed to the death looming over, but you—you’re covered in blood now, blood that’s not yours, and you’ve never seen someone die before. You don’t even think it registers in your mind, really. You just stare, and stare, and hope that he’ll get up and go to a hospital, because he looks terrible.

“Don’t feel too bad, princess,” Felix whispers somewhere from behind you. “He was a registered sex offender. Boss found out today. Chris had to do it.”

“Chris is not a hit man,” you say mechanically, paralyzed, something else looking through your eyes, inhabiting your body. 

Where are you? Where’d you go?

“No, he’s not,” he agrees. You faintly feel a hand on your shoulder. You don’t react. “But he’s the one that’ll always get the job done. No matter what.”

This is the second thing. Learning that your boyfriend might be more of a collection of ghosts than an actual person. That the blood sprayed on your legs could be anyone’s, could be yours. The thing is, you weren’t truly scared before, but you are now.

And the terrifying truth—you still love him. You love him, you love him, it beats as sure as your heart, it fills you with guilt and despair, because . . . you don’t even really care. You should, surely. This is a horrible situation. But Chris is standing a mere few feet away from you, and he wants nothing to do with you, not when he’s like this, and somehow that’s more severe, that’s—that’s the real tragedy.

“Take care of it,” he cracks his neck, addressing no one in particular. Any of these men would do anything for him, for the club. Honor and loyalty, above all. “Bring me the books. There’s still business.”

Minho and Seungmin get to work, while a third person goes in the back. You don’t know who, you don’t see them, your gaze hasn’t moved from Chris. You whisper his name again, like back in the alley, over and over, and hope for him to turn around, to look and see, to dance with you, to shake you and make you spill. But he doesn’t. You don’t think he ever will again.

You’re one of them now. He didn’t keep you away, he failed, and so now you know.

“And for fuck’s sake, someone take her the hell away from here.”

You kickstart. “No, I won’t go.” You’re here, you’re here, where would I go if you’re here?

He won’t even spare you a second, a moment. He’s walking towards the bar, he’s lighting a cigarette, his hands are still raw and bleeding. The club is closed for the night, you’re no longer needed. Just another witness, just another person in the room. He can make you feel so small, so incredibly small, like you never mattered at all.

Felix steps up and offers to drive you.

“To the house,” Chris instructs firmly, skimming through pages of numbers. “Stay with her until I come back.”

There’s tears stinging your eyes. You fight not to let anyone see them. There’s so much movement around you, it’s making your head spin. Red, fuschia, orange, yellow, blue—the lights never stop turning, they bleed over everything, a dream, a technicolor dream. You lift your hand to your cheek to confirm you’re still real, that you’re still breathing.

You’re sick to your stomach. Not enough. Not enough.

“Why are you sending me away?” You try again, foolishly hoping he’s going to pay you any mind, give you any explanation.

“Come on, (Y/N),” Felix mumbles close to your ear. “You don’t wanna be here for the clean up, trust me.”

Why are you sending me away, why are you sending me away . . . You don’t remember the ride to the club house. You don’t remember much of anything after the click of that gun. It echoes. The man’s eyes roll to the back of his head, a loop of red, fuschia, orange, yellow, blue, redfuschiaorangeyellowblueredfuschiaorangeyellowblue

Someone screams.

ACT FOUR: after.

“I’ve never had a moment’s peace.”

Shirtless, with bandages running down his chest and over his shoulder, he looks like a tortured man returned from war. Burned. Turned inside out.

He was born with a gun in his hand, a ticking time bomb in his head. It’s been counting down since, the brain has festered into a landmine, a battlefield. No. Peace is a foreign word. Reserved only for you.

You listen, you let yourself become the body he loves. You can’t find it in you to be angry at him, not anymore.

“How can I hold a thing like you in my hands and not break it? When you asked me for the truth . . . I couldn’t think of anything, (Y/N), not a single fucking thing,” he wraps a towel around your head, sure, capable hands pulling you up and helping you out of the bathtub. “What I feel for you is poisonous, it’s disturbing. You don’t want that. You shouldn’t want that. It’s not what you deserve.”

“You’re saying all this like you’re saying goodbye,” you whisper, letting him dry your skin, noticing the way he won’t allow himself to linger too long.

You see his mouth curve, his brow furrow. A strange image. It’s almost as if . . .

“I’ve only ever been a monster. A pathetic fucking excuse of a man, and I cannot keep you caged, I can’t keep being selfish with you,” when he’s once again met with your silence, he circles around you, hides behind your back. “You’re incredible, you know that? Other girls would’ve been running for the hills, but not you,” when he lets your hair fall, there’s a horrifying sound, like the earth ripping apart, the heavens falling—

Chris is crying.

Chris is crying and something is very, very wrong. Nothing feels right. He won’t let you turn around. His hands hold you still, his face is buried between your shoulder blades, and he.won’t.let.you.turn.around.

Your eyes sting with the effort it takes not to break down alongside him.

“You just—won’t—fucking—leave. You won’t give up,” he sobs, and then he’s hugging you, he’s hugging you so tight your ribs burn, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because you never in a thousand years ever pictured this man crying, much less in front of you.

“I’m never giving up,” you reassure him, trying to soothe the boy trying to come out, to escape. “Because I love you. Whatever that means for you, Chris. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

He feel him shake his head, his hand wraps around your throat, bodies flush against each other. “I want you. I want you without . . .”

He lets go.

You turn to him, tilting your head, looking for his eyes. He exhales shakily, and moves away, grabbing his lighter from his back pocket, the cigarette from behind his ear. He rubs his face raw, then lights it, tip cherry red and burning fast, and he uses a hand to sit on the tiled floor, one arm resting on his knee. You get in front of him, towel forgotten, numb, completely numb.

“The club?” You say, quietly, so as not to anger the spirits, the demons. For no one else to hear but him. “You want to leave the club?”

He chuckles bitterly, and scratches his brow with a thumb, avoiding your gaze completely. Smoke swirls around you like snakes hunting for prey, an ominous presence. “I can’t even fucking say it. It’s been my whole life, my whole life. This fucking place—I know nothing else.”

“We‘ll figure it out. If you want out, we’ll find a way. Chris, these people look up to you, they trust you—”

“No, the fuck they don’t. That trust goes out the fucking window as soon as I walk. If I leave I’m a fucking traitor. If I leave I’ve betrayed all of them.”

You reach for his empty hand. He pulls away. You can’t ignore the Deja vu of this action. “And what about you?” You press, still. “What about what you’ve given for them, for their laws and rules? Your soul, Chris—”

He laughs, then, a proper laugh. When he does, finally, meet your eye, you see it all. The tortured, the choked, the repressed. It will never be easy. Ever. He might not ever make the decision, he might not ever leave. But dreaming about it . . . He has the right. No matter how unattainable, how unrealistic it seems to him. Why has no one ever shown him how?

“That battered, old thing,” he muses at his cigarette. “Lost it a long time ago, baby. Nothing there.”

“I don’t believe that.”

His smile breaks your heart. It looks so defeated, so devoid of any real happiness. “This is why I can’t let you go,” his fingers reach out and touch your bottom lip, the intention pure, nothing more than a reminder you’re still there, still his, but his gaze speaks of something darker, something you’ll never be able to quit.

“I got charges against me,” he says. “If I take the fall, the club remains. If I don’t, it all goes to hell.”

No. No. “Let it,” you choke out. “Let it! Chris, we can leave. We can go. Let’s just go. Please, I don’t—I can’t, I don’t want to lose—”

The biker puts his hands on your shoulders, shushes you, cradles you like a baby. You comply, a million different things bubbling inside you, ways to get him out, words you never said, everything you didn’t get to do yet. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.

“Listen to me,” he continues, cigarette hanging limply from his mouth. “It’s already done. I’ll be gone for a long time, alright, and I need to make sure you’re fucking taken care of. Be a good girl for me, yeah? Listen to me, (Y/N).”

You couldn’t. You were crying too hard, you missed him already. What you two had was nothing but burrowed time, you knew this, and you still mistook it for forever. This was why he didn’t want to get too close. This is why, every time you tried to hold onto him, he slipped away like quicksand. It was all coming down to this.

“Sweetheart, come on, stop crying. You know who I am, yeah? Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself. Listen to me—I’ve hidden money away. I want you to have it, okay? Use it to get yourself a place, somewhere safe. And don’t fucking go back to that club, I don’t wanna hear you went back, you hear me? Do something for yourself, go to school, I know how fucking smart you are, you’ll fucking blow them away. Hm?” He lifts your chin with his thumb, kisses your forehead, staying there, lingering for one, two, three seconds, before he pulls back and looks into your eyes, willing you to agree, to accept the money, to go on living without him. “I love you, alright? You got all of me, whatever’s still there, it’s all yours. Don’t wait for me. Live.”

“I don’t want to.”

He deflates, sighing heavily. “Don’t make this harder than it is, (Y/N). Do what I say.”

You shake your head, sniffling, wiping at your cheeks. “Not without you. I’m not doing any of that without you. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you.”

His expression is pleading, his nails digging into your skin like he wants to crawl inside and change your mind. “It’ll be years, baby. Too many. You’ve no fucking idea the shit I’ve done. They got it all, some fucking snitch went and gave it all away. I’m turning myself in tomorrow, I’m not—I’m not fucking asking you to wait. You’re not. Find some lucky boy that’s got nothing to do with this life, and be normal. I never meant to bring you into all of this. You didn’t—didn’t fucking deserve it.”

“Just like that?” you ask, defeated. You could never picture yourself being with anyone else, no one at all.

After Chris, nothing. Alone. Lonely, forever.

He chuckles, crushing you to him, his arms strong, and steady, and home, home, home. “Just like that. I’ll wring his fucking neck out if he’s not good to you, though. I’ll always keep an eye out, always make sure you’re safe.”

“Can I hear it again?” Such a quiet request, barely anything.

He knew exactly what you meant. Your heart broke, fresh tears making their descent on your face. He wiped all of them away. He held you as if, if it was up to him, he’d never, ever let go.

“I love you. I love you so fucking much, sweetheart. You’ll be alright. I got you. I got you.”

You reach to where you know he keeps his gun. His hand flies out to stop you, gaze flaming with fear, with anger. Ash burns your arm, but you don’t even feel it. You’ve seen him use it; undo the safety, press down on the trigger. It was so easy for him. It’ll be easy for you too.

“Shoot me, then,” you bellow. “If you’re not gonna let me do it myself, shoot me! I don’t fucking want this, I’m not losing you, I’m not getting with someone else! What about me? You got this great plan—did you ever stop to think about what I’d want? If I’d be able to move on like how you’re expecting me to? I can’t just switch off my feelings for you, Chris, it doesn’t work like that, okay? I’ve gone through too much, I’ve seen too fucking much to just—to just—”

He wrestles you down, pinning your body on the floor, and getting on top of you, his smooth, cold gun resting on top of your heart. His mouth had curled into a tortured snarl, a bitter smile, his eyes shiny, crazy. You were shaking, he was shaking. You started crying, he started crying. With his thigh against your cunt, you felt his erection, hard and twitching.

“You think I didn’t think of this first?” He said roughly. “Christ, (Y/N), I’m trying to do the right thing here. You think I’ll be able to fucking kill you? I fucking adore you. I’d rather shoot myself in the head first, get it over with. Don’t ever fucking ask that of me again. I’ll be a dead man the second I do such a thing. I’ll be a dead fucking man if I’m not able to have you. Don’t ever fucking do that again.”

“Coward,” you spit in his face, and fight against his death grip. “Sentence us both then. I’ll be dead either way.”

He smashes your lips together. It hurts, it hurts, you wanna say, but you don’t think it’ll ever stop. There’s nothing in his way, everything in yours. In the time it takes to unzip his pants, grab his cock and guide it inside you, you’ve mourned him a thousand times over. To never have this again—him, again. . . You’ll die from missing him. You’ll cry yourself dry. There’s absolutely no way to escape this fate. You’re not ready, you’ll never be. How ridiculous it all seems in the end, faced with losing him.

He makes love to you slow, gentle, like he’s never done before. It’s not so much to get you off, than it is to make you understand. He could kill you both, but he’ll never be able to see you again. His place will be hell, the lowest level, the one he’ll have to keep walking for all eternity, while you’re up with the angels. If he doesn’t, if he hides the gun and never thinks of it again, at least he knows you’re somewhere out there, where there might be a one in a million chance he gets to be with you once more. If you’ll take him. Old and grey. He’ll never see you again as you are underneath him right now.

You stay like that on the floor for a while, with his seed spilling from between your legs, your scent all over him. You kiss him and for the first time, he kisses back. No teeth, no fists.

When he moves you over to the bed, he sleeps for the first time since he was born.

He sleeps and he dreams of you, of little hands reaching out, of being away from all this, far, far away. What he would give.

Everything. Everything.

[accala]

I love how simplistic the clothing is in Advent Children compared to those in Rebirth. I know it's not what they intended (Rebirth is a fairly new game and AC Movie was back in the 2000's). But I like to think that characters had to improvise with their clothes because Shinra, who was the major supplier for everything, was gone after Meteorfall. Plus with Midgar down and in the middle of a wasteland, they had to scramble for resources, so any fabric had to be salvaged.

Here's some side-to-side references of Remake/Rebirth (RR) Clothing vs. Advent Children (AC) Clothing:

[Rufus Shinra]

The buttons. The details. The extra fabric. The belts. And then look how more simple AC is. Sure he has a coat on top of three shirts, but his RR suit looks so extra and customized to fit him whilst his AC suit looks like something he scrounged up in his remaining closet. He lost all of his extra belts. His undershirts look like they’re made out of cheap cotton too. His coat in particular looks short on the sleeves and too loose on his form.

[Turks: Rude, Reno, Tseng, & Elena]

(Top right photo from Advent Children)

Classic expensive suits for RR. Simple suits for AC. Look at those clean looks and small suit details for RR (ex. Rude has a patterned tie and Elena’s collar has a small button/pin on her collar). The difference is apparent with Reno, who has a fancy undershirt in Remake vs his simple cotton undershirt in AC. And if you zoom in on the AC photo, the coats have zippers!!! The AC coats also look loose compared to their form fitting coats in RR.

[Cloud Strife]

AC!Cloud has more fabric than in RR. But AC lacks the details that RR has. For example, RR has leather gloves with metal encased on the wrist and fingers. His shoulder pad looks forged with giant metal screws as well. But AC mostly has leather and little to no metal except for its strap buckles and wolf insignia (And it's likely that Cloud made those wolf symbols himself). Although, he does have major upgrades (read: his sword and motorcycle; both things he probably made himself/with help from scrap materials).

(Extra note: This is a common theme on other characters where they replace their utility pockets and metal armor with leather/denim. It makes sense for their equipment to be replaced due to wear and tear. Lack of metal armor could be due to lack of weapon/armor production. Plus Leather pauldrons/gauntlets are faster to make.)

[Tifa Lockhart]

Her outfit in AC looks more casual than in RR (ex. She got rid of her compression armbands; She switched out her red combat boots for look-alike converse sneaker boots; and put her utility pockets in front of her skirt/shorts combo). Notice how she doesn’t have gloves nor Materia slots in the movie (Although it’s weird that she DOES have gloves in other games/promos).

[Barret Wallace]

In AC, he has a sleeveless puffer jacket and a fishnet shirt. He also lost his leather utility pockets (for ammo possibly) from RR. And it’s probably because he doesn’t need it, now that he has a new advanced weapon (it can transform from a metal arm into a high tech machine gun and vice versa). As an oil baron, he probably has more access to materials and utilities compared to other characters, that’s why Barret’s clothes don’t look so simple/improvised.

[Marlene Wallace]

Obviously Marlene would have a different look when she got older. But look at her cute frilly pink dress vs. her white sleeveless collared shirt and floral patterned skirt (notice how her outfit looks like a mix of Cloud and Aerith’s outfits). The stitching for her AC outfit is way more simple. Also I’d like to think Barret gave her that floral patterned fabric for her skirt since it would have been difficult to get ahold of.

[Yuffie Kisaragi]

Zippers galore. Her outfit is changed to black with a floral patterned shirt with a denim ensemble (I think her outfit is a little extra because she's a WRO member). Her shuriken’s the same but her metal and leather armor are gone and replaced with a wristband and a black cloth that covers her forearm. She still has her utility pockets though but it’s in denim (I wonder, did she break her old armor?).

(Edit: She also has these green converse knee high boots?? Again, as a WRO member, she probs got them outside of Midgar)

[Vincent Valentine]

Nothing changed that much. He kept his coat. His AC leather straps and gauntlet are less detailed than the Rebirth one. The metal buckles look different in shape too. I think he changed those in AC. Makes sense if there were wear and tear during the years (I wonder how he does his laundry though lmao).

[Cid Highwind]

Cid changed to a cotton blue shirt. He doesn’t have his pilot scarf anymore nor his flight jacket. Instead, he has a brown bomber jacket tied around his waist with a dog tag around his neck. As much as I think his clothes are due to scarce resources, I also don’t think he cares that much regarding fashion.

[Reeve Tuesti]

The shoulder pads. The silver and yellow accents. The foot length blue coat. It's a major improvement on Reeve's outfit compared to his old businessman suit. As the WRO leader, he gets access to making his outfit a little fancy (more chances to trade with other towns/cities outside of Midgar). Although I do think someone made that coat for him, and he wanted to reject it because he considered it too much. But accepted either way 'cause it would be a waste.

[icky-rickyy]

Joy Ride

Motorcyclist!Logan x Motorcyclist!reader

I am currently obsessing over street bike tik tok. Taking a short break from my multi part I am writing to supply this beauty.

Rated: E for everyone.

Should I do a part2

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Marissa, your roommate spoke from her bed. She was laid in snuggly under the covers, chin tucked to her chest and cell phone resting on her abdomen as she dedicated the first half of the day to ‘doom scrolling’ as she called it.

“Yeah why not? I never meet anyone, and I never get to show off. I haven’t gone on a joy ride in months.”

You were tugging the zipper of your armored pants up, making sure they were fastened tightly to your body.

“You’re going to go cruising into a bike meet? A male predominant space and expect to get treated like one of the guys? Your tits are out!” She inched up in her bed, resting her back against the headboard.

“The last time I went to a bike meet was with Ethan. And I went as a backpack. I didn’t even have my own bike to show off, I was just eye candy while riding bitch and holding on to him.”

“And I look better on a bike when my tits are out anyways!” You looked down the front of your white cropped top, tugging the bottom hem down.

“Are you going by yourself?”

“Well….. no. I was going to ask Ethan to meet with me. Buutttt, if you wanna play backpack then I won’t invite him.” You were pulling on a thin zip up jacket, zipping it only a quarter of the way.

“I am so sorry but this is my only Saturday off all month, I am not getting oogled at and then being scared for my life while you drive recklessly.” She shrugged her shoulders.

“Kay fine. Don’t be mad when I come home with some biker hottie and we’re knockin boots all night.”

You grabbed your helmet from the end of her bed, tucking it under your arm with a firm slap to the top of it.

“Don’t die, and don’t get any STD’s!” She cheered after you as you headed through your apartment to the front door.

You dialed quickly on your phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you pulled your keys from your pocket. It only took two rings before it answered.

“Uh hello?”

Ethan was on the other side, asking pensively.

“Are you going to the bike meet at the abandoned Jiffy on 10th?” You hung your helmet on the handle bar of your bike, swinging your leg over to mount it.

“Yes. How do you even know about that?” You could hear him shuffling on the other line.

“You’ll see. I’ll be there in 20.”

You hung up the phone quickly, locking it on to your phone stand and reaching for your helmet. You pulled it on over your hair, tucking the loose strands up in the back before fastening it tightly around your chin.

The bike roared to life beneath you, and your heart settled happily in your chest. You were excited for the evening, ready to see what the rest of the day could hold.

You weren’t even sure where to park.

The abandoned parking lot was already half filled with bikes of all shapes and sizes. Riders stood talking to one another while others stayed perched on their motorcycles simply observing or scrolling on their phones. There were at least 30 people stood waiting, and the meet wasn’t meant to actually start for another 10 minuets.

You tried not to shy away from peering eyes as you rolled into the large group of people, looking for an open spot to put the kickstand up on your bike and put it in park.

There was an open spot next to an older model Harley, the owner stood leaning against his bike puffing a half smoked cigar as he looked to the others suspiciously.

It was a stark difference, your bike next to his.

His classic looking motorcycle next to your lilac purple crotch rocket. Dark black leather next to pink and white accents and flashy rims.

You pushed the kickstand down, staying mounted on your bike as you fiddled with the helmet strap. Your hair fell from its tucked in position, setting your helmet on the gas tank and pulling your gloves off to run your hands through your messy helmet hair.

You tried not to look at the man next to you, watching his eyes scan as his large chest huffed with each inhale of his cigar. He had a leather jacket folded on the seat next to him, clad in a white beater tank top and bootcut jeans help up by a large silver belt buckle. His arms were big and muscular, covered by a vast sea of body hair. A tickle of the dark hair peeked up past the neckline of his tank top and teased at the base of his throat.

He looked many years you senior, and hot as fuck.

“Hi, nice to meet you.” You stuck your hand out to him sheepishly, introducing yourself.

“Logan. Like your bike.” He nodded down, eyes narrow with a stern look on his face. His words were curt but friendly.

“Right back at ya.” You chuckled back, pausing your next sentence when your phone began to ring in your pocket.

“Sorry.”

You dismissed yourself, answering Ethan’s incoming call and pressing it to your ear.

“Hey. Yeah. I’m next to an all black Harley. It’ll be hard to miss me. Yep. See you here.” You pushed your phone back into your pocket after ending the call, adjusting your seating on your bike.

Logan was still looking around, watching people walk past and nodding to the few that gawked openly.

A group of girls still wearing their helmets were walking by, whispering and squealing quietly to themselves at the sight of your bike. They all came by to swoon with you, asking where you got it and identifying questions you weren’t unfamiliar with answering.

You could hear the signature roar of Ethan’s bike as he approached, the girls standing near all making a clearing as he pulled in behind you and parking his own bike. He dismounted, swiftly pulling off his helmet.

“Wow. I’m impressed. You might have just out done me.” He stood with his hands on his hips, watching as you pulled your leg over your bike approaching him with a hug.

It had been nearly six months since your breakup that you had last seen Ethan. You tried a few times after the initial ending of your relationship to rekindle, but it never seemed to work out.

“I didn’t even know you got a bike.” He held you proudly by your shoulders, stepping back and putting his hands to his side when the group of people around the two of you finally registered in his brain.

“Well I was tired of being a backpack, what can I say? This is your fault though. You started this addiction.” You laughed open heartedly to him, watching him nod with a smile.

“Well I have a few buddies here to catch up with, but I’ll cruise with you when we get going later.”

You nodded as a quiet response to him, smiling as you watched him walk away and into a group of guys that all hugged and high-fived him happily.

“Boyfriend?” Logan asked from next to you.

You had almost forgot he was there, looming quietly from his bike.

“No.” You laughed to him. “Ex. This is actually the first time we’ve seen each other in months.” You pulled your phone from your pocket again, sending Marissa a quick text that you had arrived safe and sound.

“His loss.” Logan muttered quietly, pulling a final drag of his cigar. You looked over with a flash of shock, watching him smirk as he flicked the tobacco to the ground and stomped it to ash.

All you did was nod with a shy smile, looking to your street shoes and kicking a loose pebble around.

The entire group of bikers waited for another 10 minutes before everyone loaded up. You pulled on your gloves and helmet again, tugging the strap tight and hopping back on to your bike. Ethan mounted his behind you, you both shared an excited glance before you flicked down the visor of your helmet. Logan pulled on his jacket, climbing onto his bike without any protection. He smirked over to you, you blushed behind the darkness of your helmet.

Your whole body was vibrating in excitement when the group of bikes roared to life. There were at least 50 of you. It was too hard to count when the front of the group sped from the parking lot and out into the street.

Ethan replaced Logan’s spot on the side of you, keeping steady pace as you all began to race down the pavement. Logan followed shortly behind.

Passer-bys in their cars all gawked at the lot of you, heads swinging on a swivel as the singular headlights went by in a flash.

The group was picking up speed, going through main traffic until you took enough turns and ended up on an open paved backroad.

Evening was dwindling down, and the traffic was decreasing by the minute. This left the wide open pavement to the entire fleet of motorcycles to cruise in and out of the two lane road.

People were synced up to each others helmets, talking joyfully through about their lives while others shared music with each other in a collective jam session. You typically would enjoy far too loud music while riding, but you left your ears open to hear the herd of rumbling bikes race down the streets and to pick up on any important or urgent comms messages.

Logan managed to squeeze in between you and Ethan, his classic bike groaned and rumbled deeply as he yanked on his throttle in show. You laughed aloud at his ego display, looking between him and the road as he smiled brightly.

Logan leaned over as much as he could from the distance between you, sticking his hand out in invitation. You veered your bike closer to his, placing your hand in his open palm. He clasped his hand around yours, pulling your gloved knuckles up to place a soft kiss upon them. He squeezed your hand before sending you a wink and letting go.

You put your hand over the mouth of your helmet, tilting your head to mock grace at his chivalry. He threw his head back in a laugh, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

When you both quit giggling you watched Logan’s eyes flash dark with mischief. He scanned the area quickly, locating and calculating the closest bikers before he yanked down on his throttle.

His bike was absolutely screeching, hollering in a deep grumble as he pulled down harder and shifted gears. He was flying through the group, weaving in and out of everyone as he accelerated through them all.

You were almost shocked, watching him navigate the group with ease. You watched a few people flash back to you with confusion. You decided, why the hell not, and yanked down on your throttle just as hard.

The wind was whistling against you as you leaned down into the tank of your bike, feeling yourself accelerate even faster with the aerodynamics. It was a flash of headlights and rainbow colored modifications as you passed each biker swiftly in urge to catch up with Logan who was now coasting freely at the front of the group.

Your comms system was catching nearby voices, hearing them whisper in confusion or holler in excitement.

Logan was looking back as often as he could when he heard your bike accelerating behind him, a wide smile on his face when you finally caught up. You flipped up the visor of your helmet.

“You tryna race?” You yelled over to him.

He shook his head from side to side. “Not tonight doll, just wanted to show off a little.”

“Maybe next time?” You inquired with a smile, watching him roll his eyes playfully.

“Yeah, maybe next time.”

It was nearly 10 pm when you all returned back to the abandoned parking lot. Many of the bikers wished a good night as they broke up from the group to head home, the others followed back and were now parked in the meeting spot. Most were walking around in the light of the street lamps engaging in conversation or perusing the parked bikes in admiration.

You’d mainly went back to bid a goodnight to Ethan and then head home, to thank him for showing and for inspiring you to chase this particular fulfillment in your life.

It’s was hard to ever consider a time when you didn’t have a bike. From the moment you met Ethan and you began riding tandem with him, you were obsessed. The adrenaline, the quick feeling of flying through the open roads, the deep contentment that settled your soul and helped you sleep at night.

“Thanks again.” You confirmed to him, seeing his bright smile underneath his helmet. He held your shoulders kindly and his bright blue eyes shimmered down in pride.

“I’m proud of you. I hope you know that.”

You could have teared up at his endearment. Sometimes you wondered what it would have been like if this managed to work out with him.

“Thank you. Let’s plan another time to meet up, maybe without the other seven million people.”

Ethan nodded in confirmation with a laugh, pulling you in for one last tight hug before separating to head to his bike parked nearby.

He waved to the group and his friends as he drove away on his bike, peering out into the road before he filtered into the straying traffic and was gone in a flash.

Logan had still loomed by, leaning against his bike and finishing another cigar. You were ready to leave and head home, but felt compelled to talk to him.

“Thanks for the fun tonight. This was my first ever meet solo and you, uh, you just made it a lot better.” You stuck out your hand as a formality.

Logan reached out and shook it, his large hand wrapping around your gloved one like earlier.

“Thank you for playing along. Recklessness can get boring.”

You chuckled in response, nervously tucking your hand into your pocket and looking to the ground.

“Hey?” Logan asked, tentatively reaching for the bottom of your helmet. He tugged you closer, tilting your head up to look up at him.

“Let’s do this again, just you and I? Next week on Tuesday work?” He puffed a cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

You nodded wordlessly.

“Meet here? 10 am?”

You nodded again.

“Perfect. Good night, and get home safe doll.” He released his grip on your helmet, watching you stay frozen in shock. He stomped out his cigar like he did earlier, mounting his bike swiftly.

You watched in awe as he rumbled it to life. He sent a flirty wink before pulling up his own kickstand. Logan flew out of the parking lot and into the street.

“Oh fuck me.” You groaned, flicking down the visor of your helmet and mounting your own bike to head home.

[callmelyc]

Lances ex was terrible

He was the kind of ex that was really full of themselves, cruel, didn't like Lance spending too much time with anyone else (not that his ex girlfriends were any better).

So when they finally broke up everyone rejoiced. The demon had been slain!

Until...he came to get his shit out of Lances apartment because not only did he take his shitty wardrobe he also stole Lances precious baby blue!

His beautiful baby, his sweet meow meow, his darling princess.

But because Lance had no proof the asshat got off scott-free!

He'd cried for hours not knowing what to do and his stupid ex blocked him so Lance couldn't even attempt to beg for his cat daughter back. So he did what anyone would do, he complained online.

The comments flooded with people trying to come up with ideas until one stood out. Some guy with a photo of a motorcycle asking what this ex looks like.

Lance sniffled sending pictures in the replies and waited. He wasn't sure why anyone would want a picture but maybe the guy wanted it so he could keep an eye out? The reply didn't take long at all and it only baffled Lance further.

The guy, Keith K, responded in seconds "dw I can handle this."

Before Lance could even question anything Keiths status had switched to offline leaving Lance to read through other comments as possible solutions.

~•~

At 1am Lances phone lights up with a call. Now, normally Lance would ignore these, who responds to random calls especially at 1am?

But he looks down and it's the same name of the guy from earlier, Keith K. Lance will admit first a foremost he doesn't always think things through and come on now, he was curious to know how this guy got his number at all.

So lance picks up, groggy with sleep "hello??"

"I got ur cat back, do you wanna meet up for her or would you like to wait until later?"

That got lances attention. Now more awake he scrambles to get dressed "are you sure? Like ur sure it's my cat?"

"your name and number are on the collar"

"Where do you wanna meet?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that? I am the stranger."

"Yeah but ur a stranger that apparently saved my darling daughter!?"

Lance hears a small laugh on the other side of the line "I'll shoot you my location?"

"Sounds good to me."

The second the call ends Lance receives directions to a place 15min out and a picture of blue safe in a cat carrier. He's more than relieved to both see her and have proof this wasn't a dream, though he is still weary.

He shoots off a text to Hunk and Pidge with his location/tracking on in case something went wrong and Lance rushes out the door to go meet this stranger. They'll likely wonder what he's up to at this hour, maybe even spam call him in worry. However, Lance doesn't have the patience right now now when his baby is in some randos hands.

Pulling up to the 24hr McDonald's he doesn't even care that he's meeting a stranger anymore the second he sees his baby blue through the window. Lance rushes inside and the second she spots him she paws at the carrier door with a sweet little meow. He's cooing over her and letting her out to make sure she's safe when he finally looks up to see her knight in shining armor.

And wow....this guy is hot.

Dark hair, deep eyes, leather jacket and gloves.

Dude looks straight out of a Harley magazine despite the beat up pick-up in the parking lot Lance is positive belongs to him.

As blue snuggles into Lances hold he looks at Keith with the first genuine smile he's had in days "thank you, I-I don't even know what to say? I can't thank you enough how on earth did you manage this?"

Keith just gestures for lance to sit down across from him, so he does, and smiles "I have my ways."

Oh? Well Lance has to know now "go on share the deets. I can offer you whatever you want off the menu as payment."

The other man snorts "it's fine I'll share without pay...This time."

"Oh? How generous of you."

Keith leans forward on the table "your ex was already on dating apps. I pretended I'd take him on a good date and went home with him. The second he left to get pretty for me I took the cat and ran, he's a douche."

That...what not at all what Lance expected to hear. His jaw was on the floor. He laughed in surprised awe "you...you got my cat back by luring him into false security??"

Keith's brow lifts "what like it's hard? He's the one that fell for it and got uno reverse robbed. I don't know what you saw in him."

That only gets lance to laugh harder "yeah, I don't either."

They spend the rest of the early morning chatting and eventually exchanging phone numbers.

On the way out Keith stops him though "actually, I changed my mind I do want payment."

"Oh yeah? Like what"

He smiles "how about a date?"

Lance is left breathless in the light of the rising sun "you won't be robbing me now, will you?"

"and if I say I am?"

"what do you aim to steal from me mr.criminal?"

Keith leans in just slightly "your heart? If things go well."

Lance gives him a quick peck on the cheek "yeah, yeah I can do that."

No one believes Lance when he says he got a new boyfriend because the guy stole his cat back from his ex.

[potatowilde]

JAKE LOCKLEY/MOON KNIGHT COSPLAY RESOURCE:

🌙Ya know, I never thought to do this but I think it would be a wonderful tool for Cosplayers out there! I'm a Jake Lockley Cosplayer, and have done a wealth of research about his wardrobe from the series. I know as much about is as a fan could possibly know. I'll add to this thread fun trivia as I go I think… If you had any inkling of a desire to cosplay Jake here's some of my finds!! READ MORE UNDER THE CUT!

HAT - The most important piece. From my research it appears to be a Göttmann brand "Jackson Linen Driving Cap" Charcoal (https://www.goettmann.de/en/ ) You can cross reference with the metallic pin on the lefthand side of his cap.

The main site will offer vendors in various areas so check it out! Shop I used: https://scotlandhouseltd.com/collections/mens-summer-hats-caps/products/jackson-linen-flatcap-desert-color

GLOVES - The second big one. So these are not driving gloves, I learned, but interestingly enough shooting gloves. Note the armored knuckles, and the character's role in the show as a gunman. Now, I couldn't find the exact match but an awesome alternative is to purchase motorcycle riding gloves. I found a cheap pair on Amazon, because the next step after the gloves are obtained is to paint them. A talented artist on the MK Costuming team was the brilliant hand painter behind Taweret's ornamental pieces, Layla's armor, and these moon crescents. To paint the moons I simply masked the shapes with painter's tape and used silver acrylic from my local art supply store. It will take several coats.

Here's the glove alternative via Amazon "Harssiney Leather Motorcycle Gloves for Men,Touchscreen Riding Driving Biker Glove with Hard Knuckle Protection,Motorcycle Accessories for Man" :

JACKET - The third most important piece because it is also the most difficult to achieve. This was a custom made raw denim jacket by the MK team, with a 3D printed collar featuring a very unique design. Should you have the funds to pattern this and make to screen accuracy I'd love to see what you came up with! I took the budget friendly route, as it was more suitable for my purposes! For folks who end up making the jacket - Note that the lining is perhaps the same base material as the collar. It's a lighter color on the inside.

In interviews, MK costume designer Meghan Kasperlik has shared that the material is a raw denim, so it's helpful to start there as a base. For my purposes I found a raw denim jacket that was close ish to achieve the shape I wanted via Banana Republic Denim Jacket Dark Rinse. I opted out of the collar just due to budget and time restraints but I hope you can find creative solutions for it!

FINAL DETAILS AKA THE SHOES, THE TIE, THE SOCKS, THE PANTS, AND SHIRT - These will all be personal preference. I think they're readily available just about anywhere. I made a small Amazon stop for the Tie, Socks, and Shirt. AMAZON - Tie AMAZON - White Dress Shirt AMAZON - Rebok Classic Grey Socks JCPENNY - Dockers Gorden Mens Cap-Toe Oxford Shoes Black Already owned - Black slacks FINAL RESULT! Happy Cosplaying!!

[orcboxer]

lets say you had a ring that magically filled your wardrobe with the clothes and accessories you wish you could wear. these clothes magically clean themselves, are resistant to damage, fit you perfectly, and the only people who can percieve your outfit as anything but normal are the people who think it looks cool/cute/etc and will be cool about it. ppl who would be weird, impolite, or offended by it magically percieve it as just a normal outfit unless you Want them to see it. also they magically dont impede your movement or get in the way unless you want them to. what outfits would you have?

This is so specific. But I mean it's basically the same answer as what I would wear if I had more money, which is to say a rotating list of styles depending on how I'm feelin

ORC TUSKS EVERY DAY

primarily butch style. no sleeves. big ol boots. maybe a leather jacket. maybe flannel. or my favorite, sleeveless hoodie with boxing logo on it.

unnecessary full-face motorcycle helmet. especially when I'm feelin more he/it. you have no idea how often I wish I had a cool motorcycle helmet to wear casually. I saw these guys in a video who did that, they were just in t-shirts and jeans and had the helmets on and I was like. okay that's hot. that's fuckin fashion.

sometimes full plate armor with a full-face great helm. frankly any masculine fantasy armor would be great. those fashionable but functionally useless pieces included.

I would wear these regardless of what other folks think at this point. My gigantic friend Punchy legally named himself Punchy and wears a cape and he's literally the coolest guy I've ever met so I've been learning from that and I'm more confident now in my own self expression than I've ever been. 💪

[crownedtargaryen]

As per your request: Could you write something about Jacaerys breaking up with a female reader and Aemond reacts and consoles her with ulterior motives? Thank youuuu 😘

Like seriously you are my knight in shining armor (⁠つ⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)⁠つ

take care of you. - brother modern!aemond

pairing: brother modern!aemond x innocent sister!reader (a/n): please note i do not romanticize or desire this upon anyone, this is purely fiction! CW: p in v sex, unprotected sex, incest, vouyerism? idk if that’s what is called.. aegon is watching tho, mild choking, taking advantage of reader, cheating, porn with semi plot, mild manipulation all notes are appreciated. words: 1.7k tag list: @asa-do-your-thing @twizzy123 @hopelesswritergall @clairacassidy @ad-astra-again

It hurt. I remember it hurting, the worst pain I’d ever felt. Seeing him across the party with her, his hands around her waist as he smiled the widest he’d ever smiled. I felt a sickly pang in my stomach as I stared at Jacaerys, his lips hovering over his as the music blared in my ears. My heart drops to my stomach, tears falling down my cheeks as I clench the drink in my hand, holding back the urge to wail in pure anguish. I couldn’t control my body, storming forward and staring at Jace. He notices me, jumping slightly and moving swiftly away from the blonde who looks me up and down, her hazel eyes burning into mine. I glare at her, jaw clenching.

Lannister.

“Sweetheart, let me explain!” Jace starts; I look at him in disgust, inhaling, my breathing shaky as I speak up before he can elaborate on this heinous act.

“I don’t want to fucking hear it. We’re DONE. YOU’RE done,” I say sternly, looking at the girl and leaning into her face. “Have fun with this bitch.” I then pour my drink on her head, wetting my lips and grinning at her. “Oops.”

She goes to swing, but someone grabs her; I look up to see Aemond Targaryen with a stern gaze, throwing her to the ground and walking over to me. Quickly, he grabs my wrist and pulls me off.

“We’re going home. Now,” Aemond says, making me look at him in shock. Aemond is my brother, but he’s never seemed protective of me. Why was he suddenly stepping up? It confused me, but I couldn’t bring myself to protest when I looked back and saw Jacaerys helping the girl up and glancing subtle glares at Aemond. My heart shatters, realizing he has no genuine care for me. He helped HER. Not me.

I sit on Aemond’s motorcycle, looking at him with glossy eyes as he puts a helmet on my head and secures it, leaning in and looking into my eyes.

“You’re okay; we’re in this together,” he whispers. His voice is reassuring, but his eyes say otherwise. I’ve known him forever; he’d never take advantage of me in such a state. However, I’m emotionally vulnerable, and I trust him. Aemond leans in, gently kisses my cheek, pats my helmet, and sits down. I snake my arms around his torso, squeezing gently and holding in soft sobs as we drive. I bury my face in his leather jacket, tears staining his back as I tremble and cry.

Time passes swiftly when I cry, and I feel us slowing to a stop. Aemond shifts off his bike, and I look at where we are. The LED lights shimmer, straining my teary eyes as I rub them and grumble in frustration. I slowly get off, Aemond taking my hand and smiling at me. My eyes shimmer as I stare into those beautiful violet eyes, admiring the discoloration of one due to the scar resting upon his face. He notices my staring, looking away and to the location we’ve stopped at.

“Let’s get you some snacks. Is that alright?” He asks, avoiding looking at me. I walk forward, holding his hand tight and looking at him with a slight nod.

“Yeah… ’s fine,” I croak, sniffling as I follow him inside. We scan the isles for comfort foods and drinks, Aemond buying us some alcoholic beverages to forget these pains and have a separate party, away from all those lowlife losers- as he said.

I offer to pay for such things, but he takes out his card faster than I can react and purchases the abundance of treats, making me feel a bit embarrassed and in debt to him. “I can pay you back,” I start, but he ignores me. I repeat myself, and he merely walks back to his motorcycle, urging me to get on as we ride back to our house.

Aegon is sitting on the couch, indulging in his snacks and drinks, getting over a hangover from the previous night. He’s watching some sappy romance, mildly intoxicated and on the verge of tears from the story. When we enter, he looks at us and grins. His smile falls when he sees my swollen eyes, frowning and standing up.

“What happened?! What did you do?!” Aegon snaps, Aemond glaring at him. Aegon rushes over, pulling me from him, which Aemond doesn’t take kindly. “Oh baby, what did he do…” he whispers, cupping my cheeks. Aemond, not enjoying what’s his being taken, snatching me away.

“I didn’t do anything. It was her stupid boyfriend; that cunt did something,” Aemond snaps back, Aegon’s concern contorting into anger. He goes to ask, but I notice Aemond shakes his head and then walks me upstairs, Aegon looking at me helplessly as we leave.

I sit on Aemond’s bed, looking at him with a heavy heart. He closes the door, and I notice he has a look in his eyes that I can’t mainly place, not thinking much of it. Aemond sits next to me, handing me the bag full of goodies as she pours us two cups of alcohol, handing me one as she looks at me with a small smile. I look at him and smile weakly, and he moves his hand to my chin, making me look at him thoroughly.

“You look prettier when you smile. Talk to me; how are you feeling, issa jorrāelagon?” He whispers, making a shiver run down my spine. 

My love.

My sadness grows as he brings it up, tears welling in my eyes. Swiftly, he sets down his cup and hugs me close, letting me break into tears in his chest. I clench the back of his leather jacket, pushing my body weight onto him. He rocks with me gently, petting my hair. I feel his hand trail down my back and up the back of my shirt, his warm hands rubbing against my skin and soothing me slowly.

“I feel so unloved… What- What did I do wrong?” I sob, looking up at him with a heartbroken gaze. He looks at me sympathetically, moving away hair that sticks to my cheeks from my tears. Then, he nuzzles his nose with mine, free hand stroking over my thigh.

“Sweetling, you will never be unloved by Aegon or me. You are too well tangled in my soul to be unloved by me,” he whispers, making my heart dance. “He’s an idiot, and he didn’t deserve you… I will treat you right. He will never touch you.” I feel my body melt at such words as his hand trail between my thighs. I fail to notice at first but then gasp softly as his fingertips graze my clothed cunt. A quiet whimper falls from my lips, biting my lip when he applies more pressure.

“Let me take care of you, sister. I’ll show you a true man’s love,” he whispers. I can’t deny him, body aching beneath his desiring touch. Slowly, my thighs open, and I whine, feeling my underwear dampen when he reaches between my pants and underwear, feeling how soaked I already am. “Oh gods, look at you.” his voice has become breathy as he slips off my pants, eyeing me up and down with a cheeky smirk. “Go on, lay down. Let lēkia take care of this pretty pussy.”

Aemond moves down between my legs as I lay back, licking over the sopping cloth and making me whine with my hips, making him chuckle lowly. Slowly, he peels my underwear to the side to reveal my new mound, slick and dripping down my hole. He moves his fingers along my folds, soaking them with the substance, then moves in, lapping up my messy hole and wrapping his mouth over the piece, looking up at me with dark and lustful eyes. I tilt my head back, his warm tongue licking at my sensitive clit as my thighs tremble, moving to his shoulders and moving in to surround his head. Soft pants and helpless sights escape my lips, his fingers moving to my entrance and pushing inside quickly.

“Fuck you’re tight,” he groans against my bud, making me shiver and moan out his name, which causes him to grin and go faster, shoving his fingers inside my velvety entrance with a newfound eagerness. His abuse of my clit drives me over the edge, making a mess on his fingers as he moves off my cunt with a filthy pop, gazing at me with a cheeky grin, slipping off his underwear and pants, throwing them to the side as he slides off his shirt as well as my own, admiring my figure. Aemond grinds his cock against my slick folds, pinning my hands above my head and chuckling slowly with heavy pants. “Good girl, you’re so beautiful.” he leans down, kissing my collarbone and chest, massaging my breast with one hand and pushing his tip in with the other. I clamp down as he eases himself in with a low groan, jaw clenched as he stares into my eyes.

“Aemond,” I moan, eyes rolling back as I wince at the stretch. “Fuck… I’m so full.” I struggle between whines, feeling him move in and out nice and slow. I see the door open slightly, biting my lip and whimpering loudly.

Aegon.

The thought of him getting off to this is filthy, and I wish to give him a show. So, I hook my legs around Aemond’s waist and push him deep into the spongey spot inside my cunt, making me arch my back and cry out in pleasure. Aemond grins wildly, pounding the spot full force as his hand trails to my throat, squeezing and pinning me down by my neck, biting his lip with low animalistic growls.

“Open,” he demands, making me involuntarily open my mouth. I watch as he spits into my mouth, his saliva coating my tongue as he sighs lovingly and moves in, kissing me passionately. His tongue trails to mine, spreading the spit across my tongue and pushing it down my throat. I swallow weakly, clenching his arm and bouncing with every thrust, choking out moans.

I whine loudly. “I’m close,” I whine out, Aemond nodding in acknowledgment. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

I feel my peak close in on me, but then I hear a familiar voice that drives Aemond to a quick stop.

“Not on my watch,” Aegon coos as he tosses a pair of my underwear to the side, the base covered in his cum. “Big brother’s gonna rail you until you forget about that fucker.”

[thewritersaddictions]

Requests: The Wanderers: Negan- Blend In

Pairing: Negan Smith x Shy!FemReader

Pov: Readers /Negans

Summary: When Negan saves the reader from a horrible fact he invites her to stay only to have his kingdom come crashing down around him.

Warnings: (Rape is elude to), Negan saving someone, Season 7-8 Negan, Season 7-8 spoliers of the walking dead, fluff, angst, non-con, walkers (Zombies) No Use of Y/n, farewell notes, prince charming vibes, knight charming armor vibes.

A/n- @ Firefly-graphics for dividers

WC- 1.7k

The Walking Dead Master List // Requests Master List // The Wanderers Master

I had been going just fine all by myself. Sure I had a mother and father at one point. At the start of this hell I had my mother, and father sadly I watched as they both were attacked and pinned down under the snarling weight of flesh hungry zombies. I ran, I ran so far and for so long that I don’t know how I made it. I just kept running, my breath burning my lungs as I desperately inhaled, and exhalled. 

I guess I should worry about the few zombies currently pushing me into the corner of the wooden forest that surrounds us. I shouldn’t have left the little shelter I had made for myself, I shouldn’t have gone out when hte moon was high in the sky, and the night skys made the deep wooden forest darker then ever before. This is where nightmares and monsters hid and waited for their prey. 

I had excepted the worst to have happened, I waited on batted breath for the gnawing feeling of the blunt teeth. Waiting for it to tear into my flesh.I think I was ready to die, I wasn’t okay with dying in the dark forest, becoming one of those things. I didn’t dare scream as the horde cornered me, but I did scream when that horde was slashed down. Blood and guts smearing trees, and bushes all around me. When I finally managed to catch not only my breath, but my heartbeat I was struck with a man standing in front of me. 

A handsome tall, dark man. Wielding a barbed-wire baseball bat dripping with blood. A cocky grin upon his face that gave me an odd set of shivers down my spine. Dark hair that shimmered in the moons light, tingles of gray spreading through it. Ripped jeans that fit his legs a little too tight, and that black leather jacket. He was the upptimeny of bad boy, the ones your parents warn out about, the ones that parents of little girls tells them to ignore and stay away from. The only accents on his very black outfits was that red bandana around his neck. For a quick moment my mind conjured up what he must have been before the world fell into hell. 

Maybe he was on a motorcycle, maybe he was apart of a gang. I sawllow at the thought, and then remember he just saved my fucking life, so maybe lets leave the opions and judgyness in the middle of the woods. “Well you were almost toasted doll.” His voice is thick, and rich like dark chocolate. He reached his leather gloved hand out for me to grab, I closed me gaping mouth and took his hand helping me up from the dirty, blood covered ground. 

“What has you out in the middle of the woods?” The man asks me, I think that maybe I shouldn’t tell him about the little shelter, really it’s a cabin that I had taken for myself. But that one thought to pushed to the edge of my thoughts when I look up at him. He’s got such a authority in his face, and even in his voice it booms when he’s just talking. “I’ve got a cabin not to far from here, I just wanted to go searching for some stuff.” I answer him, he hums. “How about you show me this cabin of yours.” It’s not a question it’s a demand, and from what I’ve already seen I don’t want to end up at the end of that barbed-wire baseball bat. 

He must see my eye flicker to his baseball bat. “Her names Lucille, she doesn’t bite. I nod, “It’s this way.” I say timdily. The bat swong over his large shoulder, and we walked in step with each other until the cabin was in view. “It’s just you?” He asks intriguend at something, that I’m not catching yet. “Yeah, well… Just been me for a while now.” My thoughts get distracted by images of my parents dead on the ground. I shake the thoughts away, and climb the stairs. “Home sweet home.” I hear the man say from behind me. 

There’s nothing much here, it’s dark. Candles that are at the end of their lives.  I can see the man behind me taking in the new area he stands in. “It’s homey.” The man says, I nod. The silence isn’t the difficult to deal with, rather it’s the way the man makes no effort to move around or look about the little cabin. It’s as if he’s thinking, mapping out his next move and it scares me just a little. The blood fromt he tip of the bat is dripping into a small puddle on the floor. “You should come back with me to my sanctuary.” He offers, yet again I sense that it’s not an offer, but a demand. “I should grab my stuff then.” That’s all I can say before venturing towards the back room to grab loose cloths, books, and anything else that I had been able to keep or find during my lonely time out here. 

The walk is long, and it’s rather quiet, listening for the growls of walkers. He takes me in, I get a room all to myself. The sanctuary is filled with all types of people who all have jobs. The older man tells me later on that his name is Negan. He boasts out a smile when his name leaves my lips. He smiles, and it makes me weak to my knees. 

In just the few weeks I have come to a great conclusion. One is that Negan is the most handsome man I’d ever met, and it’s not like I’ve never talked to men before, or had boyfriends in school. It’s just what I was afraid of, afraid of falling for someone I have no clue what they are. I had fallen for the beast of the man. His confidence stride, and his boastful, booming voice as it rang across the walls of the sanctuary. 

The second thing I realized, with a sadden heart was that no man would want me. No man would want what he could get in the other much prettier women. The wives, Negan’s pretty, gorgeous wives. I stood up to them with no par. I was nothing in comparison to the beauties that were bestowed upon them. The heels that clicked, the long legs, and prefect bodies in every part of myself I knew that I was nothing like them. So I declared it. Negan would never take a seconds glance at me, because I wasn’t his type. I wasn’t anyone’s type. I was just me, and it wasn’t enough. 

–

With Negan gone, the sanctuary is running into the ground. People aren’t keeping in line, and the ones who are keeping in lines are fucked by the others. Military punishment is dished out almost everyday. Collective punishment. Simons is running us into the ground, and our fight with Alexndria isn’t helping. I pray, I pray to gods that probably no longer exist to please just bring home Negan. Set the record straight and push us in a new clean direction. And everyday my prayers are ignored, Negan hasn’t come back and I highly doubt he ever will. I lean towards the idea that’s he been caught, captured and used rather then walking around in that leather jacket, and black boots as a walker. It’s a better image, it’s a truly better thought. 

The man are hovering over me, Simon is hovering over me like I’m fresh meat on a table. Just prey for them to devour. Simon has the cockiest grin on his face, the tears the cling my warm cheeks. They had taken me, in the middle of my sleep dragged me away from my plush and warm bed, to Negan’s quarters. Raw, and dirty skin touching mine, makes my skin crawl. I try desperately to get out of my head, to drown out the noise of men talking over each other, try desperately to push myself so far and so deep into my head that I can nearly just forget that I am here. 

That is ripped away from me, the ability to do so, is stripped down to the bare bones when the booms and crashing voice of Negan comes clambering through the halls. I wonder why I manage to be to the only one who can here it, why do all the nasty men above me just ignore it. I wonder for a brief moment if I’m leaving this horrid place ladning in a much better one. I heaven perhaps, but then realize that the voice that is booming is just right outside the door. I’ve never seen the rage displayed on Negans face as to when he opens the door. My clothes are ripped and torn to shreds on the ground leading up the side ofthe bed. Utter shame is what hits me whne our eyes locks and it’s all I feel as Negan drags Simon out of the room by the back of his neck. 

– 

My knuckles are blood, and brusied by the time Simon lays dead on the ground. It’s a huge warning upon everyone else. I want to scream and shot, but there’s nothing more important then her right. My heart hammers into my chest, and ears as I race through the corridors to get back to my room. The door is left wide open for all to see, but there’s something missing. She’s missing, Her clothes are still littering the floor with the aftermath of what had just taken place. 

A letter, rushed and scrambled on a pre-used paper. 

“Listen Negan, I know that you’re probably never going to read this. I just can’t imagine you dead for a second time. I should have never come here. I shoudn’t have gotten in the way of you and your wives. I’m sorry that I’ve made this huge mess. This is my farewell letter Negan, please don’t lose everything you have, just for me. Goodbye.” 

My eyes burn with tears, and anger beginnings to boil at the pit of my stomach. With the last of my energy I grab a few of my things, stuff them deep into a black bag, and Lucille. I put someone without an ego in charge, and leave off for her.

Completed on: 09/27/23

Posted on: 09/28/23

The Wanderers:

[ragedagainst]

bold what applies to your muse; italicize what sometimes applies; strike what never applies.

► AESTHETIC -- dark colors. bright colors.  neon colors.  soft colors.  blood.  forests.  space.  mansions.  ghosts.  asylums.  wastelands.  fire.  injuries.  hands. dolls.  fog.  storms.  galaxies.  snow.  dawn.  midnight.  cold.  animals.  sharp teeth.  neck.  shoulders.  bruises.  freckles.  legs.  feminine.  masculine.  burns.  weapons.  colorful hair.  witchcraft.  lips.  webs.  fields.  corn fields.  tears.  sweat.  glitter.  flowers.  plants.  magic.  fear.  pain.  murder.  guns.  scars.  missing posters.  old paintings.  strange eyes. explosions.  creatures.  lingerie.  kissing.  playfulness. metal.  diamonds.  rust.  iron.  stealth.  running away.  steel.  glass.  wood.  porcelain.  paper.  fur.  lace.  leather.  synthetics.  robots. droids.  monsters.  childhood fears.  cigarettes.  alcohol.  cameras.  video cameras.  polaroid cameras.  phones.  computers.  war.  peace.  angels. demons.  decay.  sadness.  red lipstick.  powder puffs.  abandoned cars.  skeletons.  strangling.  overcoats.  puppets.  torture. ptsd.  insomnia.  old cottages.  loyalty.  hospitals. syringes.  bared teeth.  scary basements.  butterflies.  prosthetic limbs.  cats.  dogs.  dreams.  burned-out buildings.  armor.

► APPEARANCE -- thick waist. narrow waist.  narrow hips.  average hips.  wide hips.  curvy frame.  muscular frame.  chubby frame.  petite frame.  lanky frame.  voluptuous frame.  lean frame.  skinny.  long legs.  stumpy.  average legs.  thick thighs.  muscular thighs.  toned thighs.  slender thighs.  beer belly.  toned stomach.  flat stomach. feminine frame.  masculine frame.  six pack.  harsh facial features.  baby face. shaved face.  soft features.  angular features.  square jaw.  beard. five o'clock shadow. freckles.  scars.  moles.  dimples.  braces.  tattoos.  piercings.  pigtails.  messy hair.  pixie cut.  bald.  long hair.  shaved head.  ponytail.  clipped-back fringe.  shoulder length.  bob cut.  old-fashioned hairstyle.  dreadlocks.  bun.  braids.  shaved side.  mohawk.  buzz cut.  afro.  asymmetric.  crown braid. wavy. short.  cotton buns.  fade.  comb over.  side part.  other.

► WARDROBE -- tight pants. denim jeans  cargo pants.  fatigues.  chinos.  khakis.  dress slacks.  slim-fit.  dockers.  pajama bottoms.  shorts.  short-shorts.  jean shorts.  dungarees.  skirt-overalls.  pencil skirt.  long skirt.  mini skirt.  tutu.  leggings.  sports bra.  yoga pants.  basketball shorts.  joggers.  sweats.  sweater.  sweater vest.  vest.  t-shirt. tank undershirt. long-sleeve.  tight shirts.  polo shirt.  athletic shirt.  cardigan.  button-up shirt.  v-neck. henley.  flannels.  plaid. crop top.  tank top.  blouse.  racerback shirts.  boob tube.  sundress.  1-shoulder dress.  strapless.  jumper dress.  apron dress.  dress shirt.  ball gown.  nightgown.  hoodies.  army jacket.  mechanic coveralls.  trench coat.  bomber jacket.  sport coat. leather jacket.  lots of layers.  uniform.  dress uniform. armor.  bare feet. high heels.  ballet shoes.  jelly shoes.  flip-flops.  sandals.  rain boots.  sneakers.  pumps.  flats.  thigh-high boots.  cowboy boots. timberland boots. doc martens.  slip-ons.  slippers.  motorcycle boots.  chukkas.  loafers.  dress boots.  knee boots. riding boots.  knee-high socks.  socks.  hose.  stockings.  beanies.  top hat.  sunhat.  newsboy cap.  fedora.  baseball cap. belt.  tool / utility belt.  gloves.

► HAS YOUR MUSE EVER… broken a bone. had a near death experience.  killed someone (and succeeded). saved a life.  self-harmed.  attempted suicide. had surgery.  kissed the same gender/sex.  had sex.  had sex and regretted it. lost a loved one.  had a pet.  gotten arrested.  gotten married.  divorced. cheated.  gotten shot.  been stabbed.  witnessed death.  taken drugs. gotten drunk. kept a promise you regretted.  played with an ouija board. seen a ghost.  been in a car accident.  gotten stitches. suffered from amnesia. survived a natural disaster. survived an assassination attempt. survived a plane / ship crash. been framed. gone undercover. faked death. assumed a fake identity. led a double life.  invented something. had something slipped in their food / drink.  been kidnapped. been taken hostage.  been sexually assaulted.  been bullied.  bullied someone.  had a stalker. been betrayed.  been a traitor. been blackmailed.  been abused.  gotten away with crime. killed someone (and failed).

tagged by: @stillsolo thank you so much! tagging: @deadmare , @proditeur , @enchaentd , @strnza , @guttcrson , @sectyr , @profecier , and you !!

[stillsolo]

bold what applies to your muse; italicize what sometimes applies; strike what never applies.

► AESTHETIC dark colors. bright colors.  neon colors.  soft colors.  BLOOD.  forests.  SPACE.  mansions.  ghosts.  asylums.  wastelands.  fire.  INJURIES.  HANDS. dolls.  fog.  STORMS.  GALAXIES.  snow.  DAWN.  MIDNIGHT.  cold.  animals.  sharp teeth.  neck.  shoulders.  BRUISES.  freckles.  legs.  feminine.  MASCULINE.  burns.  WEAPONS.  colorful hair.  witchcraft.  lips.  webs.  fields.  corn fields.  TEARS.  SWEAT.  glitter.  flowers.  plants.  magic.  FEAR.  PAIN.  MURDER.  GUNS.  SCARS.  MISSING POSTERS.  old paintings.  strange eyes.  EXPLOSIONS.  creatures.  lingerie.  KISSING.  PLAYFULNESS.  METAL.  diamonds.  RUST.  IRON.  STEALTH.  RUNNING AWAY.  STEEL.  glass.  wood.  porcelain.  paper.  FUR.  lace.  LEATHER.  synthetics.  robots. DROIDS.  monsters.  CHILDHOOD FEARS.  cigarettes.  ALCOHOL.  cameras.  video cameras.  polaroid cameras.  phones.  computers.  WAR.  PEACE.  angels. demons.  decay.  sadness.  red lipstick.  powder puffs.  ABANDONED CARS.  skeletons.  strangling.  overcoats.  puppets.  torture. PTSD.  INSOMNIA.  old cottages.  LOYALTY.  hospitals. syringes.  BARED TEETH.  scary basements.  butterflies.  prosthetic limbs.  cats.  dogs.  dreams.  burned-out buildings.  armor.

► APPEARANCE thick waist. NARROW WAIST.  NARROW HIPS.  average hips.  wide hips.  curvy frame.  muscular frame.  chubby frame.  petite frame.  lanky frame.  voluptuous frame.  LEAN FRAME.  SKINNY.  LONG LEGS.  stumpy.  average legs.  thick thighs.  muscular thighs.  TONED THIGHS.  slender thighs.  beer belly.  toned stomach.  flat stomach. feminine frame.  MASCULINE FRAME.  six pack.  harsh facial features.  baby face. SHAVED FACE.  soft features.  angular features.  square jaw.  beard. FIVE O'CLOCK SHADOW. freckles.  SCARS.  moles.  dimples.  braces.  tattoos.  piercings.  pigtails.  MESSY HAIR.  pixie cut.  bald.  long hair.  shaved head.  ponytail.  clipped-back fringe.  shoulder length.  bob cut.  old-fashioned hairstyle.  dreadlocks.  bun.  braids.  shaved side.  mohawk.  buzz cut.  afro.  asymmetric.  crown braid.  WAVY. SHORT.  cotton buns.  fade.  comb over.  side part.  other.

► WARDROBE tight pants. DENIM JEANS.  cargo pants.  fatigues.  chinos.  khakis.  dress slacks.  SLIM-FIT.  dockers.  pajama bottoms.  shorts.  short-shorts.  jean shorts.  dungarees.  skirt-overalls.  pencil skirt.  long skirt.  mini skirt.  tutu.  leggings.  sports bra.  yoga pants.  basketball shorts.  joggers.  sweats.  sweater.  sweater vest.  VEST.  t-shirt. TANK UNDERSHIRT. LONG-SLEEVE.  tight shirts.  polo shirt.  athletic shirt.  cardigan.  button-up shirt.  v-neck. henley.  flannels.  plaid. crop top.  tank top.  blouse.  racerback shirts.  boob tube.  sundress.  1-shoulder dress.  strapless.  jumper dress.  apron dress.  dress shirt.  ball gown.  nightgown.  hoodies.  army jacket.  MECHANIC COVERALLS.  trench coat.  BOMBER JACKET.  sport coat.  LEATHER JACKET.  lots of layers.  uniform.  dress uniform. armor.  bare feet. high heels.  ballet shoes.  jelly shoes.  flip-flops.  sandals.  rain boots.  sneakers.  pumps.  flats.  thigh-high boots.  cowboy boots. timberland boots. doc martens.  slip-ons.  slippers.  MOTORCYCLE BOOTS.  chukkas.  loafers.  dress boots.  knee boots. RIDING BOOTS.  knee-high socks.  SOCKS.  hose.  stockings.  beanies.  top hat.  sunhat.  newsboy cap.  fedora.  baseball cap. BELT.  TOOL / UTILITY BELT.  gloves.

► HAS YOUR MUSE EVER… BROKEN A BONE. HAD A NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE.  KILLED SOMEONE (AND SUCCEEDED). SAVED A LIFE.  self-harmed.  attempted suicide.  HAD SURGERY.  KISSED THE SAME GENDER/SEX.  HAD SEX.  had sex and regretted it. LOST A LOVED ONE.  had a pet.  GOTTEN ARRESTED.  gotten married.  divorced. cheated.  GOTTEN SHOT.  BEEN STABBED.  WITNESSED DEATH.  taken drugs. GOTTEN DRUNK. kept a promise you regretted.  played with an ouija board. seen a ghost.  been in a car accident.  GOTTEN STITCHES. suffered from amnesia. survived a natural disaster. survived an assassination attempt. SURVIVED A PLANE / SHIP CRASH. been framed. gone undercover. faked death. ASSUMED A FAKE IDENTITY. led a double life.  invented something. HAD SOMETHING SLIPPED INTO THEIR FOOD / DRINK.  BEEN KIDNAPPED. BEEN TAKEN HOSTAGE.  been sexually assaulted.  BEEN BULLIED.  bullied someone.  had a stalker.  BEEN BETRAYED.  been a traitor. been blackmailed.  BEEN ABUSED.  GOTTEN AWAY WITH CRIME. KILLED SOMEONE (AND FAILED).

tagging: @techniiciian @tapalslegacy @magikborn ( violet? ) @ragedagainst @intcthatgoodnight ( dexter? ) @hoovedrycal & you!!

[hannzoaks]

feel the wind in your hair

Pairing: !BikerAzriel x !BikerOC

author's note: reader has she/her pronouns, this is literally my first fanfic ever and i lowkey didn't want to post it but i figured it couldn't hurt LMAO. i dont love it and any constructive criticism is welcome, just don't be mean i'm sensitive :') lmk if a part 2 is wanted, okay enjoy!

word count: 1.2k

Dana

As soon as I walk into the university library, I feel multiple pairs of eyes on me. Wearing biker gear and carrying a helmet around tends to draw attention, both wanted and unwanted. My “biker gear” is just aramid lined jeans and a leather jacket, but combined with the helmet in my hands, I look totally decked out. I ignore the stares, as I always do, and look for an open desk. It’s the beginning of the semester so people are actually in the library instead of giving up and going home right after class. I walk through the lines of students and computers, glancing at students already in study groups or students sitting by themselves with headphones on, ignoring everything going on around them. There’s some open seats but I keep walking to the back of the library, wanting to be as isolated as possible. As I get closer to my favorite corner, the one with booths and whiteboards, I hear loud and rambunctious laughter. I’ve been in uni long enough to know that it’s a group of rowdy boys, most likely frat guys, not taking education seriously and riding on daddy’s money. My steps falter as I seriously consider finding somewhere else to sit, but after driving an hour and a half on the back of my bike, my body is screaming at me to just sit down. I pick the booth in the farthest corner, a couple tables down from the group of guys being obnoxious. My helmet clatters on the table as I practically fall into the booth, groaning as I take my backpack off my shoulders. I slip my leather jacket off and throw it across the table in frustration. I was only wearing that to ride, it’s the middle of August and I’m sweating so bad I’m not so sure I don’t look like a drowned rat. My head plops down onto the cool table and I take a couple deep breaths before sitting up and opening up my bag. I pull out my laptop and begin to sign into it when the table of boys explode in laughter again. Frustration rises in me quickly and violently and I bite my tongue before I lash out. I’m so overstimulated, I’m hot, sticky, my ass hurts from sitting on that damn bike, and my shoulders feel like they’ll fall off from how heavy my backpack is. I just wanted to come to my quiet corner and start my assignments. I pull out my headphones and sigh in relief when the room around me muffles into quiet background noise. I open up my assignments and click on the one that I’ve been putting off until the last second, it’s due tonight and I’ve barely even looked at it. Of course it's a tedious assignment that should be considered busy work, I sigh and pull up the necessary tools to complete it. After a while I actually get a majority of it done before deciding I want a quick snack. I scoot out of my booth, looking up at the group of guys that are still goofing off. I immediately make eye contact with one of them, he has dark hair with striking hazel eyes. He has sharp facial features, and I can’t help but notice how appealing his lips are. His facial piercings stand out against his tanned skin, and I swear they twinkled in the light. He’s probably the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life. Both of our faces remain blank, and my eyes flick down to the objects at his feet. A motorcycle helmet, riding gloves, and an armored jacket. My eyebrows flick up in curiosity and my gaze darts back to his for a second before looking forward and walking towards the vending machine at the front of the library. I feel eyes on me again, but this time it’s only one pair, and it’s impossible to ignore.

Azriel

Jesus the guys are so loud today. Every laugh out of them is like nails on a chalkboard. I can’t tell if it's because I’m actually annoyed by them or just hyper aware of the fact that they’re acting like this in the library. It’s probably both. At this point I think I’ve totally zoned out, only coming to when one of them says my name or when Cassian laughs too loudly at a joke I didn’t hear. Rhysand doesn’t seem to be concerned with how loud Lucien and Cassian are being, and Eris seems as zoned out as I am. I’m so deep in thought that I don’t even realize Rhys was saying my name until he punches my arm and I whip my head around to him.

“Dude what the fuck?” I mumble, rubbing my arm. 

“Did you not just hear me? I told you to look at that biker chick as she passed but you didn’t look up in time. She already sat down.” He points to the corner of the room at a lone booth. I follow his finger and see just a shoulder and long brown hair in a braid thrown over it. There’s nothing there to suggest she has a motorcycle so I scan the rest of the area, looking for someone who has any biker gear. 

“Where? I don’t see anyone.” I say, still scanning.

“You were just looking at her, the one with the braid. Her gear is tucked into the other side of the booth.” I take another peek, watching as she slumps onto the table. I turn back to the group of guys and see them all watching me.

“Why are you all looking at me?” I look back down at the notes we’re supposed to be studying. “Just because she rides a bike doesn’t mean anything.”

Cassian sighs dramatically, plopping his hands into his chin. “Yea but YOU ride a bike. Which means y’all are meant to be, which means you can ride off into the sunset together, which mea-”

“Cass shut up and get back to work.” I throw one of my highlighters at him while the table bursts into laughter. I cringe and glance around, noting a few dirty looks being thrown our way and sink down into my chair. We eventually got back to work and ended up getting some of it done. Definitely more than I thought we would. I see movement out of the corner of my eye and look up to see electric blue eyes staring back at me. She has her hair pulled back into a braid that reaches the tops of her hips, and her nose ring catches my attention. Freckles splatter her face and neck and she has bright pink headphones on. She looks so…unimpressed. I see her scan me and note the biker gear sitting at my feet. My heart thumps as she looks back up to meet my eyes but she turns away and continues walking towards the front of the library. I watch as she walks away, my eyes following her intently and swallowing up any details I can while trying not to look like a total creep. I glance back at her table and realize she left all her stuff, which means she’ll have to walk back this way to grab it all again. My heart races as I debate getting up and talking to her when she makes her way back, but with every second that passes my self-doubt takes over. And when she makes her way back towards her table, I don’t even look at her as she passes.

[howtofightwrite]

Okay so I’m currently writing a character that has a background in Muay Thai, but I wanted them to have somewhat of a punk fashion. Now punk fashion mostly consists of tight clothes with unstretchy materials. Changing the pants is not a problem, so Iwas mostly wondering about the upper body and feet. How well can you throw an elbow in a leather jacket? Maybe a vest is a better option? Also shoes, I don‘t like sneakers, and I initially thought to get them cowboy boots because they look cool and also the character loves the sound they‘re making when walking. Now cowboy boots are also notoriously made for not bending at the ankle, which of course comes in the way of kicking. Now I’m not too knowledgable in muay thai techniques, but as the kicks are often done with the shins, would it sill work to have something like low-rise cowboy boots? Or would it be better to have just some thick leather dress shoe adjacent shoes? With free mobility of the ankle?

So, the fun thing with the punk aesthetic is that there's a lot of very practical clothes that are still in theme.

So, starting with leather jackets, good ones aren't going to restrict your movement by much. Parrying unarmed strikes with a leather jacket is actually nice. This is because the jacket (and any insulation in the sleeve) will absorb some of the impact, meaning you're less likely to bruise. Decent quality biker jackets will have some reinforcement (to protect the wearer) and as a result will actually function as armor for light melee combat. It won't save you from a knife or a gunshot, but, depending on the design, it will soften the punches and kicks you take.

Leather, denim, or heavy canvas pants are a similar story. Yes, it's entirely possible to get tight jeans that restrict your movement, but casual cut pants will provide mobility and protection. It really comes down to what your definition of punk pants are.

With boots, the better choice is going to be work boots or motorcycle boots. In both cases you're looking at heavy footwear which armors the foot and protects the wearer. The lack of mobility in the ankle is less of a concern because of the protection the boot provides. In this case, steel toed is a perk, it's actual metal armor over your toes, protecting you from someone stomping your foot. There's nothing automatically wrong with cowboy boots, but that's moving away from the punk aesthetics.

There's the commercial, punk aesthetic. You'll find it in those “counterculture” corporate clothing stores. It's about as inherently contradictory as mass market Che Guevara tee-shirts. And, if you're looking at that, particularly looking at the examples marketed towards women, your assessment of the loss of mobility and general unsuitability for combat is probably spot on. It's cut to be tighter than it should be, for the visual aesthetic and your ability to move in it is a casualty of the same.

And, from my perspective as an outsider to the scene, that's not punk. It's more like punk cosplay.

If you want your character to have a punkish aesthetic, to go hand in hand with their fighting style, then you should probably look at heavier clothes that are designed to take a beating and keep going. That was the original aesthetic of punk. Heavy leather jackets that will protect you from a beating. Heavy pants that will do the same. Motorcycle boots are a big plus here. They're heavy, durable, look good, and they work as armor. Spikes and studs can be retrofitted onto existing clothes, probably with an eye for keeping it durable enough to stand up to a fight. Gloves are up to you, but there's no real downside to having a pair.

For a martial artist buying clothes, you're making constant decisions about whether something will look good, or whether you can move in it. There isn't a concrete line of which one you should select, this is a personal preference, however, if you're planning to take those clothes into combat, expect them to get damaged, and at that point the freedom of movement and durability start to become a lot more attractive options. Ironically, the original core of the punk aesthetic was leaning hard into that combat ready street wear.

So, yes, your character is giving up a little flexibility in their ankles, but not enough to matter, and in exchange, they're armoring them. They're giving up a little flexibility in their arms, though again, not enough to matter, but in exchange they're getting armor. They're not wearing form fitting pants, but the trade off is, they can move freely, and still get the protective benefits of those heavier, and “unstretchy,” materials.

Once you get past that, Muay Thai fits with a punkish attitude. There's no direct connection, between them, but the brutal nature of competitive Muay Thai does sync up pretty nicely with punk.

-Starke

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[helix-enterprises117]

Halo Reloaded: Bad Boy

The barracks, typically a place of stern silence and the occasional clank of armor, was unusually alive with laughter and banter. It was one of those rare moments when the relentless pressure of being humanity's finest warriors was put on a brief pause. LTJG Fred Ellsworth, official big brother of Blue-Team, lounged against the cool, steel wall with an ease that belied his massive frame. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he watched Vannak, who was struggling to hold back a fit of laughter, his usual stoicism slipping.

"So, this 'Bad Boy' business with John—it’s still running, huh?" Fred’s voice was thick with amusement as he glanced across the room where John was engrossed in the precise task of disassembling and cleaning his MA5 rifle.

“Oh yeah,” Vannak managed between chuckles. “He’s the poster boy for rebellion, if you can believe that. Follows every rule to the letter and somehow ends up the 'Bad Boy of Spartans.' It’s perfect.”

Kai perched on a nearby table like some sort of battle-ready gargoyle and chimes in with a grin, "I mean, have you seen him on his off days? Motorcycle, leather jacket, that ‘don’t mess with me’ look. If that’s not ripped right from an old-school rebel holo-drama, I don’t know what is."

Riz, typically the quiet one, nodded, her voice soft but no less certain. "The jacket really did it. Last leave, he looked like he stepped out of Grease."

John, finally catching snippets of their conversation, placed his rifle down with a precision that matched his reputation and walked over, his expression a mix of bemusement and mild annoyance. "Why am I still hearing about this 'Bad Boy' thing? I spend more time reading the regulation manual than I do on that bike. What’s rebellious about that?"

Fred couldn’t hold back a booming laugh, the sound echoing off the walls. He gave John a friendly slap on the back that might have winded a lesser man. "John, my man, you’re so good, you looped back to bad without even trying. It’s like you’re in a constant state of rebellion against the concept of rebellion itself."

John's response was a reluctant grin, the kind that appeared when he couldn’t find a logical argument to counter the ridiculous. "You all have too much time on your hands."

Linda, having quietly observed the teasing from her own corner of the room, approached the group, her approach nearly silent. Her presence always seemed to soften John's edges. "They're just envious, John. Somehow, you make sticking to the rules look like the ultimate act of defiance."

Kai burst into laughter, the sound joyful and carefree. "It’s true! It’s poetry, like sticking it to the man by being the man’s best man!"

John shook his head, his smile lingering as he looked around at his teammates, their faces alight with camaraderie and jest. "Fine, call me what you will—as long as it doesn’t get in the way of doing your jobs."

Vannak gave him a playful nudge, his grin infectious. "That’s the spirit, 'Bad Boy'. Keep us all on our toes."

[pathfinderunlocked]

Biker Gang - CR12 Humanoid Troop

You ain't a soldier. You're a scumbag with a few paid skills. You're a thug, just like the rest of us.

Artwork is from Shadowrun, copyright FASA and Catalyst Game Labs.

This is a troop version of the CR 3 Chain-Wielding Biker stat block that I posted a few days ago. Note that a troop attack is a free action that happens at the end of a troop's turn, so it can use its molotov attack and its troop attack on the same round.

Biker Gang - CR 12

This gang of rough-looking, burly bikers is drowning the area in deafening noise from their engines. They're swinging metal chains, and wearing matching leather jackets.

XP 19,200 CN Medium humanoid (troop, human) Init +2 Senses Perception +13

DEFENSE

AC 28, touch 21, flat-footed 17 (+1 armor, +1 armor focus, +2 Dex, +9 dodge, +5 natural armor) hp 175 (13d8+117) Fort +15, Ref +8, Will +8 Defensive Abilities troop traits

OFFENSE

Speed 80 ft. Melee troop (6d8+8 plus debilitating injury) (see surrounding attack) Ranged molotov +11 touch (5d4 fire plus 5d4 fire one round later plus 10 fire splash (DC 18)) (10 ft. range increment) Space 40 ft.; Reach 5 ft. Special Attacks debilitating injury, surrounding attack

STATISTICS

Str 26, Dex 15, Con 23, Int 14, Wis 18, Cha 17 Base Atk +9; CMB +17 (+19 overrun); CMD 37 Feats Armor Focus, Dodge, Greater Overrun, Improved Overrun, Lightning Reflexes, Toughness Skills Craft (mechanical) +6, Disable Device +10, Intimidate +20, Knowledge (local) +9, Perception +13, Ride +22; Racial Bonuses +4 Intimidate, +4 Ride Languages Common SQ rowdy gang Gear flails (actually just 4 ft. metal chains), padded armor, molotov cocktails (function as alchemist's fire), motorcycles

EQUIPMENT ABILITIES

Insignia Jacket A biker gang's padded armor bears the insignia of the gang, and provides a a +2 circumstance bonus on Diplomacy and Intimidate checks to influence a person from that organization, similar to parade armor.

Molotov As a standard action, a biker gang can toss molotov cocktails at a target within 50 ft. This is a ranged touch attack which counts as a thrown splash weapon with a range increment of 10 ft. A target struck by this attack takes 5d4 fire damage, plus an additional 5d4 fire damage 1 round later. If desired, the target can use a full-round action to attempt to extinguish the flames before taking this additional damage. Extinguishing the flames requires a DC 15 Reflex save. Rolling on the ground provides the target a +2 bonus on the save. Leaping into a lake or magically extinguishing the flames automatically smothers the fire.

Adjacent targets (including the target, if the attack misses) take 10 fire splash damage, and can attempt a DC 18 Reflex save to halve the damage. The save DC is Dexterity-based.

Motorcycles A biker gang rides Large-sized motorcycles which give them an 80 ft. move speed. If a biker gang uses the Run action for multiple rounds in a row without changing direction, its speed increases to 160 ft. after the first round.

A motorcycle is treated as a mount in many ways, although a biker gang cannot dismount (if all of its members dismount, it ceases being a troop and no longer uses this stat block). Motorcycles do not have any actions of their own, and the biker gang must expend its own actions to control the vehicles. A biker gang is treated as mounted for all feats and effects unless otherwise noted.

For additional information on motorcycles, see the Chain-Wielding Biker stat block.

SPECIAL ABILITIES

Debilitating Injury (Ex) Whenever a biker gang deals troop attack damage to a foe, it can also debilitate the target of its attack, causing it to take a penalty for 1 round. A target that is immune to flanking or precision damage is immune to this ability. The biker gang can choose to apply any one of the following penalties when the damage is dealt.

Bewildered: The target becomes bewildered, taking a –2 penalty to AC. The target takes an additional –2 penalty to AC against all attacks made by the biker gang. Disoriented: The target takes a –2 penalty on attack rolls. In addition, the target takes an additional –2 penalty on all attack rolls it makes against the biker gang. Hampered: All of the target's speeds are reduced by half (to a minimum of 5 feet). In addition, the target cannot take a 5-foot step.

These penalties do not stack with themselves, but additional qualifying troop attacks extend the duration by 1 round. A creature cannot suffer from more than one penalty from this ability at a time. If a new penalty is applied, the old penalty immediately ends. Any form of healing applied to a target suffering from one of these penalties also removes the penalty.

Rowdy Gang (Ex) A biker gang's speed, motorcycles, coordination, and bravado grant the troop a +5 natural armor bonus and +8 dodge bonus to AC. The biker gang also gains an additional 2 hit points per hit die. These bonuses are already included in its statistics above.

Surrounding Attack (Ex) A biker gang's troop attack includes 3d6 sneak attack dice to represent the bikers surrounding their targets. The troop attack's damage dice is reduced by 3d6 against targets immune to flanking or precision damage.