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flowerandblood · 5 months ago

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Play with my heart (2/3)

[ modern actors • Aemond x Strong • female ]

[ warnings: masturbation, kissing, sexual tension, eavesdropping, discomfort associated with the loss of an eye, remorse, doubts, anxiety, unprofessional behavior ]

[ description: He gets the main role in a series about a great family and dragons, which could change his career. He is set to play the uncle and love interest of his childhood friend. When he meets the actress who plays her role, he begins to lose track of what is an acting and what is his real feelings. Sexual tension, grumpy, withdrawn, thirsty Aemond. ]

Author’s note: Yeah. I talked about it and I did it. You don't even know how much fun I had doing this. Of course, my characters play in a series whose script is an exact copy of my story The Fall from the Heavens. In this universe, Aemond (playing the One-Eyed Prince) and Rhaenys (playing the Princess) are of course not related – the other characters are also just actors. This three-part series is my gift to all fans of the original series, thank you so much for your support. "Rhaenys" in this story is her artistic pseudonym which she use instead of her real name.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

After filming the scene, they rose from the bed as if nothing had happened. The director complimented her acting, saying that she was able to wonderfully portray both the innocence and temptation her character evoked. She smiled at him as he unscrewed the water bottle and took a sip from it, walking towards him.

"They say the beginnings are the hardest." She said softly, looking around, waiting for the director to review again what they had managed to record and decide if anything needed to be repeated.

"Mmm." He hummed, taking another sip of water, feeling uncomfortable now that he was standing in front of her without a script, not knowing what to say.

They stood side by side in awkward silence for a while, looking at their director – he finally said that he liked everything and they would now shoot the scene where the Prince wakes her up in the middle of the night, dragging her out of her chamber after returning from Storm's End.

When he returned to his hotel room he collapsed on his bed, tired but also content. He felt ashamed that he had forgotten the line and at the same time he was grateful that his partner on set had helped him and been supportive, warm and understanding.

He didn't know how he felt about getting aroused during the scene of them kissing – he wondered where the limit of method acting was and whether he had gotten that much into his character or whether it was something else.

He decided he wouldn't think about it, and as long as they played their parts well, nothing else mattered.

The next day there was a big breakfast together in the hotel restaurant. At the table sat the director and his deputies, the writers, producers, actors, stylists and the many other people who contributed to this gigantic production.

She smiled at him from afar and waved at him, sitting at the table in her hair tied up in a braid, on her body only a T-shirt with the Pokemon logo and yellow tracksuit shorts.

He swallowed quietly, putting his hands in his trouser pockets, and sat down next to her, greeting her and everyone else along the way, unsure of how to act. Aegon sitting on the other side of the table extended his hand to him and he shook it.

"– how are you two doing? – you already have some passionate scenes behind you, right? – he's hot, isn't he? –" He asked her partner with amusement, who laughed out loud, trying to turn his question into a joke.

"– everyone here is beautiful and talented – I'm in heaven –" She said softly, deftly avoiding answering. Aegon laughed at her words and stretched in his chair, yawning loudly, losing interest in the subject.

He reached for the cheese toast, watching out of the corner of his eye as her hands placed the pancakes on her plate, which she covered next with pouring chocolate. She lifted her gaze to him and smiled at him warmly as their gazes met – he turned his face away, feeling like a mute, his heart stuck in his throat.

Why was he acting like an idiot in front of her?

It seemed to him that she took his silence as a signal that he simply wanted to eat his breakfast in peace, so she spoke animatedly to the woman to her right, Alys Rivers, who was to play the Witch of Harrenhal.

Aegon was talking to him across the table, mentioning something about their shared scene with him and Helaena. He nodded, sipping his toast with a gulp of coffee, absorbed in his thoughts, for some reason returning to their kiss.

He'd kissed many women in his career before, but this time it was something different.

He thought she was an excellent young actress.

In the following scenes they played he saw her in a gown for the first time. He thought she looked like some immortal elf in it, beautiful and light, a warm, gentle smile directed towards him on her face.

Her gown consisted of two colours – her long, floor-length sleeves were red, and the material hugging her breasts, hips and waist was light blue. Her shoulders were bare; other than that, she wore no other jewellery, her long hair falling softly down her back, accentuating her long neck.

He swallowed hard, feeling a twinge in his gut for some reason, and turned his face away, sitting down with her at the table where, together with Aegon and Helaena, they played out the scene in which the King informed them that they would be marrying for a second time, this time before the Septon.

They spent the rest of the day in the courtyard, filming shots of them meeting years later, and their conversation after they married, when the Princess came out to speak to him.

He felt a pleasant tingling in his lower abdomen at the thought of kissing her again: to his surprise, cupping her chin and placing a tender, soft kiss on her mouth came to him with ease. Her moist, fleshy lips didn't close against his caress, on the contrary, they parted invitingly, her hand tightening on his wrist.

Encouraged, though it wasn't in the script, he took a step forward and deepened the kiss, lazily brushing her soft mouth with his, her eyes closed, a quiet, sweet sigh left her mouth.

When he pulled away, he met her gaze, warm and misty, her cheeks flushed. He stroked her jaw with his thumb and she surprised him by rising on her toes, kissing the tip of his nose.

He felt his heart pound hard at the thought that this was not in the script.

However, he checked it quickly afterwards as he prepared for the next scene and saw that the director had added it as a suggestion.

He was furious with himself for feeling disappointed.

What was he thinking?

He didn't think it would be a problem for him, but he actually felt discomfort when it was time for them to play the scene where the Prince pulls off his eye patch in front of his beloved.

A new prosthetic eye was created especially for him which looked like a sapphire to represent his character well.

He was to wear it that day instead of his usual artificial left eye.

The sapphire eye was cleaned and prepared for him by the doctor who supervised, staying with him in private in the dressing room, that all was well. The very moment he closed his eyelid and opened it he felt that it was not.

Although its surface was smooth, something was wrong about its shape, rubbing his eye socket, once in a while pressing on a nerve under his skin from which shivers ran through him.

"It will take at least a few days to polish and change it."

He thought with a pursed lips that they didn't have that much time.

The shooting schedule was set to the hour.

He figured he would just get into his character's suffering more than he should.

As he walked onto the set he was met by her warm, comforting smile. He closed his eyes, clamping his fingers on the base of his nose, trying to listen in peace to what their director had to say to them.

"It's a scene of their tenderness, their closeness, at last devoid of subconscious brutality. In that one moment they reclaim each other." He said, and they nodded their heads.

In the original, this was accompanied by a sex scene, but the screenwriters decided that affectionate, passionate kissing would suffice here.

The thought that he would be able to do this to her made his heart pound like crazy, but he couldn't enjoy it: he clenched his eyes again and again, feeling discomfort.

Feeling pain.

For some reason, he thought he deserved it for his inability to be professional, for what they were doing was out of his control.

Rhaenys sat down on the desk and he stepped in front of her, between her thighs, her dark blue dress with exposed shoulders and sleeves reaching the ground perfectly accentuated her graceful figure.

She smiled, placing her hands on his shoulders, his fingers involuntarily running over her waist.

"Action!"

He took a step towards her, cupping her face in his hands, trying to focus only on her gentle gaze, only on her warm breath, only on how soft her skin was, instead of the fact that pain was filling his skull.

"Rhaenys." He whispered tenderly, pleadingly – the discomfort he felt made his words resound as if he was in pain – in pain because of the fact that they were separate.

She blinked, surprised and somehow touched, clearly appreciating his acting, which was only a matter of coincidence. She lifted her hand to his eye patch and he grabbed her wrist violently, her breath stuck in her throat.

"No." He said coldly and closed his eyes, feeling the pain as if a bolt of electricity surged through the left side of his face.

"You're my husband. That's enough." She whispered, wanting to soften her words by taking his face in her hands, making him involuntarily moan in pain. She let go of him, terrified.

"Are you okay?" She asked leaning over him and he nodded his head.

"What's going on?" The director asked them. "We're going to have to repeat the whole scene."

Fuck.

"Are you in pain? Please tell me." She whispered pleadingly and he shook his head.

"No. No, I….FUCK!" He hissed, leaning over, clasping his hand over the left side of his face, feeling such excruciating ache that he felt like ripping off his skin and tearing out all the nerves that were there.

"Call a doctor, he is in pain!" She called out, startling him by pulling the eye patch off his face. He heard her sigh in horror and cover her mouth with her hand, his stomach clenched in discomfort at the thought.

That she saw it.

That she felt disgusted.

"My God, his eye is all swollen up, what have you done to him? Can you take it out? Come." She said, taking his hand, and he walked out of the room with her like a small child, bumping into the doctor on the way.

"I warned him" He said.

"I can stay and help. If you don't mind." She said sitting down next to him on the couch in his dressing room.

He wanted to reply for her to leave, but he only groaned, unable to stand it, and as soon as the doctor had disinfected his hand he removed the sapphire prosthesis from his eye socket.

He did not know why he burst out crying.

He hid his face in his hands, feeling humiliated, thinking that the reason he had been taken for the role was because they hoped they wouldn't have to spend money on expensive CGI, but in fact he had wasted their entire day of filming.

He swallowed hard when he felt her arms embrace his head and let her lean over as she hugged him to her breasts, her pleasant scent, her warm hands stroking his jaw and back.

"Leave us alone for a moment." He heard her voice. The man nodded and said he would fetch an ointment that should soothe the abrasions.

"It would be best if you didn't wear your artificial eye today and let your eye socket rest." The man said.

"Get the FUCK out!" He growled, closing his eyes, thinking it was wonderful news, going around the set with an empty eye.

He thought it was the worst day of his life.

He swallowed hard as her forehead pressed against the top of his head, her gentle hands stroking his face, shoulders and back giving him a feeling of comfort and security.

It was so hard for him, and she was by his side.

"I admire you for holding out for so long. They should have checked that the prosthesis fit earlier, not on the day of filming. It's the production's fault and the director knows that. I'm sure he appreciates your commitment and will reorganise the work." She whispered calmly, as if she wanted to comfort him, and indeed, her words made him feel relieved.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled.

"Don't apologise."

"Can I lay my head on your lap?" He asked in a trembling voice, wondering if his request was disrespectful.

He just wanted to close his eyes for a moment and relax.

"Yes. Yes, of course, come here." She said, turning so that he could lie down.

He turned his head so that she couldn't see his left eye socket and rested his cheek on her thighs, placing his hand on her knee. He closed his eyes and sighed quietly when he felt one of her hands on his shoulder and the other on his cheek, her thumb gently stroking his skin.

There was complete silence between them.

"I got really attached to you, you know? I hope we still keep in touch after the shooting." She whispered making him swallow hard, cold sweat trickling down his neck as he felt his manhood react to her words with an aggressive throbbing.

"Yes." He muttered. "Yes, me too."

He spent the evening in the hotel bar, meant for guests only, feeling reasonably safe there, wanting to ease his mind a little, wearing a thin bandage over his left eye that allowed air to pass through.

He resented himself for being unprofessional, for having his real feelings mixed up with what he was supposed to be playing as a Prince character.

For the first time, he doubted whether he should really be an actor.

His grandfather surprised him by walking up to him from behind, patting him on the back.

"Don't worry about the issue with the artificial eye: it was their fault and the director came to me to apologise for the prosthesis not being tested earlier. You both do a wonderful job on set. The chemistry between you two is palpable and it shows on camera." He said, sitting down next to him at the bar table.

He pressed his lips together at his words, wondering if he should confide in him.

"I don't know myself. I'm confused." He confessed, embarrassed. His grandfather looked at him in surprise as soon as he ordered a double whisky for himself.

"Confused? Because of that girl? It's normal. She's kind and pretty. If you're feeling desire, that's good. Turn it into your acting." He said lightly, however, making him feel not relief but discomfort in his stomach. He stared dully into his glass for a moment, feeling the aggressive pounding of his heart.

"… I'm not sure if what's going on inside my head is good." He said in a trembling voice. His grandfather hummed under his breath, taking a sip from the glass the man had placed in front of him.

"As usual, you think too much. Even if… well, something happens between you two, one or two nights, it's nothing terrible. On set it happens all the time. The tension is high and you have to find an outlet for it somewhere." He said.

He got up from his seat and just left, feeling that he had made him sick.

He didn't agree with him, and he didn't think that using her to get off sexually was a normal thing to do.

She was young, younger than him, still filled with enthusiasm and naivety.

He didn't want to be one of those men who would take advantage of that, seduce her and then leave her humiliated as soon as the shooting was over, saying it was just a fun.

He had casual sex with actresses, but never with those he worked with directly. Nothing came of it because their paths quickly diverged and he didn't have the desire or strength for a long-distance relationship.

He didn't care.

He took a shower, brushed his teeth, changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants and went to bed, trying not to think about the fact that tomorrow they were to play a scene in which he exposes her breasts.

Not all love scenes were left in the script, however, this one was one of them, because it was significant moment – their first real intimacy and reunion after years.

They knew there was enormous pressure on them. He could see it in her face the next day – also dressed in a night gown she was looking down at her fingers, stressed, not a trace of her smile and confidence from the auditions.

He approached her, for some reason feeling that he should comfort her, lift her spirits, let her know that they didn't have to rush.

"– do you want to talk about how we're going to do this? –" He asked quietly and she nodded, unable to even look him in the eye.

"– yes –" She mumbled.

"– so –" He began, feeling for some reason that his heart started pounding like crazy, his hands clenched into fists. "– I'd start with kisses first – on the lips, on the neck, on the shoulders – they're rubbing against each other in this scene because they're feeling arousal, so it would be a good idea to try and mimic similar…movements – then I'll slide your nightgown off your shoulders – we can agree that you will guide my hand yourself when you think you're ready for me to touch you there –" He said quickly, forcing himself to be calm and composed, feeling a cold sweat run down his back.

Why was he so terrified?

He saw that she swallowed hard and nodded, looking up at him and lowering her gaze quickly, red with embarrassment.

"– yes – yes, that's a good idea –" She said and looked at him, her gaze warm, comforting.

Kind.

"– how's your eye? –"

He lowered his gaze, looking down at his boots, embarrassed.

"It's better now. Thank you. For everything. I don't want you to be scared today. Tell me if you feel something is wrong. Okay?" He hummed, and she nodded quickly, giving him a grateful smile.

"– thank you – I will –"

He swallowed heavily when the director told them to take their places. He sat down in a chair and she walked over to him, looking at him questioningly. He nodded, extending his hand to her to help her up, and she sat awkwardly on his thighs. He gently placed his hand on her hip, forcing her to slide closer to his chest, just as scripted.

They both swallowed hard as his manhood pulsed between her thighs under the material of his breeches, touching the material of her flesh-coloured panties, but neither of them said anything.

"– we will take it slow – okay? –" He encouraged her, gently cupping her cheek in his hand, bringing her face close to his. She nodded and smiled warmly at him, as if he had said exactly what she needed to hear.

"– okay –" She said.

Their director nodded at them.

"Let's try to get a feel for it first. This scene is about building tension slowly. If you feel discomfort, speak up, we'll try to do something about it. Ready?" He asked, and they nodded their heads like little children.

"Action!"

Apart from the sizzle of the fire in the fireplace to their right, surrounding their faces with warm light, there was complete silence around them.

He waited a moment before he pulled her face closer to him and his lips tentatively brushed hers in a slow, shy, moist kiss. He felt her body involuntarily move closer to him, her arms closing his neck in an tender embrace.

He felt her soft breasts through the material of his tunic, his hands traveled down her waist to her hip which he began to stroke in a soft, lazy, affectionate motion. She sighed softly into his mouth making his half-hard erection hit the space between her thighs again.

They froze in mid-motion and he was already about to apologise to her, telling her to stop, when this time it was she who leaned in. His voice went dead in his throat as her lips pressed against his, her body rubbing uncertainly against what was beneath her.

Fuck.

He thought as his hips tentatively came out to meet her, pressing what was in his breeches between her thighs, making it swell and pulsate, that this was not a good idea.

He knew she could feel it and that turned him on even more.

Her breath had become heavy and accelerated, their kisses messier, stickier, warmer, his fingers involuntarily dug into the skin of her hips hidden beneath the thin material.

"– uncle –" She mewled into his mouth in a way from which his erection became completely hard, his hand clamped down on her neck, forcing her to stay still as he slid his tongue deep into her throat.

She moaned, startled, gripping his shoulders, rolling her hips back and forth as if in a trance, teasing him deliberately, squeezing his length between his lower abdomen and her body again and again, the tip of her slick tongue licking his.

"– it tickles – here –" She mumbled helplessly, pressing her forehead against his, looking down, between her thighs, watching his bulge twitching in his breeches, which, however, only they could see.

He should have said his line, but instead, completely stunned by her behaviour and smell, he grabbed the material of her nightgown and slid it off her shoulders, snuggling his face between her sweet breasts.

She opened her mouth wide, shocked and moaned, hugging his head to her heart, making his cock throb hard. She took his hand in hers and guided it up, to her breast – he gasped, shocked how good it felt, squeezing tentatively her plump softness with his fingers, placing sticky, wet kisses on her sternum, her hands buried in his hair pressed him tighter against her bare, hot skin.

It seemed to him that she was as shocked by this sensation as he was, for she began to moan quietly – her nipple became hard under his thumb as he began to rub and tease it, his free hand clamped down on her buttock, again and again rubbing his painfully swollen erection against her.

He was turned on.

"Cut! What chemistry, I'm at a loss for words!" The director called out, and he let her go immediately.

She jumped back and got off his lap, inhaling heavily as if she was out of breath, putting the material of her nightgown quickly over her shoulders and breasts, the stylist said something to her and she just nodded, looking at him with big eyes.

He crossed his legs quickly and grunted, covering his mouth with his hand, looking towards the fire, pretending to listen to one of the assistants saying that now that they were all in emotion they would try to film their conversation years later.

Although they tried, neither of them could concentrate and they forgot their lines over and over again.

"What's going on with you two? Do you need a break?" The director asked them, and they replied at the same time that they did.

It frightened him to see her leave immediately, the thought that she might nevertheless have felt uncomfortable, that he had done something that crossed the line for her, but she was afraid to tell him.

He got up and followed her, heading for the rooms where they were changing and getting their make-up done, standing in front of the door with her name on it.

He froze when he heard a strange sound that seemed to him to be a moan of pain. He opened his mouth, wanting to ask if she was all right, if he could come inside, but then she made a different sound, a more familiar one that made his erection throb hard in his breeches.

He heard her quiet panting mixed with sweet, innocent mewls of pleasure, from which he himself began to breathe through his mouth, shocked.

He leaned his forehead against the door, wanting to hear it better, with the corner of his eye looking to see if anyone was around, but they were all on the set. He thought he was just a pervert when his hand travelled deep under the material of his trousers, clamping down on his long, swollen cock, twitching painfully with desire in his hand.

He imagined what she looked like now, digging her delicate fingers into her fleshy walls, leaking with moisture, pulsing because of him, because of what he had done to her, because of his kisses and touch.

He drew in a loud breath and pressed his lips together, giving himself a firmer squeeze at the base, imagining that he had grasped her thighs in his hands and spread them in front of his face, sinking his mouth into her wonderful, delicate folds, licking and caressing her little cunt.

He sped up, hearing the quiet sounds in her room become more vulnerable and helpless, and after a moment she moaned a little louder with some kind of relief.

He opened his mouth wide when he felt his warm semen spurt out onto his fingers at the thought that she had just come because of him.

He cursed under his breath as he looked at his hand and headed quickly to the bathroom, afraid that anyone would see him.

As he washed his hands in the sink he looked at his reflection, at his white wig and eye patch, and decided that he was beginning to lose control, that he no longer knew which feelings were his and which were his character's.

He was terrified and had no one to tell about it.

He only saw her at dinner that evening, and although she sat next to him, she didn't look at him. He pressed his lips together at the thought that she was as ashamed as he was, only she had no idea that he knew what she had done and that he had done exactly the same thing himself.

He was crushed by a sense of guilt that he didn't know what to do with.

He decided to finally speak to her, feeling his heart in his throat, playing with his fingers.

"Did I overdo it? Today during our scene." He asked in a trembling voice, trying to sound indifferent and cool. She looked at him surprised, putting her glass of juice down on the table.

"– I – no, I'm sorry I left so suddenly – it's just that all of this – all of this has overwhelmed me –" She muttered, looking down at her hands lying on her lap.

He looked at her in silence, feeling a squeeze in his throat at the thought that he understood her, that perhaps they felt the same way.

"– if you don't mind – I'd like to rehearse scenes with you before we play them – I'd like to talk to you about them – I have too much chaos in my head and no one to share it with –" She said, looking up at him finally, her brow furrowed in fear that he would not take her suggestion well.

He, however, felt some wonderful kind of relief.

"– yes – yes, that's a great idea –"

They spent the next few days acting out scenes, talking to each other for hours in the evenings in the hotel restaurant or her room about how they wanted to portray particular dialogues.

"– then when they're arguing I think to approach it more along the lines that: he just wants forgiveness and she's tired of him always expecting her to forgive him, even though he himself has held a grudge against her for so many years – something like: what should I do now? – divorce you? –" She asked sternly, getting into character for a moment, wanting to show him what she meant.

He hummed at her words and nodded, intrigued.

"– yes – yes, I think it's a good track – he's broken, exposed, afraid of the visions of that witch – he tries to push it away, but because of the way he represses it, everything he's afraid of comes back to him in nightmares –" He said, half lying half sitting on her bed with a copy of the script in his hand, the other gesturing as if he were a lecturer.

She nodded quickly at his words, sitting down next to him on the sheets, excited.

"– yes, exactly – he locks too much inside himself, and everything he fears then manifests itself in his dreams – his thoughts overwhelming him more and more and filled his mind like water that finally bursts his skull –"

"– a drop drills a rock –" He murmured and she snapped her fingers.

"– exactly –" She said, swinging her legs.

Unintentionally, his gaze traveled over her figure – her light-coloured sweatshirt with Jigglypuff from Pokemons seemed very fluffy to him, white tracksuit shorts and pretty white floral socks on her legs.

"– are you still watching this? –" He grinned with amusement. She cocked her head, smiling broadly.

"– what? –"

"– Pokemons –"

She giggled, embarrassed; the sound, innocent and sweet, made him feel a tightening in his throat and a pleasant tingling in his lower abdomen.

"– yes, but only the first few seasons – you know – the classics –" She said, closing her eyes proudly, as if she were speaking some work of Shakespeare.

"– mmm – I watched this when I was a kid –" He confessed, and she shifted towards him, delighted, surprising him completely.

"– I have a laptop – do you want to watch the first episodes together and order a pizza? –"

Though the suggestion seemed absurd to him, he agreed, and it wasn't long before he was watching, lying next to her on her bed, with a big carton of pizza lying on their bellies, as Ash tried to tame Pikachu.

"– God, how long it's been since I've watched this –" He muttered, feeling some kind of melancholy. He heard her melodious, joyful laughter.

"– I know this episode by heart –" She said between one greedy bite of pizza and another, clearly pleased and happy.

For some reason, despite his rather solitary nature, he felt comfortable around her. Her behavior made him feel like he wasn't being judged or watched – he knew he could say at any time that he was going back to his room to rest, and she wouldn't hold it against him.

He caught himself thinking that he really liked her.

What made him involuntarily distance himself from closer acquaintanceships with actresses was that it often seemed to him that they played offstage as well – they stepped into the role of innocent, sweet, dreamy romantics or passionate unapproachable women, but in fact he had no idea if he knew them at all.

With her, however, it was different – her sudden, unexpected reactions, the glint in her eye, her smile and unthinking remarks were real.

For some reason, her character, her presence had a soothing effect on him.

He was ashamed to admit that he liked her a little too much.

He kept repeating to himself that just one more episode and he would go, but another and another flew by. Her warm, soft body was wonderfully close, their arms were pressed against each other, their heads lying side by side on the pillow, as they looked at the laptop lying between their legs.

For some reason he felt like a little child again who was about to spend the night with his mate.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and noticed that her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly, her head tilted to one side in deep sleep.

Something captured him in this sight – the thought that she felt comfortable and good enough with him that she had fallen asleep.

He rose slowly, taking the large pizza box from their thighs, setting it down on the floor and rose, trying to be quiet. She twisted around and hummed something as he covered her with the duvet and turned off the lamp, feeling somehow proud of himself for treating her the way she deserved it.

It was as if he had a friend.

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consultingskeletondetective · 3 months ago

Text

Virginal, chapter 2

Michael had left you alive, and you couldn't begin to fathom why. You know all you can do is try and forget it and move on with your life.

Except...Michael has followed you home.

masterlist ❤️🖤 ao3

chapter tags: serial killer, murder, death, violence, blood, gore, weapons, knife, female reader, non con, stalking, hair pulling, forced orgasms

The police hadn’t caught him yet.

It had been almost a week since your encounter with Michael Myers in the woods on your way home from work, and he’d been on the run ever since. You hadn’t reported what had happened to the authorities, even if you’d been on the verge of it many times. You’d spent the whole week waking up in cold sweats with a gooey and shameful mess between your legs at the memory of Michael’s large hand on your neck, or the sense-memory of his cock pressed heavy and dangerous against your core. The way he’d used you, fucked you, like his own little plaything haunted you.

No one could know what he’d done to you, no one could know how you felt about it, even if the guilt gnawed at you. Maybe if you’d told someone, they might have caught him by now, and people might still be alive. But there was a part of you, a part of you you wished you didn’t have, that reminded you that if Michael wanted someone dead, then there was nothing any earthly power could do to keep that person alive. Michael left no survivors.

Except for you.

It had been on the news religiously all week; police were baffled by his location and utterly at a loss for his motivations and patterns. Michael, it seemed, cared not a bit to cover his tracks. He even seemed to decorate his murder scenes artistically, propping bodies up and, blurred though they were on the television, reminding you of a sick and gruesome game of action figures. They were Michael’s bodies, to do with as he pleased. Twelve people he’d killed since he found you. Twelve. That the authorities were aware of, anyway. The thought chilled you to the very core.

You’d learnt from the heavy reporting that Michael Myers had been being held at the Westbrook Sanitarium for the criminally insane, not four miles from where you worked, and he’d escaped that night he’d taken you - thrust against your weak body until he came on your cunt like a wild animal.

You were the first person he’d come across, apparently, and after years of solitude, Michael had some frustrations to take out on you. You knew well who he was, you recognised that mask and that boiler suit the second you’d seen it. You’d grown up with stories of the boogeyman who’d murdered his sister the same as everyone else, thrust into the spotlight when he’d escaped from Smith’s Grove Sanitarium a few years ago and murdered a bunch of teenagers on a spree. You’d seen the youtube video essays and buzzfeed articles on the stoic killing machine who’d baffled psychologists and doctors up and down the country, maybe even the world. You’d walked past books in shops written about this monster, his silence, his rage, his gore and death and damnation were a part of your culture. It made it easy to forget that Michael Myers was real, and not just some fictitious product of a sick mind. He became very real to you that night, your own personal boogeyman.

You’d learnt that Michael Myers was no man, he was an evil spirit, a hell-sent silent demon, a ghost - one that was haunting you.

You turned the television off and went into the bathroom, shucking your clothes into a messy pile by the bath as you stepped under the cool spray of the shower.

It was a warm day, your skin over-hot, and you welcomed the clammy dribbles down your back. You washed quickly, fingers pressing too familiar over the lips of your pussy, you expected them still to be swollen, puffy from use where Michael had rutted his scorching and elephantine cock against you like a beast in heat, but it wasn’t. It was like it hadn’t happened. Except it had, of course, because you still wore him on your skin. His fingertips were in every bruise, his grip was the ache in your bones with every groan of your sore body. It was like he’d marked you, made your tiny body a part of his eclipsing form.

You shook your head frustratedly to yourself in the bathroom mirror before flicking the lightswitch off and making your way to your bedroom. You couldn’t think of him every moment for the rest of your life, you couldn’t live in fear of the boogeyman. He had left you alive, and you had to live with that. Michael was gone, and you’d never see him again.

You pulled a short nightdress on, the flimsy material to combat the hot and sticky night you anticipated, and you made your way to the kitchen to fill up your water bottle to take to bed.

The outside light was on.

It wasn’t yours, but your neighbours. It was motion-sensored, you knew that because it blinded you every time you stumbled back from a night shift.

You frowned before crossing to the door, to close the blinds over the glass so no one would be able to see into your home in the middle of the night. Your hand tangled in the string before it froze, along with the rest of your body. Like your blood had frozen to ice inside you and made you a dead weight to the floor.

Michael was standing under the light, 50 yards away from your door. He was staring sightlessly at you through the empty eyes of his mask, utterly emotionless. His hands rested unclenched by his sides, his back razor-straight as always. He was just watching. His form gave no indication of how long he’d been there. Maybe hours.

Fear shot through you and the string began to shake violently in your grip as you stared at him. He’d come to finish what he’d started, you realised in horror, he’d noticed his mistake in leaving you alive. Was it so you couldn’t tell the police? Was it just that you needed to die, he’d had you in his grasp and that was that, a rageful itch under his skin that wouldn’t be quenched until your blood was soaking his hands?

It didn’t make sense. He was stood in the street, bathed in your neighbours motion light like a bloody homing beacon. Surely they’d seen him. Surely someone had seen him and called the police? Why weren’t there any sirens? It was deathly quiet. Just you, him and the wind. Maybe it was a fever dream, a sleep paralysis nightmare and your demon had returned to you.

He began walking leisurely towards the door, his pace bone-tinglingly unhurried as ever, before he stopped at the glass and peered down at you. You shrank, paralysed with fear. You’d somehow forgotten just how big he was. He might have been two foot taller than you, and just as broad, taking up the whole of the door so he blacked out any light behind him. That was as good a metaphor as any to describe Michael. The darkness followed him.

You didn’t know why you weren’t moving, dazzled, you supposed somewhere in the back of your mind. A monster brought to life, in front of you, enough to convince yourself that you were dreaming.

His fist shattered through the glass, shards of glittering ice hitting the kitchen floor as his hand curled down to find the handle. You screamed, backing off so violently your back hit the fridge and tears wept down your cheeks until they were quite literally soaking the front of your nightie. This was no dream. It was a nightmare incarnate.

Even his violent outburst seemed calm somehow, shattering your backdoor into shards of glass like it was nothing. His large hand found the door handle and began to rattle it, and the noise caused your brain to snap back to where it needed to be.

You forced your eyes from him, pushed yourself away from the fridge and scurried into the living room. The front door was in your sights. You didn’t know precisely what you planned to do with yourself when you got outside, your brain hadn’t made it that far yet. All you knew was that you needed to survive, and you had no chance of that locked in the same cage as this rabid animal.

You grabbed for the front door handle with a hiss of accomplishment, throwing your gaze back over your shoulder to ascertain how much time you had. No time. Michael was already in the living room, walking towards you like he had all the time in the world. You shrieked in pure terror at his towering form as you flung the door wide open, the concrete of your front step was cool on your barefoot but the sensation barely lasted a second as fingers tangled roughly in your hair and yanked you roughly until you fell onto the carpet. The open-palm of Michael’s free hand slammed the front door shut, cutting off your exit, and the oak creaked under the force of it, the foundations of the house damn-near shaking.

You scrambled onto your knees, screeching, crying, grasping at his hand in your hair, wincing when every flex of his fingers yanked at your scalp, tearing individual hairs out by the roots. He had to bend his back to hold you to the floor, his emotionless mask looking down on you. His breathing was barely audible over your devastated screams. You couldn’t move.

“Please, please, please, Michael, please don’t kill me. I didn’t tell anyone, I swear! I won’t! I don’t want to die, please let me go, please, please-”

You could barely beg, your throat hoarse, your words sobs. He didn’t respond except to drag you into the middle of the room by your hair, kicking the coffee table aside to make room for you both in the middle of the floor. One of the wooden legs of your poor table snapped under his boot before he tossed you down like a ragdoll. Your back hit the carpeted floor and it shook your whole frame. You instinctively planted your palms on the floor behind yourself, to crawl back, to spring up, you didn’t know.

Michael’s boot came to rest on your bare thigh, his weight utterly solid and you wailed as he pinned you to the floor. Your nightie had ridden up, not to the point of indecency, but enough that his boot kissed your flesh. You froze as fresh tears streamed down your face, remembering exactly what he’d done the last time he’d had you like this, as if just realising how acutely vulnerable you were in this position. Were you even wearing underwear? You didn’t think so. His boot was mere inches away from your exposed cunt, all he’d have to do was push your dress up and he’d see everything. See how fucking wet you were. You hated yourself.

“Please,” you tried again, voice barely a whisper as you looked up at him. Submissive, you realised, prey before a predator, begging for its life. “What do you want?”

He didn’t move, you could barely tell if he was breathing, just staring down at you as everything else in the world fell away. His hands were still loose by his sides, no knife, you noted, but a grim red-hued dirt on the rough palms of his hands you could identify without too much guesswork. Your stomach rolled.

His hand raised and you jolted, expecting pain, to be struck, stripped, killed.

How long had he been searching for you? Maybe he’d never left, maybe he’d been one step behind you all week, watching you sleep, watching you shower - were those twelve people dead because they lived close to you? Did you kill them?

His large hand came to rest over the front of his crotch and your mouth fell open. Not again. Why me? You were already shaking your head, breathy hitching sobs racking through you.

“No, Michael, please -”

He toed your thigh with the steel-gap of his boot, shoving it to the side, affectively opening your legs and you wanted to close your eyes, the feeling of vulnerability and shame as he spread your legs for him hurt something deep inside of you, you felt dirty and shameful in every one of your nerves. Your slick was soaking the back of your nightie and probably your carpet too. What the fuck was wrong with you?

He fell to his knees in front of you, in a way that could only have hurt, but he didn’t make a sound as his large, gore-stained hands gripped your bare thighs and tugged until you were lying in front of him. You squeaked, your legs not quite touching his, more left hanging in the air as he scraped his calloused hands down your thighs in a way that definitely didn’t make your heart speed up, no more than it was already hammering, before his palms were flat on your inner thighs, pressing them apart and into the floor. You tried immediately and desperately to close them and his grip on you tightened to the point of extreme pain, your femurs tremoring dangerously like they might snap if you moved even an inch.

You stilled completely, you couldn’t tell where he was looking, but it seemed to be right at you, that emotionless masked expression, or lack of, giving you nothing, but you could feel the rage and the dangerous power wafting off of him, you could feel the coiled strength in his fingers, the strain of his bicep muscles in his boiler suit as he held you immobile and you swallowed, shivering in fear and pitiful acceptance as you stopped struggling. If you had any hope of getting out of this alive, and as uninjured as possible, you had to stop fighting.

His pathetic, mewling hole, your brain supplied almost bitterly.

Once apparently satisfied you’d stopped struggling, MIchael’s grip on your thighs lessened somewhat, leaving deep red bruises regardless, and he shifted forwards on his knees, taking up more space between your legs, as he rucked your nightie up to your belly, sitting back a little just to stare at your pussy, exposed and dripping and vulnerable, as if getting a good look at the wet little hole that had made him come so hard the last time.

Your cheeks burned boiling hot as he looked at you, your thighs twitching conspirately to close but you forced yourself to try and calm, utterly impossible, you trembled like a newborn foal.

He dipped his head between your legs and your back arched, startled, wondering what he possibly meant to do, particularly, your horrible brain chipped in, with a mask over his face. You could hear nothing but that breathing, before it was sucked in, the nose of his mask just nudging your folds and making you jolt.

Was he - was he smelling you?

He made no noise, his body shifted an inch. What was he doing? It was like he was searching for something. He kept his nose buried against your soaping heat for a few more moments before he apparently found it. Then he was sitting back up again. Your knees were nearly knocking together in terror when his hands, fuck, how were they so big? framed your cunt, pulling at the flesh of the tops of your thighs, spreading your folds, revealing the vulnerable pink flesh of your seam, your clit.

Oh fuck.

He prodded you with a long finger a few times, painful sharp jabs until he caught the rim of your opening and sunk in to the knuckle. It burned, it burned so hot, you clenched painfully around his finger. Fuck, it felt like the size of a cock all on its own. But the finger was withdrawn as quickly as it had breached you, like a fucking dip test, but no less rough on the way out and you grimaced. You had a pretty good idea about what was to follow, and the anticipation of the pain alone was enough to make you cry again.

“You don’t have to do this,” you tried again pathetically, wondering somewhere in your mind why you were trying to distract him from fucking you, when the alternative was his heavy hands shattering your collarbone until your heart was pierced by your own brittle dagger. Survival, you kept saying to yourself, one day you might believe it, you were trying to live. Nothing else. Nothing else.

He’d already unzipped his boiler suit, you could just glimpse a sliver of pale flesh beneath but he undressed himself no further, reaching down into his trousers and pulling his cock free.

Fucking hell.

It was a goddamn fucking monster. It sat snug in Michael’s large hand, long and thick, crown red with blood and dribbling precome, it curved up slightly, in a way that was designed to attack that spot inside of you, and when he dropped it, it dipped, bobbing against his boiler suit, so heavy under its own weight it could barely hold itself up, but it did, his cock stood proud and to attention, ready for action, as he shifted down a little, hands once more finding your thighs and hauling you practically into his lap. He threw your legs over his broad hips, stretching your thigh muscles, as his cock rested hot and heavy on your pelvic bone, like a leaden weight on you. Oh fuck, you were so fucked. It was near enough the size of your thigh, and you knew it was going to wreck you.

You jerked your hips uselessly, trying in vain to put some distance between you and Michael’s thick cock, you’d never had a partner that size before, you’d never even had a toy that size. It wasn’t going to fit, it was as simple as that. Except he didn’t care.

He pressed his hips up, taking you with him, lifting your back clean off of the floor so your spine was arched uncomfortably. He paid you no mind as he gripped the base of his erection and slipped himself down through your folds.

He was silent, calm and ferocious as he pressed forward against you with so much pressure that it hurt. You could feel his heaviness hard against your pelvic bone and you trembled in fearful anticipation of what was about to happen.

Finally, Michael found what he was looking for and his thick cockhead breached your hole barely a centimetre but still you gasped, already undone by being so violently penetrated by not even a goddamn inch of that fat unforgiving head.

Michael surged forward, in triumph perhaps, or just in a hurry to get his cock stuffed deep into you as quickly as possible, but your traitorous cunt was wet enough that he slipped straight back out again, whole cock fucking upwards and jamming through your folds, gliding gloriously against your clit. You let out a loud moan and he stilled entirely except for the throb of his cock against you. You clapped your hands to your mouth and forced your eyes to the ceiling. You hadn’t meant to do that. You didn’t want to give him the sick satisfaction. It was the last thing you could keep for yourself.

Michael was a fast learner, it seemed, because this time he inched a little more slowly inside you until a good inch of solid cock was spearing you open. You thought you might die, knees knocking against his hips helplessly as he forcibly stretched you obscenely around him. You will take me, I will make it fit.

Only when he was firm in you, and you were surely going to pass out from pressure alone, did he plunge his hips forward, his whole cock sinking to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

The pain, fuck the pain was indescribable, burning, aching, stuffed full, stuffed beyond full - he didn’t care - he didn’t care that he’d probably just ripped you in half, stretched you so full you were more cock than you were yourself anymore. He didn’t care you were crying, shivering, he cared that you were an open, wet heat to warm his cock in.

Those blood-stained, murderous hands gripped your hips and an ache blossomed in your bones, your skin beneath his skin turned white to red to near-black with bloodied pressure-bruises as he gripped you hard enough you fully believed he intended to shatter bone. He could, you knew he could. It was enough to lose yourself to, you were going to pass out, you were going to die from the stress and agony forced upon your weak and small body. This was how he was going to kill you.

He moved, shifted his heavy length inside you, nudging spots of your flesh where a cock was not meant to be. He pulled out incrementally, shoved back in and oh - oh .

Your thighs shook again, trembled, as spiralling pleasure mixed with pain and your pussy clenched around his cock, contracting around it as he thrust in again, as if traitorously and deliriously pulling him in to you, to where that thick and hot pressure felt the best. He thrust in again, harder than before, faster than before, immediately picking up an athletic, robotic pace as if he were half-way through a marathon fuck, thrumming with energy. You had no time to adjust, no time to build-up - you were there immediately, clenching uncontrollably on Michael Myer’s mercilessly hard cock, your cunt fluttering and clenching on every brutal, animalistic intrusion, until you couldn’t take it anymore. There was no edge, there was just falling.

You yelped, back arching up even more than it already was, legs squeezing the small of Michael’s back as your poor cunt spasmed, coming hot and hard until you felt your own slick dribbling down the backs of your thighs. Michael didn’t stop for a second, he didn’t even slow, you nearly choked on your own spit.

He was utterly devoid of anything, breathing heavy and focused, no movement except the piston of his hips as he fucked you deep and unforgiving until you were sure his thick crown was kissing at your cervix.

Your head was hazy, eyes unfocused, you had absolutely no control over your overworked cunt anymore, whining pitifully as you came around him again, lathering his cock in your traitorous spend, praying every time that he’d slow, but he didn’t, and you felt that molten lava in your core building again until you were covered in a sheen of your own sweat, spent, exhausted. He didn’t care. He wasn’t done yet, he wanted more. He took it.

He angled his hips up, chasing a sensation, you weren’t prepared for it. He hammered into you until his hip bones were slamming against your inner thighs with enough force to shake your entire body. His cock against your sweet spot was like a punch to the gut and you screamed. Pain, pleasure, you didn’t know anymore as your hips convulsed and jerked, clamping down on him hard enough that if he were a normal man, he wouldn’t have been able to move.

But Michael was no normal man.

He held your hips down, taking your clenching orgasm for himself as he slammed into you. Being fucked into your leg-shaking release was like being volted off of this ethereal plane and into another, your eyes whitened, your brain slowed to juddering holt as dizzying, mind-numbing ohmyfuckinggodthisfeelssogood short-circuited your entire being.

Michael slammed into you one final time, unable to withstand the vice-like grip of your velvet walls any longer before he was stilling completely, his cock an erupting volcano inside of you that spurted hot white heat against your walls, filling you utterly.

Your mouth opened in shock, or exhaustion, as your whole body trembled, jerking uncontrollably in the aftershocks.

He didn’t linger. His hands left your hips first, the bruises behind ached immediately, black and devastating to your skin where even taking a breath in bothered them. Then he snapped his hips back, swollen cock slipping free of your drenched heat, sopping with white. He let it hang there, between his legs, a stark contrast against his boiler suit, and you trembled with undignified arousal. Your cunt felt wrecked, stretched wide, forced open to accommodate him, and yet your body still somehow ached for more. No, you were terrified, fighting for your life, this wasn’t real. None of it was.

He stood, using core strength alone, leaving your legs to fall heavily to the floor. They ached where the muscles had been stretched, kicking the pain in your back and your hips into eleventh gear. You’d been twisted like a pretzel for too long. You frowned. How long had he been fucking you? It felt like no time at all, it felt like days.

You pulled your nightie down as far as it would go, scrambling your legs together despite the way they twinged. You could feel him squelching between your thighs and your untouched clit twinged pitifully.

When you gathered the courage to look up at him, you saw that he’d tucked himself away and zipped himself back up. He stood tall and menacing over you, gargantuan in your living room, his head near-touching the ceiling. He was peering down at you, that devoid mask giving nothing. The utter silence was as terrifying and deafening as any death cry.

He cocked his head ever so slightly and you winced, fight or flight response, before he was turning on his heel and heading back to the kitchen.

Terror rocked through you, vomit-inducing, head-spinning terror, and you were on your feet in a heartbeat. Your mauled insides and your ruined hips complained at you but you ignored it. They would mean nothing if you were dead. Which you were about to be. He was going for a knife, surely he was. He -

The creak of the kitchen door caught you by surprise, but it took a few long minutes for your heart to stop thudding loud enough for you to realise that he wasn’t coming back in. After a few breaths, your curiosity got the better of you and you crept into the kitchen. The back door was shut, except for the hole gaped in the glass by his fist, of course, and the kitchen was empty.

You were careful with your bare feet to avoid the shards of glass on the floor, not that it would make massive amounts of difference to your ruined body, before you shakily peered through what remained of your door.

The motion detector light was on, the street was empty.

Confusion and shame rocked through you with enough force to make you tumble and you had to grip the countertop to keep yourself upright.

How on earth were you still alive? For a second time? What did the most infamous serial killer in the country get from keeping you alive?

A hot, wet hole to come in.

You could feel the ache between your legs like Michael was still there, it was a glorious, horrible burn, trembling pleasure, irrefutable depravity - the best fuck of your life.

What did that make you?

Everything was eerily quiet. Your water bottle still sat on the side. If it weren’t for the broken door and the shards of glass, it would be easy to imagine that Michael hadn't been there at all.

Except for the warm come dribbling down your thighs where he’d marked his territory inside you. You swallowed. Whether you were his next victim or his fucktoy - you couldn’t escape that you were his. And you knew, even now, with terrifying certainty, that Michael Myers was not going to let you go.

link to chapter 3

#virginal #skeleton_detective #michael myers #halloween #michael myers x reader #fanfiction #multi chapter #pls read the tags #dark fic

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blurredcolour · 6 months ago

Text

Undone Before You

[One-shot]

John Brady x Female!Reader

John Brady's wedding day with his sweetheart has arrived at last, but the war and events back home have certainly left their mark upon him. After years of waiting, he cannot help but wonder if love is really enough to build a life on? All you have to do is take him into your arms and prove that it is.

Warnings: Grieving, Death, Graveyard, Wedding, Alcohol Consumption, Catholicism (light), Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [fingering - f receiving, oral sex - f receiving, virginity loss - m/f, premature ejaculation, multiple orgasms, cum play] - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: Technically a sequel to Parting Gifts but can be read as a standalone. Special shoutout to @precious-little-scoundrel for helping foster this from day one - this is truly a product of countless DMs.

Word Count: 3728

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John Brady’s wedding day began in a graveyard, which was certainly not how he had imagined the start to one of the happiest days of his life. Yet he had also not imagined spending over a year-and-a-half as a prisoner of war, nor his own father dying back home in his absence. All told, the last four years of his life had been entirely constructed of the unimaginable, most of it horrific and unspeakable, but there had also been meeting you. Asking you for directions, insisting on escorting you home, only to become even more hopelessly lost on the cold January streets of Sioux City, Iowa. Falling in love with you over those short months the 100th trained there, the letters which you sent to sustain him throughout his time at Thorpe Abbots and later in prison camp.

The war had torn the world apart and obliterated much of the life he had known and yet it had brought him you. A woman beyond compare, who had not only waited for him, but had made the journey to New York harbor to await his return on board one of the many ships of men recently freed from German captivity. He must have imagined proposing to you a thousand times – the style of ring he would buy you, the words of devotion he would speak as he sank to one knee as he slid it onto your finger. As it was, he had barely wrapped his arms around you before the plea for you to be his bride had flown from his mouth into your sweet-smelling hair.

You were even prettier than his memory had been able to maintain.

To his immense relief, you had agreed without hesitation, pulling his lips to yours, the softest sensation he had encountered in months. It was not easy to secure a date at the local cathedral. With the war in Europe over, marriage seemed to be on everyone’s mind, and so the pair of you had opted for the first available date near the end of August. It had worked well enough, meant your family could make the trip, allowed him to make the short journey to see the family of the waist gunner, Clanton, they had lost in the Munster raid. But the agony of waiting was made all the more acute with you so close at hand, just in the guestroom. While the paid of you had committed a great deal of sneaking around to satiate your need for one another previously, something about the idea of doing so under his mother’s roof had turned his stomach and had kept his hands very respectfully to himself.

It did nothing to stop the looks of longing across the dinner table or lingering kisses good night, however. And when your parents arrived and bundled you off to a local hotel for the last few nights before the wedding, he had felt your absence like a hole in the foundation of his childhood home. The very size and depth of his feelings for you was honestly terrifying at times, leaving him feeling lost, adrift in the churning expanse of them. It was the desire for a grounding conversation that had taken him to the graveside of his father, before his mother had even risen to make breakfast. Setting a simple bouquet of cheerful, hand-picked daisies, collected during his walk over, against the headstone, he crouched down to try and initiate a facsimile of the conversation he ought to be having with the man who raised him.

“I’m getting married today, father.” John murmured in the hush of the church yard, the birds only just beginning their morning song. “Wish you could have met your daughter-in-law, she’s something else.”

He exhaled deeply at the awkward silence that ensued, driving home how truly one-sided an endeavor this was. About to give up, to straighten and make his way back to the house to put on his nicest suit, he blurted out the question that he wished he could get an answer to.

“Were you terrified? I’ve flown into combat, marched across all of Germany through ice and snow, but I feel ready to jump out of my skin. Not of marrying her – god no, would’ve done that the first day back if I could, but…of disappointing her. I love her so much, I just want to make her happy and what if I’m not…” He trailed off, birdsong quickly filling the vacuum left by his silence.

“John?”

He straightened quickly and turned towards the sight of Father Hastings making his way through the rows of headstones.

“Morning, Father.”

“Thought that might be you, you’re up with the birds this morning.” His green eyes glittered beneath bushy grey eyebrows though the rest of his hair had gone stark white. John could not help but smile a little with a sheepish shrug. “Can hardly blame you I suppose, it’s the big day after all. Nice of you to visit your father.”

John nodded as the pair of them turned to look at the headstone, a little less lonely looking courtesy of his posy of daisies.

“Suppose today would be a day to sit you down for a talk about manly responsibilities and all that. Sorry this old, unmarried man is such a poor substitute – the only advice I can offer you is to love that woman with all your heart and soul. I’ve seen the way she looks at you, I’d say you two will be just fine.”

With a rough gulp, John took a shaky breath and offered the priest a nod of thanks. Somehow the answer had still managed to make its way to him, the very words he needed to hear. “Thank you very much, Father.”

With a warm grin, Father Hastings glanced at his watch. “You’d best go home and get some breakfast in you, don’t want you fainting on me at the altar. I’ll see you at one o’clock, John.”

He huffed a short laugh. “That you will, Father.” He replied before turning to make his way home.

Time took on a hazy, hastened quality, breakfast blurring into setting up the borrowed chairs and tables in the backyard for the homespun reception before he took his shower and shaved, then carefully dressed in his suit. His thoughts strayed often to you, pondering the lengths of your preparations as well, certain you were being subjected to all manner of womanly things that were utterly unnecessary as you were already stunning, in his opinion.

Stepping into the sanctuary, bedecked with flowers by your family that very morning, stretched an undeniable grin across his face. The blooms brought the familiar space to life with beauty and fragrance, gave him something to focus on as he and his brother took their places at the front of the church along with several of his schoolmates. None of the boys of the 100th had been able to make the trip, unfortunately, though the pair of you had extensive invitations to visit on your honeymoon. Kansas, Wisconsin, New York City, Wyoming. Perhaps not conventional destinations but certainly fitting for the connections made during his time in the service.

His perception of time seemed to inverse as the doors to the sanctuary opened and you followed behind your bridal party, everything slowing to a crawl as his vision narrowed in on you. For someone who was gorgeous every day to become so breathtakingly stunning…John was briefly worried he might faint on Father Hastings after all as he struggled to take in a sufficient amount of oxygen. And yet the moment your hand landed in his, balance was suddenly restored. The pace of the clock, and of his breath, returned to normal and he found his feet by focusing on the faint shimmer of happy tears in your eyes.

Vows were spoken, rings exchanged, and your union was blessed before everything was sealed with a ceremonial kiss – much to the delight of your gathered guests. Photos followed before the entire crowd descended upon the festooned backyard of the Brady family home for champagne, sandwiches, and cake. For the cobbled-together nature of it all, it felt like utter perfection. His hand rarely surrendered its hold on yours until you demanded freedom to change into your going away dress so the pair of you might make your escape to the Canandaigua Hotel where your families had booked you several days of privacy as a wedding gift.

“For that, I suppose I can let you go, Mrs. Brady.” He murmured with a small smile, which promptly widened as your lips pressed against his, to the nigh-obnoxious tinkling of cutlery against glassware. “Get me out of here.” He tacked on, basking in your responding giggle and releasing your hand so the pair of you might flee as soon as possible.

Packed into the car with much fanfare as the sun began to set, the sudden silence inside the vehicle was striking, your gaze meeting his as he navigated his way out of town, sending you both into a short fit of laughter.

“We did it, Johnny.” You breathed, your hand coming to rest on his shoulder, making him swallow thickly as the skin well-hidden beneath the layers of his suit jacket and dress shirt still came alive at your touch.

“We sure did, sweetheart.”

He set his hand, palm-up, upon his thigh and you promptly laced your fingers with his. The feel of the bands on your ring finger immediately drew his attention, his thumb shifting to trace along them as he glanced at your brilliant smile. It was difficult to maintain his focus on the road as you lifted his hand to brush your lips against the back of it, shifting along the bench seat to press against him, laying your head on his shoulder and setting your entwined hands in your lap.

John was acutely aware of the warmth of you, the faint scent of your shampoo and hint of icing combined with champagne on your breath. His lower belly ached with the need to taste that on your tongue.

“Just ten minutes.” He breathed, perhaps more for himself than for you.

You hummed against his shoulder in response, squeezing his captive hand but making no move to release your hold on him. As you neared the westernmost of the Finger Lakes, it was his turn to lift your hand, placing a kiss of apology to the back of it before gently releasing it, navigating his way to the modest four-story hotel that had become a main-stay of the area in the 1920s. Check-in was smooth, with your small amount of luggage, and the suite your families had booked was spacious enough to include a sitting area in addition to the bedroom.

“I’m going to freshen up, I’ll be right back.” You said with an enigmatic grin that had him swallowing again, his trousers feeling slightly too tight as he pulled you in to indulge in one thorough kiss before acquiescing to your request.

Licking his lips absently, he set about slipping his suit jacket from his shoulders and hanging it in the closet, unpacking the rest of his suitcase with well-trained, military precision. The sudden appearance of your bare arms slinking around his waist from behind halted his movements, his hands dropping to your elbows to palm along the soft skin of your forearms before unentangling himself. Stepping back and turning, his breath stuttered in his throat at the vision of you in the most ineffective underclothes ever produced – truly they left very little to the imagination, practically see-through and utterly tantalizing.

“Sweetheart…” He exhaled roughly, faintly registering the way your mouth ticked up in delight before his lips descended upon yours ravenously, grasping your waist to pull you flush against him.

Feeling you arch against him, pressing closer, he shuddered slightly and quickly began to manoeuvre you towards the well-appointed bed in the middle of the room, determined to take his time and please you in an appropriate place at last. No more bathrooms or closets or whatever locked door you could hide behind. You were his wife, and he would lay you out upon the bedding and worship your body accordingly. You let out a faint squeak as the backs of your calves found the mattress and he pulled his lips from yours to guide you to lay upon the pillows, shucking off his dress pants and shirt to remain only in his singlet and boxers.

Taking a moment to drink in the sight of you, laid out on the bed like some kind of offering, he took a deep breath before crawling onto the duvet beside you, trailing hot kisses down your neck as the hand not supporting his body began kneading at each of your breasts in turn, teasing the fabric of your lingerie against your nipples. Soft noises of pleasure echoed from your throat, sealed between bitten lips, swallowed down.

“No need to hide it now, Mrs. Brady, let me hear how good you feel.” He whispered into your ear, shuddering at the intensity of the moan his statement earned him, the sound of it sending a rush of blood straight to his cock.

“Mmm, Johnny!” You whimpered as his mouth dampened the lacy fabric over one nipple and then the other, leaving his fingers to toy with the taught bud he left in his wake.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Feels good…don’t stop…” The obvious difficulty you were having forming words stroked some egotistical part of his brain and brought a smirk to his face, eased some of the nerves that had been plaguing him for quite some time at the thought of bedding you fully.

“Good.” He murmured, quite pleased, and removed the fabric from the top half of your body, revealing an expanse of skin to be tasted and conquered by his greedy mouth.

Lips curling against the warmth of your sternum as he slid his hand between your thighs to find a generous accumulation of warm slick, he began to tease your folds until your chest was heaving beneath him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pleas falling from your lips.

“I’ve got you.” He placated with a kiss to your side, sliding from your grip to remove your underwear and settle on the bed between your thighs, the pressure against his throbbing length requiring he take a moment to steady his breath and regain his focus.

Draping your legs over his shoulders, he craned his neck forward to seal his mouth over your core and deliver a devastatingly thorough kiss to your folds. He could feel your thighs tremble against him, your fingers threading into his hair as a high-pitched moan floated down to him. It took all his self-control not to grind his hips into the mattress self-indulgently in response. As you began to buck and writhe in response to his ministrations, his hands slid beneath your buttocks to grip at your fleshy globes, both holding you still and angling you closer to his mouth, making it that much easier for him to dole out his pleasure to you.

Once again memory had failed him here, failed to capture and retain the erotic nuances of your sweet musk, and particularly combined with your newfound vocal liberty, John found himself in a new struggle for self-control. One that had him only doubling his efforts to obtain your release, wanting nothing more than to satisfy you before he attempted anything further. Plunging his tongue deep inside the alluringly plush warmth of you, and relentlessly nudging his nose against your clit, seemed to be the key to driving you over the edge as it did not take long of that combination until you were shaking and crying his name while flooding his tongue with still more sweetness.

Charting a course up your body with sporadic kisses, he smiled at you softly as he smoothed some errant hair from your face. “How’re you feeling?”

“Greedy.” Your murmur following by the sight of your teeth sinking into your lip punched the air from his lungs, gave him little warning before you pulled him down for a kiss and tugged at his undershirt.

“Yeah?” He puffed against your lips, feeling your eager nod in reply before straightening to efficiently strip himself completely, hissing a little at just how sensitive he was in his current state of arousal.

The look on your face as your eyes raked him over gave him pause, made him raise his eyebrow to confirm yet again, to which you nodded and opened your arms. Easing into them carefully, he settled his hips between yours, shivering almost violently at the smear of your slick across his length.

“Tell me if it hurts…” He ground out, throat wanting to clench up on him as he took his cock in hand, slowly pressing forward into your entrance.

While John was no stranger to the feel of your wet heat, the way it seemed to grab at his length and pull him in, wrapping around him so snuggly, had his eyes rolling back in their sockets. Pressing his face tightly against your neck, he bit off a string of curses, gritting his teeth against the prehistoric urge to slam home. Somehow prevailing upon himself to be a gentleman, he waited for your nod until moving again, the friction unlike any earthly feeling he had ever experienced, forcing an agonized moan from his throat and quickly driving his hips back into the warmth of you. Sweat beading along his hairline, he could feel his balls growing dangerously heavy and tight, the imminence of release not obeying his usual iron grip of self control in the face of the pleasure of you.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart…” He rasped in warning, in apology, before his hips seemed to take over, snapping into yours in quick succession as his orgasm overcame him.

Briefly disconnected from reality, there was only mind-numbing, blinding pleasure, until he returned to full consciousness, panting against your collarbone. Your hands were stroking lovingly across his shoulders, down his back, as you craned your neck to kiss at his temple.

“Mmmm Johnny.” You purred, not sounding the least bit annoyed with him and he slowly raised his head, eyes widening as you ducked in for a kiss. “Good?” You murmured against his lips, and he huffed a laugh.

“You are heaven itself, Mrs. Brady. I definitely didn’t intend for that to be over so quickly…”

A soft tut sounded before you were kissing him again. “How much pleasure have you given me, Mr. Brady? Thank you for letting me return the favor, though I hardly did a thing.” You smiled warmly, your fingers carding through his hair so very soothingly. “Regardless, we have our whole lives to practice.” You added with a mischievous grin that sent a molten flash of desire through his abdomen.

“Why Mrs. Brady…” He smirked slowly and nipped at your lower lip, fingers seeking out your still weeping core, determined to finish what he had started with his cock. “…that sounds an awful lot like a proposition.”

Your gasp as he found his target had his tongue dragging across his lower lip.

“Is it a proposition when you’re my husband?” Your voice took on a deliciously breathless quality as he sunk two fingers into you, but he was immediately distracted by the extra slickness he found there, suddenly recognizing that you were full of his cum.

Yet another jolt of desire rocketed to the apex of his thighs, and he found himself sinking lower down the bed, driven by deep curiosity as he continued to work you towards released. The sight of his white, sticky mess dripping from you as you once again began to climb towards climax, his thumb circling at your begging clit – it was all having an unexpectedly powerful effect on him.

“Uhn, Johnny s’good…please…” You whined and he pressed his lips to your quaking inner thigh in acknowledgement.

He could feel you beginning to tighten around his fingers, a sure sign you were not far off, and one subtle pump of his cock confirmed he was fully hard, by some miracle. That miracle being the sheer eroticism of you, surely. Pulling his fingers from you earned him a pitiful cry of protest and he quickly pressed his lips to yours.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He soothed, taking a deep, steadying breath before thrusting into the sinful heat of you.

The mixture of your cries was practically pornographic, the fingers of his left hand lacing through yours, his wedding band pressing tightly to your skin, as the thumb of his right kept up the pressure on your clit as he managed twice as many thrusts this time. Combined with the thorough groundwork he had lain, it was enough. Enough to push you first into orgasm, clenching around him so tightly he forgot how to breathe, vision going white as he followed quickly behind with a cry so intense it erupted silently against your shoulder.

Laying on your backs, shoulder to shoulder with your fingers still semi-intertwined, panting weakly, John turned his head to find you already smiling at him adoringly.

“I love you, Mr. Brady.”

“Good thing too, can’t return me now, Mrs. Brady.” He smirked and kissed the scoff right off your face, caressing your neck warmly. “C’mon let me run you a bath.”

“Mmm, we sure made a mess didn’t we…” You remarked, shifting to stand.

“Sure we will again, too.” He chuckled, knowing full well he had a lot of practice ahead to perfect his technique. It was something he found himself very much looking forward to. Following your lead, he slid to his feet, retrieving your lingerie from the floor. “We also should get you new underwear, sweetheart. These really do absolutely nothing to cover you up…” He remarked, holding out the flimsy garment hooked on his fingertips with a raised eyebrow.

“They were a gift for you, Johnny…seeing as you stole my last pair.” You raised a pointed eyebrow in return, and he feigned complete innocence.

“Have no idea what you mean sweetheart, c’mon now, bath.” He slid his arm around your waist, kissing your temple as he guided you into the ensuite, knowing full well those pilfered panties were still hidden in the bottom of his footlocker back home.

-------------------------

Masters of the Air Masterlist

#john brady x reader #john brady imagine #john brady #john brady fic #ladies who brady #mota fic #masters of the air fanfic

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babygorewhore · 1 year ago

Text

Motive.

Tate Langdon imagine.

On Halloween, you and your boyfriend Tate are on a date. As you talk about his past as the slasher, Ghostface, he comes to realize that he needs to be punished for his actions.

Can you tell Scream is my favorite slasher series? WARNINGS. Sub! Tate. Mommy kink. Degrading. Dom! Reader. Knife play. Blood play. Talk of violence. Oral! Male and female receiving. PnV! Overall filth. Brief Tate POV.

Halloween was your favorite day of the year. Not only was the weather perfect, the best scary movies were released, costumes became creative but also because Tate could go out and venture into the world.

This was your second Halloween together. The first year you went to the beach. A place he admitted used to be his designated spot whenever he needed to escape. You had discussed back and forth before ultimately deciding to have your date at a graveyard.

It filled your gothic heart.

Your relationship was exciting, despite his eternal life as a ghost.

Tate carried the blanket and bottle of liquor you bought on your way home. The walk wasn’t far, allowing you to wear platform shoes that went along with your costume. You were dressed as the Scarlet Witch. Trading in your black clothing for red.

Tate allowed you to paint his face with makeup, skeletal features were his preference. It took you almost an hour but you wanted to be precise. You slicked his curly hair back with product. But he would do anything you asked. He was your good boy. You held your own bag close to your body.

A week ago, you gifted him a cellphone. For reason one, he could contact you while you were working. And secondly, it would make tonight even better. It was secured in his denim pocket. He wasn’t able to hold your hand, so you opted to hold the crook of his elbow.

You stepped through the entrance of the cemetery. The overhanging metal curved over your head as your eyes swept over the hundreds of tombstones. “This way, baby.” Tate gestured with his head towards the left. You allowed yourself to be guided.

Your feet padded over the grass. It was dark, but the adjacent streetlight gave you enough ability to see your path.

Tate led you down the narrow section between a towering tree and a collection of tombstones before he pulled you to a stopping point in front of a smaller one. “Here I am.” He smirked, his skeleton makeup curving, turning to look at you.

The modest headstone was ordinary, without any flowers to commemorate the loss. You nodded as you registered the name.

Tate Langdon 1977- 1994. Loving son.

You chuckled breathlessly at his joke. “This is one hell of an idea, having a date in front of your own grave.”

Tate quirked an eyebrow before pulling you to a seated position, setting the blanket down on the ground and alcohol aside. You both hadn’t bothered with cups, planning on just drinking out of the bottle, something you’d both done several times. He wrapped his arm around you, your head nuzzled on his shoulder.

“What was your motive, Tate? Being Ghostface?” It was before you were born but everyone heard about the killing spree during 1994. It started with one murder, a teenage girl strung up on a tree. Before it escalated to a principal. Those weren’t enough to raise concerns until the last night when the killer was caught.

It was at a party. A curfew had been given but a group of teens threw a gathering anyway. Two more people were murdered. Brutally. One girl was inside a dog door inside the garage. The man’s throat had been slit and he was dragged across the front of a van.

The murderer wore a gown and a mask.

Tate Langdons identity was revealed after he had been gunned down by the swat team. He took too long at the house as the police were called. The term Ghostface had been taken as a joke before it ultimately stuck with him. But he never revealed why he did it. Even during the last seconds of his life. Yet, his soul remained in the very home he was killed in.

He had been shot down in the Murder House.

You’d seen the apparel once. When he played the same game with you after class several weeks ago. Where he fingered you, used the very blade he commented the crimes with. It gave him pleasure to scare you. Or try too.

“My motive?” He asked, glancing down at you. He didn’t like to talk about his past. He hated answering questions because he didn’t want to relive it. He was always paranoid you’d leave him if he explained. You knew the relationship was toxic. But you still loved him.

Besides. He was already dead. What more could he do?

“Yes. Why did you do it?” You lifted your chin upward, watching as he clenched his jaw.

“Who said I needed a reason?” You pursed your lips as he teased you.

“Tate. Be serious. Why? Why did you kill them?”

Several seconds of silence followed. All you felt was the pattern of his breathing.

“I wanted to die. And I wanted to take people with me. I wanted to scare them. I wanted them to think they had a chance to escape me. I wanted my mother to know exactly what kind of monster she created. That’s why I killed her boyfriend. I wanted her to know the pain she made me feel.”

You allowed the confession to hang in the air. It wasn’t fear you felt, more like a realization that Tate had been dangerous. Your loving, doting and obsessed boyfriend had been a killer. He knew exactly how to press the blade down on your skin without breaking it. He knew how to walk without making noise. He enjoyed seeing you beg for him. Beg for his cock. Beg for him to let you finish.

But you wanted him to have a turn. He needed to experience it.

“Mmm. Did you like being covered in blood?” You asked, your voice soft despite the disturbing question.

Tate swallowed. “I didn’t really think about it.” You nodded and pulled your hands in your lap. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, instead starting at the stone.

“Do you ever think about me, covered in blood?” You withheld a smile when he took a sharp inhale. He blinked.

“Y-yes.” He looked down at you but you reached up, taking his chin between your thumb and pointer finger. You set his jaw straight.

“Did I say you could look at me?” Tate shakes his head obediently.

“Good boy. Do you ever think about…me killing someone?” His lips parted and he heavily inhaled through his nose.

“Yes.” He half whispered, half whined.

“Have you thought about fucking me in the costume? Using the knife on me again? While I’m covered in someone else’s blood?”

Tate shifted on the ground, his eyes glazing as he tried to keep his focus ahead. “Babe-“

“Don’t interrupt me, Tate. Be good and answer only when I tell you to.” You sternly commanded. “Yes or no?”

“Yes.” He shakily answered. You needed to push a little harder, just a bit to get exactly what you needed.

“What are you thinking about now, Tate? And make sure you’re honest.” You kept watching him. His teeth grazed his lower lip, despite the paint and his hand started to drift to his pants.

“I want to splay you on the ground, right here. Right now. I want to spread your legs, taste you with my mouth before I fuck you senseless. Until you can’t wait. And then do it all over again.” You quirked an eyebrow before your hand fell to his thigh.

“What about you, baby? Don’t you want me to make you feel good? To suck your dick? Make you cum in my mouth?” He shivered and his fingers drifted to his crotch.

“I’d rather feel you cum. I don’t care about me. All I want is you.” You hummed and your finger tips grazed his growing erection.

“Mmm. You’re such a sweet boy, Tate. Do you like it when my legs are around your head? Do you like that?”

Tate’s hand finally palmed his dick and you smiled in triumph. You lifted yourself from his embrace and you grabbed his wrist.

“Tate. Did I say you could touch yourself? Don’t you remember our rules?” Tate’s eyes widened in response and you shook your head disapprovingly.

The rules consisted that Tate was not allowed to touch himself without permission. Neither were you. Along with a safe word. Mercy.

“I’m sorry-I thought you-“

Your hand raised and wrapped around his neck. You pulled him close as he grunted from the pressure. You squeezed steadily the sides of his throat and you leaned in, hovering over his mouth. “Mmm, my sweet little boy. Getting hard over me being drenched in blood. You’re absolutely pathetic.”

Tate’s eyes glasses over and his lip slightly trembled. “Mama-please-“ He leaned in to kiss you but you pulled your head away.

“I don’t think so, Tate. I think…you need to be punished. Would you agree?” You proposed and he swallowed heavily. Fear prickling his expression.

“Do whatever you want to me. Just let me touch you, please.” Tate placed his hands on your waist, squeezing gently and causing your knee to settle inbetween his legs. “Please, please let me touch you. I can make it up to you. I promise, baby. I can’t stand the thought of you mad at me.”

He laid down, his hair like a blonde halo on the ground as he stared up at you, your hand still wrapped around his neck. He looked so submissive. So willing to make you happy. Ready for you to use him however you fucking wanted.

And you will.

“You’ll make it up to me?” You whispered. Tate started grinding his dick down on your knee, humping like a bitch in heat.

“Yes, anything. I’ll do anything for you.” He encouraged, slipping his fingers down to your waistband, your dark leggings stretching as he attempted to touch your underwear.

Removing your hand from his throat, you slapped him across the face. Tate grimaced from the impact, his head jolting to the side and he blinked at you with watery eyes.

“I didn’t say you could touch me, Tate.” He leaned up, taking his hands off your torso and buried his face in your breasts.

You attempted to push him down but he was a lot stronger than you despite his slender form. His arms wrapped around your hips, making you straddle his pelvis.

“Mama-I’m sorry-I just need you. I want to make you cum. I want you to be proud of me-please let me be good. I promise you’ll be proud of me…” He was begging. You almost gave in, withholding a moan as he pressed kisses on your costume covered breasts but you needed to stick with your plan.

“Tate, if you want to make me feel good. Lay down. Lay down nice and slow for me, baby.” He quickly pulled away, his face paint smudged as he slowly laid his body down on the grass.

You were situated above him, powerful and he was willing to obey every command you gave him. Reaching your hand down, you brushed his cheek with your fingers and he contently leaned in to your touch. “Now, I want you to close your eyes. Keep them closed until you know exactly when to open them.” You instructed in a clear voice.

Tate opened his mouth to protest but you gripped his chin between your fingers. Leaving nail imprints. “What did I say about disobeying me?” He shut them immediately after that. You smirked. Now, the real fun could begin.

Carefully, you brought yourself to stand. Your boots crunching the grass beneath you while walking to your bag. Digging through it, your hands locked around a lightweight but long, black gown. Slipping it on, you then pulled out the last needed item.

The Ghostface mask. And the same blade Tate used on you.

Slipping it over your hair and face, you started walking away as quiet as you could. Then, you tucked the knife to your belt inside the gown. If Tate heard running, he would open his eyes too soon. You disappeared in the bustle of trees across the cemetery before stepping behind the church. Smiling wickedly, you pulled out your cellphone.

Tate was growing impatient. He listened to your footsteps carefully, trying to figure out where you were before they disappeared entirely. Seconds passed, he felt alone. Despite your warnings, Tate opened his eyes and sat up.

You were gone.

Panic set in and he jumped to his feet. What if something was wrong? His breathing grew heavier as he jogged through the area, desperately searching for any signs of you. “Y/n!” He called out but no answer came.

“Fuck. Fucking shit.” He ran his fingers through his mused hair and stepped forward in the direction of the church, but his cellphone started ringing.

Tate frowned and looked at his pocket. Only one person knew of his number. Maybe you needed help. He dug it out of the material and pressed it to his ear.

“Y/n, are you okay? Where are you?”

“Hello, Tate Langdon.” He froze and his eyes widened. The voice on the other end.

Was Ghostface. The very same alteration he used in 1994. The same he used to call Y/N.

He opened and closed his mouth, unable to come up with a response. It was all a trick. It was Y/N. But…how did she sneak it past him?

“Don’t you know it’s bad manners not to respond to a greeting?” Ghostface prodded and Tate cleared his throat.

“Hey. Y/N, is that what you were planning? Where are you?”

“Tate, you’ve been such a bad boy. Dreaming about your girlfriend killing someone.” He huffed out an embarrassed breath and scanned the area around him.

“This-this isn’t funny, asshole.” He muttered under his breath.

“Oh, I’d be careful about calling me names, Tate. You wouldn’t want me to slit that pretty neck of yours, would you?” Ghostface leered. Tate chuckled and started moving towards the trees.

“That wouldn’t matter. I’m already dead.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be punished, Tate. For all the things you did to those poor, innocent people.”

“Innocent?” He parroted.

“Yes. In fact, I wonder if movies influenced you. Movies can be a powerful inspiration. Tell me…what’s your favorite scary movie?” Tate squatted down, trying to see evidence of your boot prints but he didn’t see anything.

“Do you really have to go through the whole speech? I asked too many questions.” He said to himself.

“Is that a refusal to my question? Mmm, Tate. You just can’t listen, can you?” Ghostface teased and he sighed with frustration.

“Where are you?”

“Aw, you look so pretty when you’re desperate.” He looked around, realizing you must be close by, able to see his expression. Instead of answering, he crept closer to the church.

“What happens if I find you?” He asked, excitedly looking for you.

“Then, you get to make me cum. Just like you want.” Tate groaned and quickly looked behind the building.

No one was there.

He went to speak before a hand gripped his hair, yanking him back and a sharp blade pressed against his neck. He gasped.

“You didn’t think it be that easy, did you?” Y/N said, her voice still altered. Tate wanted desperately to turn around and pound her on the ground but the knife nicked his skin.

Blood trickled down and the hand that gripped his hair, traveled down his face, to his throat. Her finger collected the plasma and smeared it across his lips.

“Please, Christ I can’t take it anymore. Please, let me fuck you. I’m begging you, please y/n.” Tate pleaded. Y/N turned him around.

He stared down at her, her gown hung on her body. The mask was secure and she aimed the knife at his chest. “Sorry, I just wanted to hear you scream.”

“Get on your back.” You commanded. Tate fell to the ground, landing underneath you and you smiled behind the mask. Finally, he was listening. With your free hand, you unbutton his jeans and yanked them down.

You lifted his shirt up, exposing his v line and the thin patch of hair. His dick was hard and prominent through his boxers. A wet patch of precum staining it. You shook your head, taking the blade and lightly tracing it across his skin.

Tate inhaled sharply and bucked his hips. Humping the air as you played with the knife. His hand lifted and you smacked his crotch with the handle. He stilled, panting as you peeled off the mask. You set the blade down, hooking your fingers around his waistband and then you pulled it down his legs.

His cock hung heavy, thick and red at the tip. “So needy, baby.” Your voice was back to normal. You lowered yourself on your stomach, wrapping your hand around his dick before licking a single stripe along the vein.

Tate whimpered with a high pitch whine as his hand flew to your hair. Allowing the grip, you pulled the tip to your lips and started sucking gently. His fingers pulled your hair, hard enough to hurt but you massaged his cock with your hand as you bobbed your head up and down.

He was a mess, moaning and shaking as you gave him head. “I’m gonna-I’m gonna cum.” He grunted. His climax rushed through, gushing out of your mouth as you helped him ride out his orgasm.

You pulled back, your lipstick smeared and you wiped your chin with the back of your hand. Before you had a chance to breathe, Tate flipped you over, immediately smashing his lips to yours. As he shoved his tongue in your mouth, hungrily kissing you, his hand frantically felt your torso. You kissed him back feverishly, pulling his hair as he sank his teeth into your lower lip.

You mewled as he ripped himself away and then sloppily kissing your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks. “You’re mine, all fucking mine.” He pleaded like a prayer as he rocked his hips against yours, his hardening dick against you.

As submissive as he was, Tate could also fuck you like it was his last time ever doing so. You were lost in the growing pleasure as he brushed his tongue against your sweet spot. He fumbled to pull your leggings down and underwear down, any coordination gone as he shoved himself down. You wanted to resist, regain control but he pried your legs apart.

“Tate-“ You started but he shook his head. He opened his mouth, laid his tongue flat against your pussy as he started lapping away at your clit.

“No, no, don’t tell me to stop. I need this, mommy.” He moaned against your cunt as he circled his tongue around the sensitive bundle of nerves. You tried to withhold your sounds but he grazed your pussy with his teeth. “No, I want to hear how good this feels.” Tate dug his fingernails into your thighs to keep you still, dragging them painfully but deliciously down. You felt the hilt of the knife against your entrance and you looked down. Tate’s eyes were black as he effortlessly slipped the handle inside you. The foreign feeling pumped in and out as his mouth worked your swollen pussy. You weren’t going to last much longer as he increased the speed.

A overpowering wave of pleasure exploded and you couldn’t make any noise as you trembled. Tate finally pulled back and removed the handle from you. He crawled up, cupping your chin before he kissed you. Forcing you to taste your own cum.

“I need to fuck you,” He moaned against your lips as he shuffled clumsily to line himself up with your cunt.

He nipped your lip too hard, blood pooled from the small wound and he repeated your earlier actions. Smudging your mouth with blood as he bottomed you out. “Fuck.” He growled. “You look so hot with blood on your skin.”

You arms wrapped around his shoulders as he thrusted, deep inside you, hard enough to hit your cervix but you loved the pain. His movements were growing sloppy. “Don’t cum until I say, Tate. Or else I’ll have to punish you again.”

But he couldn’t listen, his speed thudded inside you and you felt him spill inside you, he squeezed his eyes shut from the orgasm as he came to a stop. He ripped them back open in fear as he understood his mistake. “I’m sorry-you just felt so good-“ He pleaded but you wouldn’t have it.

You pushed him off, forcing him on his stomach as you straddled his back. His bare pelvis pressed against the ground as you trailed your fingers down his skin.

“Now, you’re really going to scream.”

Taglist. @howtobesasha @scene-and-dandylover @evanptrss @randodummy @icannot3 @ifeeltoofuckingmuch @alittlesil @fuckedbykai @hyperharlz

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bucketsofmonsters · 1 month ago

Text

Where the Light Enters - Part 11

cw: unreliable narrator, hurt/comfort, slow burn, eventual sex, enemies to lovers, past childhood sexual assault, past sex trafficking, referenced noncon, past nonconsensual body modification, happy ending, the tags look scary but this is mainly a story about recovery

Cole/Female Inquisitor

word count: 3k

ao3 link

Masterlist

Without his hat on, it was incredibly clear how much Cole’s hair hung in his eyes. It might even grow now, in his new form, and she wondered if he’d let her cut it.

Honestly, Josephine had probably wanted to have it cut, but it was enough of a hassle getting him in fancy enough clothes to attend the ball and to get him to take his hat off. He kept pulling at the neck of his shirt, like he was trying to escape it from the inside.

He’d been more than happy to help her get ready. He’d put her hair up in elaborate braids that had managed to convince Josephine to send away the hair stylist she was inflicting on most of the Inquisition. Cole managed to avoid her too, although he did it by running off instead of by having perfectly done hair. She didn’t seem to care about him enough to have him tracked down, cutting her losses.

The braiding had taken longer than it had the last time. He was a little clumsier with his fingers now but the end product was just as impressive and she didn’t mind taking the extra time.

The dress fittings, however, Cole had not managed to get her out of, taking hours and hours as they decided what the face of the Inquisition should look like.

In the end, the dress fit and she could walk in it which was all she really needed from it at the end of the day.

She’d also made Cole eat before they left, despite his insistence that he fought better when he was lighter and they might need to fight. She countered that by reminding him that the food at the ball would be an area with large crowds of people and she would not be fetching him anything should he need to eat.

That had been enough to convince him.

They’d been figuring out his new form, slowly but surely. He didn’t need to eat much but he did need to eat something every now and again.

He hadn’t had to sleep yet, but she could see him get tired sometimes and had a feeling it was coming. She thought he wouldn’t mind sleeping. He always said he felt too heavy now, and she thought sleep might let him feel lighter again, at least for a little while.

But that was a matter for when they weren’t surrounded by people. Basically everyone she knew in the Inquisition was attending the party, and she had to make nice with all of them.

She really didn’t understand why she was going at all. She wasn’t a diplomat but she did have a magic, world saving hand. Surely protecting that was more important than parading her around to every noble they could find.

And yet, she couldn’t weasel her way out of this one. Josephine seemed to think her attendance was vital to winning the war, and she had gotten tired of trying to find an easy way out of it. How bad could it really be?

At least most of the Inquisition looked as ill content as she felt. She was putting on a facade of quiet excitement, but clearly most of them didn’t even care enough to try.

All the advisors were at least working on looking content, to varying degrees of success. Leliana and Josephine looked like they belonged and Cullen was also trying, she supposed. He looked, frankly, like he wanted to crawl out of his skin, but the grimace on his face was an attempt at a smile.

Sera and Blackwall were commiserating in the corner, Sera poking at him as he did his best to look dignified, standing up perfectly straight like a good little soldier.

Solas and Bull were standing together, both looking out of place in their fancy get up. Bull kept pulling his arms back, flexing his shoulders like he’d never faced anything worse than being forced into a shirt and Solas had this dorky little hat on that he kept fidgeting with. She wondered for a moment if maybe the people who had dressed him disliked him as much as she did.

Vivienne, Dorian, and Varric seemed to be the only three actually enjoying themselves. Cassandra was with them too, and while she looked shockingly like she belonged, she was clearly not comfortable.

Dorian seemed to be having a splendid time informing the other three of how childish this would seem in comparison to a real Tevinter party. Vivienne swore she could outdo anything in Tevinter while Varric insisted that a real party involved significantly more booze. Cassandra stood stock still, completely silent.

Bull cut into their conversation, saying, “Booze would be a good start. A real party needs more debauchery, all the nobles have sticks up their asses.”

“Hear hear!” Sera called from across the room.

Vivienne scoffed but sounded amused.

Solas scoffed and did not.

They entered the party with all the bells and whistles, being properly announced and walking down the hall. They skipped Cole, and she wondered who had been responsible for that, the hosts, Josephine, or Cole. Regardless, she imagined Cole wasn’t that torn up about it.

As they finished their procession and filed in, beginning to blend in amongst the guests, Rosemary noticed a familiar face they had not brought with them. That Dalish scout that Sera had taken a shine to was there, milling about anxiously. She looked incredibly nervous, and Rosemary assumed Sera had snuck her in because it seemed very unlikely she’d come willingly.

She decided to ignore the infraction. She’d prefer if this was what Sera was dedicating her time to. She was capable of far worse.

Cole was nowhere to be seen and she made a mental note to sneak out and find him later, either to drag him back to the party or to hide away with him depending on how things were going.

Everyone seemed to be milling about, some dancing starting up in the middle of the hall where people had done their grand entrances.

She watched Josephine pull Blackwall to the side, having a quiet discussion with him that made his face turn scarlet.

And then, in a shocking turn of events, she pulled him out onto the dance floor and they began to dance.

He clearly knew none of the steps, just following her lead as best he could. She heard a few snickers from the nobles around her, but Josephine seemed pleased with herself and Blackwall couldn’t stop staring down at her.

Her attention was drawn away from the stilted flirting in front of her by the caller, who’d announced everyone’s titles at the start, taking his position once again, announcing in a mildly panicked voice, “If anyone sees any horses attending the party please notify the staff immediately, they were not intended to be here.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sera’s stowaway go rigid and then go running out of the room and couldn’t help but smile. At least someone was having fun.

She was too distracted by the sight to notice Bull sidling up beside her, jumping a little as he said, “Bit stuffy in here, isn’t it.”

She nodded, smiling up at him. “Absolutely. I miss Skyhold.”

“Maybe we can dance later, when Josie’s done with her diplomacy and us making fools of ourselves won’t mess anything up.”

Her brows raised. “You think Josephine is ever done with diplomacy?”

“Fair point. Still, if you wanted to, I’m sure we could manage something. Show them what real dancing looks like.”

“Of course,” she said with a laugh and full intention to disappear before she had to dance with anyone. “I would love to.”

She made herself scarce after that, Dorian filing in behind her to talk to Bull. He was welcome to it. Maybe if she was lucky, he’d keep his attention all night.

She slipped outside, doing her very best to blend in with the crowds. She’d almost stolen an Orlesian mask to try and blend in but figured her dress in bright, inquisition colors would be too much of a giveaway. Now she wished she’d done it anyway. At least it would have been something.

She was stopped every few feet, everyone wanting to get a chance to speak with her. Many of them were familiar faces that she’d spent long stretches of time wooing to the Inquisition’s side.

She just hated crowds like this. They always made her a little sick. One on one, she could handle them perfectly, get them to her side easily and effortlessly, throwing in a few harmless lies, just in case.

Together, it was impractical. She could not remember what she’d told each of them and she could not be the person each of them wanted to see, not all at once. So instead she was left shuffling through, feeling queasy and disoriented at the sheer number of people.

They kept touching her. Little grazes as she walked by, grabbing her arm to lead her around, getting in her space to whisper secrets she could barely make out and never remember.

She was normally fine with this, she didn��t know why it felt so hard right now.

She made a bad excuse about feeling faint and needing some air to her newest conversation partner, who she vaguely remembered flirting relentlessly with months ago but whose name she could not recall, and quickly made her exit.

She broke into a run as soon as she felt the night air wash over her, refreshing after the stuffy air of the ballroom. She wandered towards the gardens, which seemed unoccupied and largely out of sight. Right now, that was all she really needed.

The flowers were beautiful, winding in carefully cut patterns with their bright colors tactfully placed to draw the eye. She couldn’t have cared less, sticking her foot in the lattice surrounding the greenhouse to test if they’d take her weight.

They were made of some golden metal, shined to perfection, and they seemed more than happy to hold her up, not so much as creaking as she stood with her foot in one of the lower notches.

She tentatively placed her other foot on a higher one, and when that yielded no ill results, she began to climb.

Climbing was a difficult feat to do in a ballgown, but she’d done harder in less practical outfits. She would survive.

She heaved herself over the edge and settled on the roof, arranging her skirts just in case someone entered the greenhouse, so they wouldn’t see anything untoward through the glass ceiling.

She watched a figure approach the greenhouse from a distance and even without the distinctive silhouette of his hat, she could tell it was Cole.

She watched him begin to scale the side of it, unable to simply appear beside her the way he used to. She didn’t mind. She liked watching him move, lithe and graceful, quietly beautiful.

He sprung up onto the roof more gracefully than she had, but in her defense he was not wearing pounds of skirts and heeled shoes.

The first thing he said as he settled beside her was, “I don’t want you to cut my hair.”

He stared at her through a curtain of blonde that must be blocking his vision. He’d wanted to say it earlier she was sure, but they’d been keeping their interactions in front of Bull to a minimum.

She laughed and said, “Just around the eyes, just so you can see better.”

“I do like seeing,” he relented. “The hair didn’t stop me before but now it’s hard.”

“It’s settled then,” she says with a nod. “We’ll cut it a little and then you’ll be able to see just fine.”

He seemed content with this, if not pleased. She wondered sometimes if this was too much change for him, everything shifting all at once. She had no idea how long he’d been alive as a spirit, everything the same, and then he’d gotten tied to her and everything had gone topsy turvy.

“I don’t know how long I was a spirit,” he said. “It’s hard to be someone in there. It’s just drifting and feeling and a purpose you’re too far away to do anything about. Nothing felt real until I was here. And then I got pulled back in and I needed to leave, needed to be something again.”

“That’s why you tied yourself to me?”

He nodded. “It was a bad idea. You were dangerous and unstable and ready to thrash and kill anything close. I just needed to go. I needed to be.”

“And now you are.”

He nodded, resolute. “Now I am.”

Sometimes she worried speaking with Cole too much might mess up her speech. She’d begun to understand him too well, following his winding thoughts with ease.

Or maybe his speech was less stilted now, shifting to follow everyone else. She supposed she couldn’t really know.

They had a good view of the party from here, massive windows revealing most of the ballroom to them.

Bull was easy to spot, towering above the rest of the guests. He was off in a secluded corner with Dorian, and they watched the pair of them begin to dance, Bull moving hesitantly as Dorian guided him through the steps.

“Wouldn’t you be a really good dancer?” she asked. “Could you not just pull the steps out of someone’s head and then mirror them perfectly?”

Cole shook his head. “Too many steps at once, the music drowns them out and my feet don’t listen right.”

“Josephine taught me some. Would you want to try?”

“She didn’t teach me any,” he informed her, which she had already presumed.

“That’s fine, you’ve gotta start somewhere. Come on.”

She went to the edge of the greenhouse, throwing her leg over the ledge so she could begin to climb down and find some less precarious ground to dance on.

She found them a fairly flat section of the garden and held out her hand. “Come on, I don’t bite.”

He took it and stood absolutely still, just staring down at it.

There was no music but she didn’t mind and she didn’t imagine it would help Cole at all. He’d seemed to find it more distracting than anything.

He spoke softly, like he was afraid of breaking the peace they’d found amongst the flowers. “I don’t know any dances.”

“That’s fine, I didn’t think you did. Oh, you know what we could try? People used to do this for me all the time. You step on my toes and I dance for the both of us.”

As he stepped on her toes, she realized how much taller than her he was. It was difficult to remember usually. His posture was so poor and the hat gave the illusion that he stopped lower down than actually he did, but now, without the hat and with him stepping on her feet, it was obvious.

She knew almost instantly that this wasn’t going to work. She supposed it made sense, she’d been a lot lighter back then, when this trick was pulled on her.

“Okay,” she said with a huff. “You’re too heavy, get off.”

“I used to be able to be lighter,” Cole said. “My body forgot how.”

New plan,” she said, hitching up her skirts a little and tucking then underneath the bottom of her corset to keep them up, so he could see her feet more clearly. “Just watch what I’m doing and keep your feet next to mine. We’ll keep it simple.”

He tried incredibly hard, she could not fault him for that. Despite that, he was a mess, feet constantly colliding with both hers and his own.

“You think three steps ahead and my feet try to follow the plan,” he said, in way of an apology.

He stepped on her foot and she laughed at how absurd it was. Cole did not laugh, intently focused on his feet, trying to move them alongside hers.

She could tell he was happy anyways.

They only managed a few minutes of it before Rosemary had laughed herself into a stitch in her side, unable to continue on. Cole tried to practice the moves on his own but kept getting too complicated, trying to move both feet at once or trying to move one right through where the other was.

“Nice try,” she said through giggles and he shot her a knowing look.

“You are lying.”

“I am,” she said. “You’re really awful. You fight like you’re dancing and dance like you’re at war with your feet.”

He looked down at his feet accusationally, like maybe they did have ill intent towards him.

She was about to see if she could goad him into trying just one more time so she could really commit it to memory when she heard someone off in the distance calling her name. She looked back towards the ballroom and saw a couple people wandering outside, evidently searching for her.

She sighed. “I’d better get back before they decide I’ve been kidnapped. Do you think they’ll get mad if I get drunk?”

Cole thought for a long moment and she was convinced he was trying to pull the answer out of someone’s head until he asked, “Do you think I can get drunk?”

She grinned back at him. “Only one way to find out.”

#dai cole #cole dai #cole dragon age #dragon age cole #dragon age inquisition #dai #colemance #where the light enters #In which Britches manages to go through Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts with no idea anything at all had gone down

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biolizardboils · 1 year ago

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Presenting, for possibly the first time anywhere on the entire Internet... the Official 3-D Hypno-Ring instruction manual!

Transcription and extra notes under the cut!

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OFFICIAL 3-D Hypno-Ring™ Instruction Manual

WARNING: Improper use of this ring may result in irreversible mental disturbances and severe psychological trauma. Keep out of reach of mad scientists and evil geniuses.

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⚡ WELCOME to the WONDERFUL WORLD of HYPNOSIS! ⚡

In this booklet, you’ll learn how to use your new 3-D Hypno-Ring to amaze your friends, control your enemies, and rule the world!

[NOTE: This ring is for entertainment purposes only. The Li’l Wiseguy Novelty Company hereby disclaims all responsibility for any global conquests which may result from the use or misuse of the 3-D Hypno-Ring.]

__________________

INSTRUCTIONS:

1. Put the 3-D Hypno-Ring on your finger—DANGER: DO NOT STARE DIRECTLY INTO THE RING! 2. Ask a friend to stare directly into the ring. 3. Slowly move the ring back and forth. 4. Instruct your friend to stare deeper and deeper into the ring. Say the word “deeper” over and over again, very slowly.

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5 [sic] Tell your friend that he or she is getting very sleepy. Say the words “very sleepy” again and again, slower and slower. 6. When your friend closes his or her eyes, say these words: “You are under my spell. When I snap my fingers, you will obey my every command!” 7. Now have some fun! Turn them into a dog...or a banana. Tell them to do all your homework from now on...

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...or make ‘em clean your room. Use your imagination- it’s fun! 8. [sic] To safely bring a person out of a trance, just snap your fingers, then give them a hug.

DO NOT POUR WATER ON THEIR HEADS!

[DANGER: The 3-D Hypno Ring [sic] may have an opposite effect on adult females. Who knew?]

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Caution: The 3-D Hypno Ring may cause headaches, nausea, runny nose, diaper rash, watery eyes, post-nasal drip, upset stomach, nervousness, sleeplessness, loss of appetite, increased appetite, hiccups, hives, tunnel vision, projectile diarrhea, gingivitis, temporary hallucinations, irreversible brain damage, halitosis, fever, dizziness, excessive hair growth on the shoulders and upper back, sore throat, coughing, interest in yoga, pink-eye, tennis elbow, runner’s knee, athlete’s foot, bowler’s belly, pitcher’s mound, secretaries’ day, author’s misanthropism, dejà vu...

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...dejà vu, stiffness in joints, stubbed toes, weeping, gnashing of teeth, drooling, snoring, severe belching and flatulence, vertigo, receding hairline, dandruff, ring-around-the-collar, stuffy nose, sneezing, tingling in extremities, achy-breaky heart, stinky-winky feet, split ends, profuse sweating, an uncontrollable urge to watch Bette Midler movies, paranoia, ingrown toenails, and/or chapped lips.

It’s Fun for the Whole Family!

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WARNING!!!

Whatever you do, don’t pour water on anybody’s head while they are in a trance! This will cause the hypnotized person to slip back and forth from trance to reality whenever they hear the sound of fingers snapping.

__________________

Notes:

This thing is 4 pages longer than I expected (including the front and back “covers”)?? To think that this vital statistic went undocumented for so long...

The 2001 copyright date on the package sticker has been visible in photos for years; despite this, I’ve hesitated on pinning this as the Ring’s production date. The mention of the Works-Opposite-On-Women thing makes me more confident that the manual, at least, was added to the package in 2001, perhaps close to or after Book 5 dropped that August. (I’d still say the Ring itself is still up in the air, given the multiple claims of it being given out as early as 1997. Which brings up some more questions: Did those early Rings come with a different manual and sticker, or none at all?)

Speaking of the Works-Opposite-On-Women thing, the wording of “may” kills me fghjf. It’s like the Company found this glaring malfunction during testing and went “oh well, off to mass production!” No wonder they got shut down lol

The back cover looks exactly as it appeared in Book 1, down to the sentence breaks! The only addition is the copyright info on the right side.

I’ve been laughing at “Day Pilkey” for 20 minutes now lol. I thought of correcting all the typos in my transcription, but they’re cute to me so I left them in

Somehow it never occurred to me that Dav himself might’ve written this manual. The long list of silly side-effects is a big giveaway. There’s little guarantee he’ll remember the answer after all this time, but it’s a question I’ll be keeping in mind just in case.

The Ring itself is so tiny that I’m scared to wear it fhgjghj, it might get stuck past my knuckle or even break! Also I can’t snap my fingers so it’s not like I could use it anyway

Besides the Black Lenticular Spiral/Red Light-Up Spiral thing, there’s another small difference between this Ring and the Movie-era one. This one has “3-D” printed vertically on its shoulders and “Hypno-Ring” printed horizontally on its halo; the Movie one has the full name on its halo, minus the hyphen between 3 and D. (Look up “ring anatomy” if that sentence doesn’t make sense.)

The package is resealable, so I’ve put everything back in. I’ll be storing it in the little plastic chest I keep my first-edition CU books in, away from excess heat, excess light, and—most importantly—the wrong hands!

I’ve been waiting 20 years to get my hands on this thing. (Well, okay, first I stewed about it for about 1-3 years as a kid, then forgot about it for 11, then suddenly remembered it and stewed for 6 more, but you get this gist.) It’s nuts to finally hold it in my hands, let alone be the first to preserve a piece of it. Let this be a lesson to all: no matter how long it takes or how silly it is, your personal Holy Grail still exists for the taking... though it might cost over 40 bucks!

#captain underpants #dav pilkey #captain underpants the first epic movie #the epic tales of captain underpants #3-d hypno-ring #3d hypno ring #3-d hypno ring #3d hypno-ring #toys #merch #caps tw #hypnosis tw #cu #cu books #long #me talking

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jacksprostate · 11 months ago

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Bob in female fight club au. Thoughts

Probably named Marge

Rather than doing a direct inversion (ie making the character the exact opposite, much tits -> no tits, etc) I think sort of an analogue would work better riffing off the motherly role Bob has, in combination with the group being for uterine cancer/ovarian cancer

The women come together, and they cry, cry, cry, over lost husbands, who left them because they got cancer, because overwhelmingly, men leave if their wife gets cancer, over lost relationships with children, who stayed but resent them, over lost Motherhood, that thing you were told was your worth but now you are told you're shit. Remaining Women Together. Despite. Despite despite despite.

What is it, about purposes. Want to see misery, see women fed their own physical oppression as lost salvation.

Marge, whatever her name is, her husband divorced her, left her with the kids and medical bills stacked as high as she is tall. She is thankful she still has her kids, it makes her feel like she's still worth something. She's had to try and get back into the workforce. No one wants to hire dear former stay at home mother Marge. She shows you her kids in her wallet in her purse and there are no pictures of her. There's a picture of her old husband, which she keeps to show her kids if they ask. They're old enough to go to school now, which is good, because it gives her more time to work. Life is hard, but she's doing her best.

Marge, who is on hormone therapy so she doesn't get those "side effects" she's heard about from other total hysterectomy patients, the future of early dementia and degeneration and horror. Who does pelvic floor exercises in hopes it will minimise the fallout of the surgery. Who carefully rips every hair out of her upper lip and chin because even if it would be normal for a woman, a woman whose gone through menopause, a woman at all — she knows, it's probably the estrogen tipping back over into testosterone, and she can't handle any more losses. She compensates. They all do.

The support group is her Me Time. It is the single hour plus half hour commute she can afford once a week for herself. So she gets here, and she cries, cries, cries, and the others cry with her, all over how their lives have fallen apart since they got ovarian cancer, got breast cancer, and their lives derailed because they can't be proper women anymore.

They cry in their waterproof makeup. Another product to promise womanhood. Identify yourself via consumption. Identify yourself by covering yourself up.

And when she finds fight club. When she finds something that says, jesus fuck. You are more than your children. You are more than your ability to have kids. You aren't a failed woman, that's a sack of shit you've been sold wholesale. When she finds something that promises her she will grow, achieve personhood, not because she was the ultimate martyr mother, not because she played the game of human or woman, but because it promises a freedom from all that, identification and repulsion of such sickening chains. When she stops worrying about her slightly deepened voice, and works to keep her dose even keel for her health, to avoid the toxic highs of accidentally juicing, rather than the lesser effects of a black lip hair or two. When she has a photo, not of herself in her wallet, but of the things she makes with other women from fight club, of the one view of the sunset from that one parking lot that she always thought was wonderful, when she has things in her wallet for her and her enjoyment. When she has corded muscle and a built up spine, when she sits her kids down and explains why they only see dad one weekend every other month, all the fun holidays, because dad decided staying with her through cancer was too hard even when she stayed with him through four lost jobs pissed away in alcohol and lottery tickets.

And Marge, who gets shot by the police on a regulation chill-and-drill assignment for Project Mayhem. Whose obituary in the newspaper talks about the children she left behind, how she battled cancer and kept caring for them, how she was such a strong mother, whose kids would now be shipped off to their grieving father who is so, so brave and stunning for standing up and taking care of the kids he made and dropped as soon as his live-in servant had a few issues. Her name is Marge Paulson, and she was forty-eight years old. She was a person. She will be remembered in the annals of Project Mayhem, lest what little there was of her be stolen from the world. She was killed by Project Mayhem, but they're the only ones who will remember Marge Paulson.

#fight club #female fight club au #like. it's about how the male castration being the worst thing that could happen to a man as per gendered ideals gets reflected here.#being very clear; the motherhood focus should seem as immensely disturbing and disproportionate. if not much more tbh. as how the guys are #because like. yeah the male focus on balls is immense but the pressure to consider your entire worth and personhood and status as a being a #your reproductive capacity is Insane for women. and i think that would be uhhh highly relevant in female fight club #both as the logical mirror to the castration/emasculation thing #and also because it's inextricable from any sort of feminism demanding a backbone #yadda yadda yadda #the end is also interesting #the death and the name thing just cant quite be the same #its still horrifying because the Project did kill her #but god. so many women die and no one fucking remembers them #just what they did as mothers or servants #so. her name is marge paulson. would be important.#this is very specific and dear 2 me.#its not about hating the kids or saying fuck them or anything either #its just. shes a person. womanhood is not some step below (man) personhood

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foamangel · 1 year ago

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౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ amber leaves | alicent hightower

— word count: 2k

summary: Fall comes through King's Landing, bringing sombering changes.

⤷ alicent hightower x female!reader (it can also be read has gn)

a.n: ok guy's so i got such a burst of inspiration and this endend up being the final product lol. just too think this was meant to be just a drabble is wild hahaha. anywayssssss, has alway i hope you all enjoy! leave your thoughts down below!! muahhhh xx.

warnings ! - lots of angst lol. viserys??? some hints of smut, everyone is 18+.

The sun shone timidly through the clouds and the breeze brough a slight cold – yet you and Alicent remained outside, stubbornly denying that the sweet and warm summer days had come to an end and that the cold, rainy days of fall were taking its place.

Between you two no words were spoken, even the birds were quieter – they were certainly fewer, you mused that many of them would have flown away by now, in search of warmer, more welcoming land and deep in your heart, a part of you had the desire to do the same; but you were no bird, and certainly no Targaryen with a dragon to take you away so you remained, next to Alicent, enjoying the last rays of sun.

You could tell, for while now, that something has up with Alicent - her demeanour for the past few weeks had not been the same and seemed to grow progressively sourer has the days passed. You watched her intently, her cheeks were red from the cold, has her nose, and her lips were slightly chapped - she had her eyes closed, face turned upwards to enjoys the few rays of sun that remained and reflected on her auburn hair and dress, one that you had never seen her wear before, very different of those you were accustomed to ser her in.

You could read Alicent (the one you knew, your Alicent) like an open book, it wasn’t very hard at all, if you were honest, she wore her heart on her sleeve and ever since you were little you never kept anything from eachother - but now she has keeping something from you and the once open and clear pages that guided the lines of her brain were closed, not allowing you even the tiniest peek into her mind.

Aemma’s death had impacted all, the entirety of King’s Landing had mourned the passing of the queen consort and her babe and you knew that the tragedy had impacted Alicent the same, weighted by the close bound she shared with Rhaenyra and the memory of the loss of her own mother – but has the weeks had gone by, and has the world moved on, the vibrant laughs of Rhaenyra filling the halls again and Viserys disposition growing less taciturn with each turn of the sun, you thought that Alicent would too, find once more, her pace and normalcy.

However, normalcy never came and Alicent seemed to descend with each passing day to a more taciturn mood, she tried to hide it and she did that quite well, even Rhaenyra didn’t seem to notice the changes, but not well enough for you.

You were snapped out of your thoughts and worries by the turn of her head, a small smile blooming on her face “Why are you looking at me so intently?” she said, her voice soft and pristine has ever.

Smiling back, you replied cheekily “I must tell you I do not know exactly why, I suppose you look much too pretty today to be ignored.” – she blushed at your reply and laughed timidly, shaking her head, her locks softly moving and framing her round face harmoniously.

“You are unbelievable! Always saying the silliest and most ridiculous things!” she reached over to you, in a feeble attempt to softly hit your arm; you dodged the attack, picking a bit of grass and throwing it her way making her laugh and squeal has the grass flew and covered her strands, she reached for some more leaves and now it has your turn to be covered in them, a battle of twigs, grass, dried amber leaves and other plants ensuing between the two of you.

And for a moment, as Alicent laughed, the sun shone like it had before and the warmth evolved you once more.

You both laughed and ran, play-fighting like you were children again, at last you both stopped, laying next to eachother on the ground, your breaths heavy, both having forgotten about your respective worries and troubles, even if only for a brief moment – has you closed your eyes you felt Alicent’s hand, her nails butchered by the constant picking she did at them, reach for yours.

Finally, has the air grew deadly quiet she spoke “When I am with you, I feel more like myself them ever.”

Your heart stopped and you clutched her hand tightly, tears welling up in your face “I love you too, silly”.

“What do you think about marriage?” Alicent said, making you grimace at her words “What? We are at the exact age to worry about that kind of stuff, do you want to be a child forever?” she huffed, turning in her chair once more, checking her reflection in the mirror.

“I guess… it depends on the person? I couldn’t marry an old boring man with old boring interests” you replied; in the mirror Alicent’s face grew tense and a flicker of something appeared in her eyes.

“I would marry you” you said, the words leaving your mouth before they registered in your brain – you corrected “So, if that’s your worry you really don’t need to have it, anyone would be lucky to have you has they’re wife.”

She looked at you like you were joking – you must certainly were not, so you opened your mouth once more without much thinking “I am being deadly serious, you are one of the most, if not the most, gentle and proper ladies of King’s Landing and you are definitely the prettiest among them.” your face burned up “… and you are from a great house as well, and, I mean, who is better than you father in finding a suitable match?” you mumbled.

Alicent’s eyes bore into your, welling up, and she got up in a ruckus, walking over to were you sat on her bed and hugging you, making your face be buried in the red fabrics of her dress – you grasped on to her with all of your might and the pair of you stood like that for what seemed an eternity too short.

Has she pulled away you grasped her arm, pushing her on to you and kissing her tenderly. She kissed you back and both of you laid in her bed, her hands stroking your pink cheeks has your lips wobbled.

The night she came to you crying, revelling the truth about her affair with Viserys, you stroked her hair while she laid her head on your lap, inconsolable tears wetting your nightdress and boring a whole through you heart.

Somehow you felt betrayed, even if the was no remote chance for you to be two together you thought that you could live has one, rely on and tell one another anything, be aligned in body and soul – that fantasy has now shattered, Alicent’s truth driving a spear through your heart.

The rays of the moon, already high and full on the sky, streamed through the windows of your bedroom. Alicent’s tear ridden face rose from your skirts, facing yours with an intensity you had never seen in her before, her lips were red, bitten to exhaustion, wobbling slightly.

“I’m sorry.” a whisper “I’m so sorry.” an incontrollable snob recked through her body, making her shoulders shake and her figure tremble; you grabbed her face, wiping the salty tears away, looking at her doe brown eyes filled with worry and sadness.

“I’m not mad, - I’m not, trust me.” you got of the bed, knelling next to her on the cold floor and grabbing her hands – she brought them up, cupping your face, kissing you with tightness and resolve.

You pulled away “You don’t have to -” she stopped your words, eyes closed “For once let me do this, let me do something my own away, allow me to enjoy myself.” her hand stroked your neck, another grabbed your thigh through your nightgown, lips featherlight against yours.

So, nodding, you tangled your hands into her hair, and you did just that, sharing the night with Alicent, letting her (maybe for the first time in her life) make all the decisions there were to make – in an act of love a devotion you knew couldn’t bear to do with anyone else.

The gloating in Otto’s face was apparent has day, it seemed that today not even him – always cold and calculated - could hide the glee from his face; not that anybody at the party could blame him, it was, after all, the day of his daughter’s wedding.

And how beautiful Alicent looked in her wedding gown, face flush from the attention, her appeared remarkably polish, a true image of what a lady should be and represent (she looked the exact opposite has she had looked in your chamber, with her eyes blown wide, face red and hot, heaving from thrills that rushed through her body, hair mused and guard down).

From the corner of your eye you could see Rhaenyra with a sneer that seemed to have never left her face throughout the ceremony, next to her was her uncle who bore a very similar expression to his niece, clutching tightly on to a globet of wine – that had been refilled many times during the duration of the feast (has had yours).

Has the party spined around you stood in place, thoughts of the one you loved filling your mind with every breath you took – when Visery’s intentions of who he was going to marry reached you, you couldn’t help but run to Alicent, that, upon finding you frazzled and crying, took you into her waiting arms.

Once more you mourned the fact that you were not a bird, that you could not fly away with her to a place where your wings couldn’t be clipped and your songs could be ones of love and not grief; you grieved having not been born a Targaryen, a villain with a huge beast to whisk away your dear maiden and selfishly take her for yourself.

You had nothing but Alicent’s heart, such a fragile gift she gave to you – under the weirwood tree that you had spent summer’s laying upon, you exchanged, that same godforsaken day, your vows; not to the Seven, not to the Old Gods, not to any higher power that controlled destinies and traced life’s to hear but only to eachother, uniting yourselves forever, growing unshakable roots in to one another.

The sweet memory faded from your mind, the shrill giggles of the maidens piercing your ears as a rude noble announced with glee and perverseness the begging of the bedding ceremony.

Quietly you got up, not even sparing a minute longer glancing at the scene, abandoning the warmth and jubilee of the banquet hall, your feet tracing, morosely and slow, the halls of the castle, leading you deeper into silence, into the cold of the night.

It was now fully fall, all the birds had left and all the trees adorned red - from a distance you could no longer hear the sounds of the party, the only noises came from the rustle of the wind and the creek of the burning lights.

The sharp wind made your face grow cold but it also took away the tears in your eyes so, sniffling, you continued your way, wanting total solitude and peace.

Finally, when you seemed to not be able to walk any longer while bearing the pain in your heart you stopped, looking up at the sky you could see the moon and stars, you could see Alicent’s face, her brown eyes and her soft gasps - so there you stayed, enchanted by the visions of her, praying with a plagued mind for a better future.

Right there, on the day of her weeding, in the cold of the fall, you made a promise to the skies and everything above and below them; that, for ever and ever, has long has you were allowed to, you where to remain forever on her side.

On the linen of Visery’s chamber, looking up at the wooden panel of the king’s bed, Alicent also only thought of you and has the moon shone brighter she too made the same promise has yours.

For a moment the world grew quieter and has sleep overtook the pair of you, you were joined, for now and once more, in dreams, holding on to one another, in the courtyard, while summer bloomed again.

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