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thegnomelord · 5 months

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this isn’t a request but you’re the only writer i know who writes the monster!au so

dragon!reader and dragon!price are haunting my thoughts. dragons usually have to hold themselves back when sparring because they’re so much stronger than other monsters but with price & reader they don’t need to, to the point where the other members of the 141 are kinda wondering if they need to intervene.

what they do or don’t know is this is you and price courting, testing each other’s strength to assess whether you’re suitable mates. once you have decided you’re suitable it continues in the bedroom, fighting for dominance and testing each other’s stamina as price rides you or you pin price down and see if he can take all the strength behind your thrusts.

OH god I LOVE the way you think! I know @rodolfoparras also did a dragon price some time ago but I'm happy to let my monsterfucker out lol :D I'll consider this a spitball thingy but GOD DAMN did my hyperfixation hyperfixate on this :Ddd kinda rushed at the end but it's 3AM :/

CW:NSFW

What about if dragons measure not just raw strength, but all other aspects as well? They're prideful by nature and with so little of them remaining no self-respecting dragon will settle for a witless brute or a powerless scribe.

Price had lost hope in finding a mate centuries ago because he's even pickier than most of his kin; in his view, a proper one needs to be strong enough to completely pin him down, needs to be smart enough to see the insults in his honeyed words and give back as good as he does, needs to be clever enough to lead men as good as he does.

A proper mate needs to keep up with him on all levels.

And for a dragon of his age, that's an unachievable set of criteria. Oh sure, many of the dragons he's met over the years have tried to match him, but all fell short, leaving him lonely and unsatisfied.

Then he met you, a fellow Captain, a fellow dragon. Though only a few centuries younger than him, you're a wyrmling in his eyes, your scales like shining metal compared to his muddled gemstones. An arrogant wyrmling if the way you peacock for him the first time you enter the training room has anything to say about it— your wings spreading out and muscles rippling, back straightening out to make you taller, scales glinting in the artificial light; little details that anyone else can brush off as a simple stretch but to a dragon it screams of your interest in him.

His slitted eyes roam across your body, both equal parts disdain and curiosity. "Got somethin' ta say there boy?" His words are rough like sandpaper.

"No, no." You hum as you get into the ring, every little movement purposely done to showcase your hard earned musculature. "Just that you should skip out on this fight. Wouldn't want you to throw your back out old man."

"Old man huh?" His eyes blaze with the same fire at the end of his cigar, your words igniting something in his chest that had long been extinguished. "I'll show you old."

And suddenly he's in the ring, both of you trading blow for blow with the same savagery your progenitors had frightened mankind with for millennia, your claws leaving deep grooves in the concrete when you miss his side, his tail smashing a portion of the ground into dust when you avoid it, the ground between you cracking when you try to push the other away, loose scales and dust and debris littering the ground as you and Price wrestle on the ground.

Both of your teams watch from the sidelines, your team calming the other members of TF141 that this is just how dragons are, pointedly ignoring your victorious snarl when you pin Price down to the ground, your clawed hand harshly pushing his face into the concrete to the point you might break his nose as you bite the back of his neck, forcing him to submit. "I win,"

"Not fer long." He snarls back just as deep, feeling alive for the first time in who knows how long. "Best two out of three." And with that he jerks, remaining wing slamming into your side and knocking you off balance long enough for him to fling you into the wall opposite of him.

You don't know how many rounds you go before you're forced to stop by a very pissed off Laswell, who also pointedly ignores the obvious bulges in what remains of both of your pants, giving both of you a stern talking to about wrecking the damn training room.

You're ready to leave after being chastised like a child but Price is quicker, passing you with a "Good fight back there." rumbling in his throat, the soft scales of his wing brushing along your jaw. Your eyes nearly pop out of your skull when you meet his gaze, and Price has a good poker face but the smoldering look in his eyes and the low grumble in his chest makes it's obvious you've peaked his curiosity.

But that's just the start, the hard part is keeping it. While regular dragons may spend time with a potential mate conversing on scholarly subjects or having philosophical debates, you and him have a more practical way of assessing the other's intellect — Battle plans.

To your teams it sounds like a harsh argument, ideas thrown around and sharp insults tacked on top, their heads ping ponging between you and Price as you look over maps, trying to one up the other. Eventually your teammates leave you to settle this on your own.

"And I'm telling you, old man," You growl, both of you so close there's barely any space between you as you point at the map. "We can push a smaller team through the forest while we lead the frontal assault, our wip's not going to have anywhere to go then." You huff, holding your head up high to make it obvious you're proud of your idea.

Price gives you the stink eye, before he scans the map again, humming to himself. After a few seconds he lets out a scoff. "We don't have enough men for that." He says, but the sharp edge in his tone is dulled. "But—" His tail moves to brush against your own, your rough scales brushing against his smoother ones. "—It has some merit."

Price doesn't draw attention to the way your tails intertwine, wrapping together like two snakes, and neither do you. But the short purr that bubbles out of your chest says everything he needs to know, growing louder when he answers with his own, your shoulders brushing together. "Aight, back to work." He cuts your purrs short, but you can't hide the pleased look on your face as your tails remain coiled together.

Then comes the actual courting dance.

One late evening spent looking over documents in the privacy of his office, your tails once again coiled beneath the desk after successfully having proved your wit to him again, absentmindedly telling embarrassing stories of your respective teams. . . Price has a revelation. You might be it. "Hey lad."

You look up, your full attention on him. "Yeah?"

With a mumbled grunt too quiet for you to hear Price slides a hand beneath his shirt and pulls a large green scale from the meat of his shoulder blade, the wound healing before it can even bleed.

Instinctively you know what this means, for knowing how a prospective mate treats an extension of you will show how they'll treat you. But you still speak up, needing proof for your own mind that you're not insane and haven't been burning the wrong tree. "What?"

Price glares at you, "Don't play dumb," He says as he slides the large scale across the table to you. "It doesn't suit you." There's an underlayer of heat in his words, blue slitted eyes looking you over in a much more appreciative light.

You can't control the big grin that spreads across your face, "Oh, then what does suit me?" You ask as you follow his lead, yanking out one of your larger scales from your own back and sliding it to him. It makes the difference between you two obvious, his green scale muddled with age compared to your shiny one.

"Arrogant muppet." The gentle way he picks up your scale clashes with his harsh words, cradling it in his hand like it'll crack at the slightest of touches, his face reflected in the surface.

You grin, "Just confident." You feel his sharp eyes judge every minute twitch of your fingers as you pick up his scale. Price's poker face hides the way his heart melts at the loving way you brush a thumb across the surface, how it throbs when you don't immediately attempt to make it shine like some whelps once did, accepting him for how he is by putting it in your breast pocket.

God, he doesn't even know how much he'd fantasized about something like this when he was still young, vestiges of a purr escaping his throat at the tender way you treat his scale. "Right." He shakes his head and places your scale in his own breast pocket, handing you another stack of papers. "Get back to work."

You grin and do as he says, wings twitching as a sign of joy, your tail squeezing down on his and receiving a squeeze in kind.

Price feels like a horny teen when he lays awake in bed late at night with your scale held between his claws. He feels stupid for feeling so giddy at the thought of having a mate, a proper mate, yet his body thinks differently. Just holding it in his hand is enough to make him grow hot, your scent still clings to the scale and Price finds himself holding it close to his nose to familiarize himself with it and Hell his body loves it, cocks growing hard in record time and his thighs wet with slick. The poor thing doesn't even know what to relieve first, his free hand constantly going between stroking his cocks and fingering himself, mind craving the heat of another dragon that he'd been deprived of.

What Price doesn't know is that you're in the same boat, biting your arm to silence yourself as you imagine it's Price you're breeding instead of a pillow, splintering the headboard from how hard you're gripping it in an attempt to not damage the scale.

Then shit hits the fan when during a routine mission you two are ambushed, and while two dragons are no easy prey for mankind, humans have long since gone from using rocks and sticks. You catch sight of a sniper's scope glint seconds before the bullet targets Price, and in only a few seconds to think you throw yourself in the way, Price's scale in your breast pocket puts enough resistance to make you survive the bullet, but you feel it crack, and that. . . that sets you off.

Price doesn't even have the time to lift his gun before you're tearing through the battlefield like a man possessed, anger burning like a volcano in your chest for trying to hurt him, elemental breath and draconic strength unleashed to it's fullest potential.

And Price? Price watches the show with that same heat burning in his belly, forced to bite his lip to silence the pleased purrs as he rubs his thighs together while you tear flesh from bone, mate flashing in his mind. Look how he protects you His mind purrs, Good mate. Perfect mate.

"I'm sorry." You whimper when you've finally calmed down, the battlefield nothing but a ruined crater and the shards of his scale held tenderly in your cupped hands. "I failed, I-"

"Come here." Price cuts you off quickly and pulls you down into a harsh and desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue and need. He parts just a fraction of an inch, "You passed." He growls and only then do you notice the sharp arousal in his scent, your animalistic hindbrain jumping for joy as you kiss back because holy shit he considers you worthy.

And now that he's found his mate? You best believe his body is going to make up for all the centuries he'd spent alone.

It doesn't even take a week for him to enter heat, waking in a daze with his twin cocks hard and his thighs glistening with slick, your scent lingering in the sheets and your side of the bed still warm. The walls almost shake from how deeply he growls when he registers that you're not next to him, just enough sense in his head to throw on a towel around his waist before angerly stomping through the halls to find you, sniffing you out like a bloodhoud.

"Bloody muppet." Price growls as he yanks you by the horns back to his room, the scent of his arousal so potent you're struck dumb, letting yourself be pushed down. Price's claws slice through your clothes, his hole so slick and eager for you he doesn't even need to stretch, just jumps onto your lap and in one fluid motion takes one of your cocks to the root. "Fuckin' finally." Price hisses, instantly setting a harsh pace of bouncing on your cock that would have had a lesser race end up with a crushed pelvis.

You grip his hips for dear life, surging up to mark his neck and shoulders with bites as he does the same, his ass clapping against your thighs. "Mate." Price moans, hole clenching around you, his cocks leaking against your stomach. "My mate." He grips your hair and pulls you into a bruising kiss, "Going to last long for me yeah?" He asks, a bit of mockery on his flushed face as he feels you cum inside him, riding you through your orgasm as the sudden onslaught of sensations frazzles the intelligent parts of your brain. "Not going to disappoint me now are you?"

Good thing dragons have really short refractory periods.

"Not a chance." You snarl and flip him over suddenly, rumbling purrs escaping your chest from the surprised sound he makes. You attempt to pin him down and he squirms out of your hold, another bout of wrestling breaking out between you that has you two tumbling off the bed and onto the ground.

"That so whelp?" Price breathes out when you manage to pin him down, your strong hand keeping his face flush with the floor. "Do you really think you can keep up?" A pleased thrill runs down his spine from the sensation of your weight bearing down on him, his knees automatically locking up to hike his ass up, tail flipping up to display his slick hole for you.

"Do you?" You counter, one hand on his head, the other pressing both of your dicks together, your two tips pressing against his ass. "You're so wet and desperate, should have just pinned you down the moment I saw you instead of courting you." With one sharp thrust you push in, a pained and elated moan tearing out of his throat at the sensation of your twin cocks spreading him wider than any toy ever could, scratching that itch he'd had for who knows how long.

The stretch and burn and pleasure muddles his mind, reduces him to low animalistic snarls and growls as he does his best to push his hips into yours. "Hurry the fuck up." Price orders, whole body shaking from the way you set a harsh pace, bashing on his prostate, your balls slapping against his own, each hard thrust pushing and pulling his face across the floor. "I'll- fuck- fall asleep."

"You sure about that?" You push your weight further on him, forcing his wing to spread out, your own partially wrapping around him, "Seems to me like-" A bit of elemental breath leaves your throat when one particularly strong thrust has his hole clamping down on you, his back arching to push his hips as close to yours as one of his cocks spews cum on the floor, "-like you're not in a place to order me around."

"You- ah-fuck-ah- wanker." His insult would be a lot more hurtful if he didn't whine like a bitch in heat, both of you devolving into primitive snarls and growls with the only thought on both of your minds being the need to fill Price with as much of your cum as you physically can.

#Spittballs with Gnome #Idk how this happened #my hyperfixation got wayyy out of hand #n my monsterfucking got out of hand #cod mw2 #gnome correspondence #x reader #trinkets from the hoard #male reader #top male reader #captain john price #john price x male reader #john price x reader #top dom reader #cod modern warfare #cod smut #cod x male reader

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sayruq · 1 month

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Gaza’s Civil Defense, in a statement released on 30 April, estimates that there are roughly 10,000 bodies of Palestinians stuck under the rubble since the beginning of Israel’s bombardment of the Gaza Strip. The general director said that these missing bodies are not included in the death toll numbers issued by the Ministry of Health as their bodies have not been brought and counted in the hospitals. This brings the current number of Palestinians killed to over 44,000. According to the Euro-Med Human Rights Monitor (Euro-Med) numbers published on 23 April, the current death toll is at 42,510. The Euro-Med figures include those missing after being detained and forcibly disappeared by Israeli forces and those who have been trapped under rubble for over two weeks. The general directorate of Gaza’s civil defense said that it received many calls from people volunteering to remove the bodies of Palestinians from under the rubble to give them a proper burial. Al-Jazeera journalist Anas al-Sharif documented the efforts of civil defense crews which took on the task of recovering bodies from under the rubble. “Efforts by civil defense teams and volunteers began to recover the bodies of martyrs from under the rubble of their homes,” Sharif said in a video posted on social media from inside what remained of a building subjected to Israeli attacks late last year. “It is estimated that there are more than fifty martyrs under the rubble of the house.” Sharif continued by saying, “Civil defense personnel face great difficulties due to the lack of advanced equipment, which forces them to use primitive tools in search and recovery operations for the decomposed bodies of the martyrs.” Gaza’s civil defense said that with the methods it is forced to use to clear the debris, it will take two to three years to search through 37 tons of rubble

#yemen #jerusalem #tel aviv #current events #palestine #free palestine #gaza #free gaza #news on gaza #palestine news #news update #war news #war on gaza #gaza genocide #genocide

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swordsandholly · 1 month

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Fancy

Ch 1: Here’s Your One Chance | Next | Ao3

MDNI

Vampire! Poly! 141 x Plus size! Fem! Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: A permanent darkness rests over the city. You’ve lived here your whole life - in the slums, just another human to be pushed and pulled at the whims of the vampires that run it. Another human made to bleed and crawl their way through a meager life.

Maybe, just maybe, a meeting by happenstance will change your fate for the better.

A permanent darkness rests over the city. Cold, too. Despite living here your whole life you’ve never quite adjusted to the artificial nature of it - to the shadow hanging above the miles and miles of city and the constant chill on your skin.

Really, you aren’t meant to be here. This place isn’t built for humans despite the mass that live within the confines of the city’s dome. It’s made for creatures - beings of the night that stalk and rule. The air has become rotten in the lower neighborhoods over a century due to pollution and overpopulation. It will turn your lungs black before the age of five without the proper protection.

Apartment buildings are crowded and decent living conditions are hard to come by. Many have a waitlist longer than the human lifespan. Most operate on a dorm system - at least one person per room. Randomly assigned of course, based entirely on who can pay the rent. You’ve lucked out enough to earn a shitty studio to yourself. It’s cracked and crumbling but the locks are tight and it has a window - even if the view is just a building across the alleyway.

You squeeze into a black mini dress, tying your hair up to show off the double string of pearls on your neck. They’re the nicest thing you own - the only thing worthy of this club. The only thing that can project the image needed to get proper tips. Red lipstick as a final touch. It’s corny, you know, but the vampire clients are always suckers for it. Pun intended.

This job is important. There can’t be a hair out of place. This is your chance. Your one chance to make enough money to get out of the slums. To at least make it to the middle city. You can practically hear the grime on the sidewalk as you make your way toward the metro station. Dirt and debris so caked into the very air down here that you have to wear a respirator as you go. It’ll leave marks when you first take it off, but they usually disappear by the time you’ve made it from the depot to the club.

You don’t bother with sitting on the train. Hell will freeze over before you chance catching whatever new disease has grown in that Petri dish. Instead you join the rest of the patrons in awkwardly standing in the center of the cart, damn near falling over when the train lurches to begin its journey from the slums to the upper city. There are actual names for the two areas, but nobody uses them anymore.

The respirator makes a hissing sound as you remove it after stepping out of the train. The cool, clean air of the upper city fills your lungs. It’s satisfying in a way its sticky, filtered sister could never be. The faux fur of your cropped coat tickles a bit as you walk, blown by that strange breeze that never seems to stop in the upper city. The one that blows all the grime and smog downhill.

The club sits square in central downtown - the bottom level of a historical hotel. It’s an elegant building. Red with curled metal accents over the windows and doors. Modeled after the ancient art nouveau movement. It sparkles underneath the artificial LEDs of the city - all signs and glowing windows. You can always tell where the humans are, catching glimpses of that unmistakable glow only a UV light gives off.

You duck down the alley behind the hotel. Grimy and dark, the complete opposite of the front entrance. Your heels clack on the concrete loudly - echoing off the hard walls of the building surrounding you.

It’s easy enough to slip into the routine of your job. Going back and forth to the bartender, carrying various drinks and placating the egos of cowardly men and the vampires they lie to themselves about being equal to. You can see the hunger in their eyes when you tilt your head, exposing more of your neck to the light. When your wrists just pass their noses as you set down their glasses.

It’s hard work. Long hours and more days of the week than you would like, but it pays enough for you to afford your little apartment and save some for your future.

“Hey! New girl!” The owner barks at you as you gently set your tray back into the stack to be washed.

You whirl on your heel. Shit, did you fuck up? Ruin everything? Your mind runs through every interaction over the course of the night - every comment, every stilted moment. “Y-yes, sir?”

“Need you as a Companion.” He stands in front of you, the pinstripes of his suit warping over his massive crossed arms. The wrinkle in his nose makes his mustache twitch.

“C-companion!” You squeak. “I’m not-“

“We had a call out. Need you to take the private booth in the back.”

Your eyes are saucers - heart beating so hard you almost can’t hear his words. You don’t know what to make of this. His words are harsh and cut right though you, but the prospect they hold…

“You paying attention?” He grunts.

Your voice shakes. “Just… why me?”

“You match their preference.” Its blunt. Uncaring. Not that you would ever expect much sympathy from the owner of a place like this - feeding girls to vampires and their kin.

Generally, you’re not the type to be preferred - too big and soft for most. It’s what kept you as a server exclusively, you’re sure. Companion is such a major step up, too. You haven’t had any training. You never thought you’d get there - only a few girls make it from Server to Companion. To have it by happenstance…

With a deep breath you remind yourself that this is temporary. Just for tonight. You are acting as a replacement, nothing more. If you pull this off maybe you’ll get enough tips to finally replace the air filtration in your apartment. Maybe you can even get an overhead UV light. Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely!

Another tray is shoved into your hands. Is this… actual gold? Ornate designs line the outer rim - all weaving in and out of each other inlaid with iridescent mother of pearl. It’s cold on your hands and so shiny you catch your reflection in it before the bartender sets a bottle of wine and four glasses on it. You’re fairly certain between the wine and the tray you are holding upwards of four thousand dollars a in your hands. It takes everything to keep your hands from trembling.

You slowly head for the back booth - just beyond the main floor of the bar. It’s far more quiet here. The music from the floor muffled by distance. There are only a few private booths and they are only ever occupied by the city’s elite. The top of the top. You pause at the heavy, velvet burgundy curtain separating you and your clients for tonight. They could be anyone.

You hope they aren’t the type to get rough.

Balancing the tray on one hand, you use the other the push the heavy curtain to the side - entire body alert and tense as your eyes land on the four men sitting around the rounded booth. Their eyes meet yours, and you freeze. A shiver runs down your spine.

They’re beautiful in that way only vampires can be. Untouchable. Marble-esque. Eyes clear and bright even in the low light of the booth - that sheen of night vision apparent. Lions staring down their prey and you, who walked into the den willingly.

“Good evening.” It takes everything to keep your voice steady. To slip back into that comfortable customer service headspace you’ve curated over the years. “I’ll be your Companion tonight.”

“What happened t’ Cherry?” The man on the outer right side of the booth asks. His arm is slung carelessly over the back of the booth, body slack and comfortable.

“She was unfortunately unable to come in tonight.” You say softly, carefully sliding the tray onto the table. “If I’m not to your standards-“

“Well, now, none of us said that.” A man with an imperial beard smiles. It softens his face - makes him look less like stone. “What’s your name, dove?”

“Fancy.” You murmur. It’s your chosen work name - based on a song your mother used to play from a century ago. One of your earliest memories is her lifting you into her arms and spinning around to the song. All the workers names are single words. Easy to remember. Easy to request for returning quests.

“Fittin’.” The man to your left grins, bright blue eyes sparkling. His fangs catch the light - your hands tremble for a brief moment.

“Do you know who we are?” The masked man beside him asks. His voice rumbles through your nerves, all the way into your bones. You can hardly look at him - the skull covering the top half of his face makes your gut churn.

Should you know them? Oh, fuck, you probably should. Vampires live forever - their names and legacies travel across centuries. Millenia. It’s going to give you away. You’re just a low class human from the slums. You don’t know Vampires from the uppers.

The illusion of luxury only goes so far.

“It’s not a trick question.” The man to your right smiles gently, tilting his head to the side.

“No, sir.”

“Well,” The one with the beard sits a little straighter. “I’m John Price and these are my… confidants. Cohorts. Kyle Garrick, Johnny MacTavish and Simon Riley.” He gestures to each as he goes.

John Price… John Price… Nothing comes to mind. Nothing about any of them, for that matter.

“Lovely to meet you.” You smile pleasantly, slipping back into the script. Swallowing roughly and steadying yourself, you reach for the bottle and slowly pouring a tester amount into the four glasses. “Tonight we have a vintage red from 2089.”

John hums, swirling the glass before taking a sip. His eyes glow in the low bar light. “You remember the 80’s, Simon?”

“Which one?” The makes you pause. How many 80’s could there be?

John laughs, whole and hearty. Little crows feet appear in the corners of his eyes. “Which d’you think?”

“I remember the blood.” The masked man mutters. He doesn’t look at John - dark eyes locked on you. You keep up the well trained smile. Neutral, comfortable.

“Och, ye would.” Johnny scoffs, taking his own glass after John gives you a nod to fill the four properly. “Cannae ever remember the good.”

“Well what’s your finest memory then Johnny?”

“There’s was this lass… think her name was Cassandra. Had the biggest tits and-“

“Enough of that. Theres a lady present.” John waves his hand. To your surprise, Johnny actually listens despite looking muffed about it. You can’t help but snort. Lady. As if.

How old are they, anyway? They look young - especially Johnny and Kyle. Definitely below thirty when they were turned. John obviously leads but that doesn’t necessarily mean he turned the rest of them. They could have just come together over the years. Vampire covens vary heavily as to why they came together. Sometimes friendship, sometimes relation, sometimes just convenience.

Simon is still staring you down, hooking a thumb under his mask to raise it just over the end of his nose. Scarred lips sip from his glass.

“Come sit, luv.” Kyle pats the booth beside him.

You snap out of your thoughts at the prompt - moving to sit in the empty spot beside Kyle. The next thing you know hands are on your hips, passing you over until you’re sat square in the middle as if you weigh nothing. You know vampires are strong - you’ve gotten thrown around by your fair share in the slums, whether a mugging or fucking - but it still startles you. They could crush you with barely a flick of the wrist.

Fingers brush over your shoulders, tracing the shape of them before lowering to rest between your exposed shoulder blades. They’re cold and leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“Tell us about yourself, hm?” John prompts.

“Oh, not much to tell.” You shrug and smile. “I’m from the city. Started here about a year ago-“

“How have we never seen ye then?” Johnny interrupts, eyes locked on your chest. “A bonnie thing like ye…”

“Well…” You raise your hand to your mouth like you would when whispering a secret. “I’m not supposed to tell but I’m actually a server, normally.”

“Oh, really?” Kyle leans his chin on his palm. “In a dress like that?”

“What’s wrong with my dress?” You huff, letting the pliant facade slip just enough to make yourself seem real. Just a little less doll like before you return to the script.

“Absolutely nothin’.” Simon hums beside you, eyes near black under the shadow of his mask.

Your face heats. Client compliments never get to you and you’re not sure what about his feels so different. All of their attention is so intense. It dives under your skin and burrows deep in your marrow.

“So, seeing as you implied I should know who you are-“ You tilt your head and meeting John’s eye, “who are you?”

John chuckles, leaning close. “Oh, no one important. Contractors. Independently employed.”

“Ah, so, criminals.” You laugh.

“If you say so.”

“I can’t exactly judge.” You lean in as well, shoulder pressing against his broad chest. The material of his suit is soft and thick. High quality. “I mean, look where I am, hm?”

“Are ye a criminal, lassie?” Johnny grins at you, tilting his head. How he makes a mo-hawk cute is beyond you.

“Shh.” You press a finger to your lips.

It’s easy enough to look sultry, to play the part, to mindlessly flirt. Easy enough to fall into the simple back and forth. Scripted. Basic. Nothing out of the ordinary. They’re just clients at the end of the day, even if they have more money and power than your usual crowd.

You carefully refill each of their glasses. You can feel their eyes on you - boring through your very being. It takes more concentration than you’d like to keep your breath from hitching when John’s hand rests on your upper thigh. You lean forward, pushing each glass back to their respective owners.

Johnny takes your hand before you can retract it, placing gentle kisses from your palm to your wrist. He sighs shakily, teeth catching your skin ever so slightly.

“Johnny.” The masked man rumbles in warning.

“Not gonnae bite, LT… she just smells incredible.” Johnny murmurs against your wrist.

“Have you ever been bitten, dove?” John asks, eyes half lidded as he stares you down. That feeling comes back.

Prey. You’re just prey.

“N-no…” You shake your head, voice smaller than you’d like. You’re not supposed to. Clients aren’t allowed to bite the girls here - it’s not one of those clubs - but in reality you’re at your mercy. To book one of these rooms they surely have the money to pay whoever necessary to do whatever they might want with you.

“Donnae look so afraid.” Johnny chuckles.

“We’re not goin’ t’bite.” Kyle leans forward. “Just curious.”

“Oh…” You whisper. Johnny drops your wrist and you pray that they don’t notice how quickly you retract it.

“Alright boys, time for business.” John sighs. He suddenly grabs your chin, turning you to face him. It’s a light touch, not too rough but solid. His pupils dilate and yours with them. “You’ll forget everything we say from now until I snap my fingers.”

The next thing you know you’re blinking blearily, sitting in John’s lap with your legs across Kyle’s. The younger man’s hand rests on your leg, thumb gently stroking your ankle as you come back to sentience.

It’s like coming up from the undertow and getting your first gasp of air.

“There she is.” Johnny murmurs, smiling softly.

You were compelled - you know that much. It’s disorienting. You rub the corner of your eye, purposefully evening your breath. At least your clothes are all still in place. You don’t feel… touched. Not bitten either. A choked sigh escapes you against your will, hands trembling in your lap.

“You’re alright, dove.” John coos, cold breath puffing against your neck. A shiver runs down your spine. How much time has passed? When… what… “Can be hard t’come out of it, hm?”

“I’m okay...” You whisper.

“Have some water.” Kyle pushes a glass toward you. The concern on his face feels foreign.

A large, empty decanter of scotch sits in the center of the table accompanied by several empty glasses. That’s the closest hint you have to how long you’ve been here. You take the glass of water shakily and sip, leaving an imprint of red lipstick on the rim.

John continues to coo and soothe down your hair. His other hand travels down to rest on your hip, holding you in place against him. It’s strange… this feeling. You’ve been compelled before briefly but it wasn’t like this. John has to be strong. Old. He’s been around a while to have that kind of power - for it to be this difficult for you to come out of the haze. It’s taking more concentration to keep from crying than you’d like.

Stranger, though, is the way they watch you. The way John works you back to reality. Most vampires would have been inappropriate while you were gone, wouldn’t bother with the borderline aftercare needed when coming out from under their spell. Most would have left you slumped in the booth - drained of blood and pleasure - laughing as they went.

You clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter and gathering your wits. “Can I get you gentleman anything else?”

They share a look, one that you can’t quite interpret.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” John asks, voice low.

You look up at him with big eyes. Childlike, almost, staring up in wonder. It’s so strange how vampires aren’t quite white - they just lack the redness of life. The pink under the skin that signifies a beating heart and limited life span.

“I’m sure.”

John presses closer, breath caressing the shell of your ear. “Thank you for being so gracious f’us, tonight.

“Always…” There’s an honestly behind the word that startles you. A craving deep in your bones to prove yourself worthy of him and his men.

Strange.

“We best be on our way.” Simon rumbles, prompting Johnny to let him out of the booth.

John’s eyes flick between yours briefly before he moves you off of his lap with the gentle touch one might use when handling fine china. As much as you want to stay there, dazed and still coming down, you have work to do. So, you stand after them and begin slowly gathering the empty glasses on the tray. They feel heavier in your hand the normal.

A cold touch runs up your back and you freeze. Fingers trace the curve of your spine. You straighten, turning slowly only to meet those soft blue eyes again. John takes your hand, eyes alight with something you don’t understand. “I’ll tell the owner he’s wasting you as a servin’ girl. You’re made for more.”

Before you can even possibly decide how to respond, he’s gone. Disappeared through the curtain and into the forever night. Something crinkles in your hand. When you look down, slowly opening your fingers, the contents make your heart jump into your throat.

Cash. A massive roll of neatly banded cash.

How much is this? A thousand? More?

With frightened eyes and slippery hands you tuck the cash into the secret pocket of your coat. Having that much cash on your person is so out of your wheelhouse - out of the realm of possibility- you don’t know how to react.

You didn’t even get to say thank you.

Your mind whirls as you finish up your shift, eyes glazed over while slipping on your coat. The other girls look off put. A few whisper and stare.

What do they think you did?

Then again, you think as you brace yourself for the lurching and squealing of the metro, there isn’t any way to know what happened. Not unless one of the vampires tells you, and good luck prying any information out of one of them. Even if they tell you, they can just make you forget all over again.

How did you behave? Were you the same as always? Were you an entirely different person?

Some people forget themselves when under compulsion - every inhibition thrown to the wind carelessly. You need your inhibitions. They keep your job secure and yourself safe. You can’t afford carelessness.

The walk back home is tense. That small bulk in your pocket burns a hole though you as your mind runs with every possibility of what might have happened. What you might have done to earn such a massive tip. It can’t have been dignified, could it?

There’s no way they just like you. That’s not how vampires are.

It takes everything to motivate yourself to actually take off your clothing and jewelry before falling into bed. However long they had you, it drained you. Left you tired and shaky as you crawl under the thick bundle of quilts that make up for the lack of heating in your home.

Your eyes meet the wad of cash that barely fit in the inner pocket of your coat. It feels like a threat. Use me well or lose me forever! Make me count because you’ll never see me again!

For now, at least, you can bask in it.

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sinfullyrosey · 10 months

Text

Shrimpmer!Reader

Floyd Leech X GN!Shrimpmer!Reader X Jade Leech

Warnings: Mild Violence, Brief Mentions of Accurate Shrimp Cleaning Methods (kind of gross)

I literally had written up a mini fic showcasing the tweels first meeting Shrimper!Reader… and lost it. Have no idea where it is. Searched through my drafts and got pissed, so just started over from scratch.

Can be read as platonic but with a lot of sus behavior ngl

The Basics (aka an Introduction to Shrimpmer!Reader)

Shrimpmer!Reader is a cleaner shrimp, a type of shrimp known for cleaning off parasites, algae, insects, and other bad stuff from fish. They’ve even been known to eat the mucus and infectious material around a fish’s wound to reduce infection and aid in healing. There are different species of cleaner shrimp, ‘scarlet skunk’ or ‘white-striped’ cleaner shrimps being known for cleaning the mouths of moral eels specifically.

Shrimpmer!Reader specifically comes from a family of cleaner shrimps that have a long-standing business partnership with the Leeches. Their family provides their cleaning and patch-up services to better the mereels’ health and heal any injuries, and in turn, the Leeches provide protection. It’s a mutualistic relationship where both benefit. And congrats, they were assigned to the tweels when they were but a mere fry and twins were still little elvers.

But what is it that Shrimpmer!Reader does exactly? Well, they have a cleaning station set up (i.e. a flat rock for the tweels to lay on while they work) and they go over the twins’ body, ridding it of any parasites and other debris. Picking at their scales and skin like a fine-tooth comb. They’ll even clean their sharp teeth using specialized brushes and tools to make sure nothing is stuck and strengthen the dentin (real shrimp physically go inside eel’s mouths, but shrimpmers are too big for that). Whenever the twins come to them with an injury after one of their scuffles, Shrimpmer!Reader will clean and disinfect the wound, being sure to remove any parasites, then wrap up the wound to heal faster.

In terms of anatomy and size difference, Shrimpmer!Reader is much smaller compared to the twins, but not on the same scale difference as real shrimps and moray eels. They’re not tiny enough to fit in their mouths but are small enough to be carried with ease. The best comparison I can give is like with the dwarves and Neige, but the tweels’ eel forms are much bigger compared to regular humans, so Shrimpmer!Reader would be shorter compared to a human as well. Floyd would joke about them being “child-sized.” Just like the Octatrio, their bottom half is that of a white-striped cleaner shrimp while the rest of their body has the matching miscolored skin, fin ears, and a pair of long, white antenna on the top of their head. No, their hands aren’t claws/pincers, but they do have sharp nails that aid in cleaning.

The Shrimp and the Eels Headcanons

Like mentioned above, Shrimpmer!Reader was assigned to Floyd and Jade back when they were all still children. Each new generation of Leech ends up being assigned a cleaner shrimp who are around the same age so that they can grow together and build a proper symbiotic bond. You just ended up unlucky ‘cause Mr. and Mrs. Leech had twins and you were the only available one in your family at the time. A two for one deal, as it were.

Rough first meet (the twins are asses even back then), but you eventually adjusted and they learned how much they actually enjoy getting all those nasties off of them. You were gentle and efficient, it was very soothing, almost therapeutic to them. But it was only after one particular cleaning where Floyd came to you, a week after he got into a fight, wound infected and riddled with parasites, that they fully realized just how much they needed you. Neither twin skipped a cleaning or wound treatment after that.

You are tiny and not built for fighting, so the twins are more than happy to do so for you!~ Some predator is stalking you, trying to get a taste? Floyd is already grabbing them by the tail, pulling them away from you and towards his own dangerously sharp jaws. Another merperson is bulling you, picking on your smaller size? Jade’s looming right behind, tail at the ready to squeeze the life out of them. Most of your patch-up work was from attending to their wounds sustained in fights defending you.

Floyd and Jade both have their tails wrapped around some poor, unfortunate soul who was pulling on your antenna. Jade is taunting the crying fry while Floyd is “playfully” biting their tail fins.

“Jade, Floyd, let them go already. You’re going to get in trouble…”

You do meet Azul later on, though never quite befriend him per say. His contracts made you uncomfortable and untrusting of his intentions. In turn, Azul was stiff and reserved around you on the account of the overly protective eels threatening to chew his tentacles off if he tried anything.

You’re not a student at NRC nor a student of RSA. Magic isn’t your forte (or your concern really), the tweels are. Which is why you do visit the schoolgrounds frequently, especially after the two (mainly Floyd) start complaining about “needing their shrimp.” They’re not even in their eel forms most of the time, but they do still get into fights and the nurse on staff isn’t good enough.

Congrats, you’re now the Leech’s designated Health Support Cleaner Shrimp, or whatever bullshit the twins pulled out of their tails when forcing requesting to Crowley that you be allowed to stay at Octavinelle! Double congrats, because you also work at Mostro Lounge as a janitor because you literally clean for a living!

In your human form, you are much shorter than most of the other students and you have two long cowlicks that resemble your antenna. You aren’t the biggest fan of this form, finding two legs to be difficult to navigate, especially since you kind of skipped the prep class. Floyd was impatient and claimed him and Jade would just teach you themselves. An unwise decision really.

I mean, you could also just request to have the potion adjusted so you can be taller too, I guess idk the twins aren’t going to tell you that.

You sometimes turn back into your merform with the tweels and swim together because you miss it. Floyd definitely missed curling his tail around his little shrimp and pinning you down with his much bigger size. He especially loves to flip you on your back and watch your little feetsies wiggle around in a panic.

Jade misses the cleanings more than anything else. Being a vice dormleader while also working at a lounge and doing schoolwork is stressful for one eel. So, being able to just relax and have you attend to him while he prattles on about mushrooms is absolute heaven. That’s not to say he doesn’t mess with you either. Jade will gladly use your height against you by putting your cleaning supplies on a higher shelf, so you’re forced to ask him for help, teasing you all the while.

No, you can’t clean anybody else, merfolk or otherwise. Only them. Azul almost lost a tentacle after suggesting such a thing when he noticed business was running slower.

You’re their cleaner shrimp, and they’re your eels. Anybody aware of the Leech’s influence know to back off lest they end up missing under mysterious circumstances.

Oh yeah, and the tweels, at some point, made it a habit to kiss you after you finished cleaning them under the guise of you “cleaning their teeth.” It’s become something so casual between you three now that when Azul caught sight of the twins and you locking lips, he nearly fell over at not realizing the three of you were (supposedly) an item.

#Twisted Wonderland #TWST #Floyd Leech X Reader #Jade Leech X Reader #GN!Reader #I had indented to add a section dedicated to reader dating the tweels but I got creatively burnt out at the end #maybe I'll post a part two at a later date

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kithtaehyung · 8 months

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and f*ck you, too (m) (teaser) | pjm

title: and f*ck you, too (m) (teaser) pairing: fuckboy assassin!jimin x assassin!reader(f) rating/genre: m (18+) ; angst , smut ; work rivals!au, assassins!au, enemies with benefits summary: you despise each other. and yet, you can’t seem to stay away. which is fine, since both of you are completely fine walking the line where it’s drawn. fic warnings: (smut warnings under the cut) language, violence, angst, blood/wounds (reader’s, jimin’s, and others’), cocky!jimin, cold!jimin, baddie!reader >:)), weapons: knives/guns, alcohol/drug mentions, reader has fast cars :))), ties to chairs, chains but who is shocked??, jimin has fast motorcycles🙄, angst, yoongi as a weapons specialist gets his own warning a ha ha, jimin looks too good in tanks, and without a shirt at all, this jimin is a warning in itself, did i mention angst? note: lmfaooooooo this is just assassins getting in each others’ ways with a generous splash of filth and a side of angst :)) WE ARE GETTING A PROPER JIMIN FIC, Y'ALL!! est. word count: 15-20k | teaser wc: 908 est. drop date: oct 2023 18+ taglist: sign up here (i check all blogs)

smut warnings: explicit scenes, biting, bondage (ropes, pillowcase), scratching, angst, slapping, hickies, body worship, piercing play, spit play, orgasm denial, pussy spanking, voyeurism, exhibitionism, face riding, slut/whore mentions, edging, oral (m/f rec), thigh riding, possessive but they won’t admit it</3, choking, angry sex, angst lol, hair/head pulling, protected/unprotected sex, praise kinks galore, easy access, cowgirl, hitting from the back, rough sex, spanking, teasing, creampie, chains (stay on!!!!), multiple orgasms, aftercare when it’s least expected👀

Glass.

Bullet casings.

So much broken glass.

As you listen in the scattered silence, you’re careful to skirt around the tiny shards making an ocean out of your villa.

Well. It’s now more of a wreckage than a beautiful seaside vacation home, but nuances mean nothing when you’ve only used it to store an eighth of your arsenal.

And your fucking pink McLaren that’s now face down in the nearest reef.

You are going to end this man.

“Come out, my love…”

Fuck him for double-crossing right when you were getting along.

At least, you felt like you were.

Maybe it was just a lapse in judgment, and the last goddamn mistake you’ll ever make around Park Jimin—assassin, playboy, sole occupant of the top of your hit list.

“Your target’s on the run, you know.”

Of course you’re fucking aware. But he won’t trick you a second time.

As soon as he gets a clear shot, he’s taking it.

And despite rivulets of sweat and blood running down your arm and a fresh gash on your upper chest, you are poised to do the exact same.

“Shouldn’t you be following them? Awhh, wait, your ride… What a shame.”

The gritting of your teeth almost gives you away.

Think.

Based on where you hear Jimin and the layout of your place, he’s somewhere around the foyer.

And hiding in an open hall next to your kitchen, there’s no way you can get him from where you’re poised.

So wait.

“What to do… Ah! I can call a taxi to pick you up! How does that sound?”

Wait, goddamn it.

Don’t fall for his shit.

Watch for any dark waves in the debris-riddled floor. Hold off until he’s in a good sight line.

Fuck, your wounds hurt.

Hot exhaustion warms your mouth as you wince, blood starting to harden along your slick skin.

“Or you can just let them get away. This would be Chance Zero, though, so. You’d end up getting a geo-bounty on your file… but it’s your decision!”

Breathe.

Geo-bounties aren’t too bad if they’re low.

Only when they evolve into Global status should you be worried. And that only happens if the Council deems it.

You’ve stayed on their good side… other than screwing up the missions Park Jimin has ruined.

“Come on, love.”

He sounds closer.

“Be a good girl.”

A lot closer.

Now you just have to wait until he… rounds the… corner.

…What happened?

Where the fuck did he—

Your body reacts before your mind does, ducking to avoid a strike into hard spackle.

Twisting, your forearm prevents the next swipe of Jimin’s blade as you retrieve your side dagger, and four boots trample the glass below in a violent dance of combat.

Above below swipe left dodge right parry parry lunge parry.

When you aim at his chest, your gun is quickly shoved, bullet firing into one of the last kitchen cabinets left standing.

And your opponent has the nerve to look appalled.

“You were gonna shoot me?”

All you do is tsk.

Clashes ring out again as you dart forward, and you go for a opening while mapping out how the hell you’re gonna catch up to your target before—

Fucking hell!

Chilling pain sears across your shoulder from the cut Jimin makes, and you half-stumble, half-crouch to avoid his killing blow.

Taking the risk and rolling across your favorite broken vase, you slide and fire again, the kickback hurting your arms like a bastard.

“Fuck!”

Finally.

Through slitted eyes, you can tell you just grazed Jimin’s thigh, and he collapses to a knee while you struggle to stand upright.

Crinkles of glass echo throughout the hall as you both haphazardly collect yourselves, with him breathing hard and you grunting through stinging pain.

Shit, he’s cursing like you’ve never heard before.

But you can’t let that distract you from your goal.

Up first, you aim your weapon just in time to face his expression.

Those wide eyes.

You have the perfect shot.

And yet…

You hesitate.

Time bends as you vascillate between decisions, your moral compass going haywire and refusing to align with any direction. Electricity fizzes and pops while another patch of your ceiling falls, but neither of you move.

Spare him. End it. Kiss him. Finish the kill.

Your heart squeezes the trigger.

And you fire at the light fixture above him before fast limping out to your garage.

Curses ring in the falling shards while you make your getaway, fingerpainting the walls with swift red strokes.

Get there get there get there.

Jimin won’t be far behind.

Ripping open the back door, you grit through the pain while swinging a heavy hand onto a glowing pad.

After the blooming beeps, you swipe in a password before hitting Floor, and find ponderous support on the door while you wait.

Breathe. Breathe. Holy shit, everything hurts. Breathe.

At your feet, the solid garage foundation slides open to reveal a car rising on a platform.

The other McLaren that Jimin didn’t launch off the nearest cliff.

Lamenting the leather interior already, you drag yourself to the drivers side with a series of groans, swiping a roll of wrappings and a couple gun magazines from a counter along the way.

Run run run.

He’s probably right behind.

In seconds, you’re zooming out of the driveway.

And with a bruised as fuck heart, you blast holes in Jimin’s motorcycle wheels for good measure.

tbc. :)

what do we think bc i already wanna fight this man lol | join the taglist!

a/n: thank you all for reading! if you did enjoy, please interact however you can! even a like is okay at this point, but all tags, reblogs, comments, and messages are super super appreciated :D see you at the droppppp hehehe ⇥ masterlist ⇥ writing updates board

#here we gooo!#bts fic #bts imagines #bts reactions #jimin fic #jimin x you #jimin x reader #pjm fic #in which both parties are stupid and attractive and despise one another lol #bts smut #bts angst #jimin angst #jimin smut #ryenwrites #*latest #*ryenfictalk #*teasers

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mockerycrow · 1 year

Note

“don’t you dare lie. i can see it hurts, so show me.” with gaz or soap

if it's not too much trouble I would like to sob please

also congrats on 400 followers!!!!! :)

400 Follower Celebration

(ENDED JUNE 15TH)

—“Don’t you dare lie. I can see it hurts, so show me.”— With Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Summary: After falling from a great height through an unstable floor, you end up with bruised ribs and a deep gash in your side that needs proper medical attention—but you’re almost at your destination with your team, so you say you’re fine.

A/N: I’m almost at 900 now?? thank you everyone 😭 also, your callsign is “Cinder”.

[WARNINGS: Medical inaccuracies, military inaccuracies, descriptions of wounds, physical hurt/comfort.]

You groaned as your ears rung, your body feeling unnaturally heavy. You blinked slowly and everything felt like it was far away and moving in slow motion, and your body felt unnaturally wet.. and hot. You let out a dry cough as you accidentally inhaled the misty debris, no doubt not doing your lungs any good. You looked around as your mind remained blank, whatever happened shocked you enough into a dazed state for a moment. You lay your head back down and you close your eyes tight for just a moment to try to regain feeling in your face, and pain bloomed from your neck and shoulders. Luckily, your helmet saved you from a major concussion and possibly a head injury. The ringing slowly faded until it became background noise, and you hear a voice talking into a radio and distant gunshots, as well as little parts of the destroyed floor above you falling to your level. “Cinder? Cinder do you copy??” Price. It’s Price’s voice, you vaguely catalogue that, but you don’t understand that you should probably respond. Your try to take a deep breath, but you find your chest being restricted, so you look down.

Oh.

There’s several large pieces of debris on top of you, a big piece of structural wood laying across your chest while pieces of concrete re-enforcement pin the wood down onto you. You should probably move that.

You lift your arms and you distantly feel that your side and your back is wet, your hands getting a good grip on the wood and grunting, you push the debris off yourself, moving your head to the side as some of the concrete rolls off the wood near your head. You let out another dry wheeze, feeling an ache in your ribs. For some reason, every sensation just feels.. so far away right now. You blink slowly as you sit up, glancing around the rubble that you’re sitting in the middle of. You touch your side and your body instinctively flinches, and your mind yells at you for touching your side, even if you don’t feel anything yet. You pull your hand back and your hand is wet with your blood, coating your palm like you just swiped your hand across a puddle on the street.

That isn’t good, now is it?

Oh, you should probably say something on comms. You use your clean hand to reach up and press a button, and your words are slightly slurred. “M’here, all good. Just.. got the wind knocked outta me.”

“We’ll have you checked out when we reach the safehouse. RV with us at the yellow house.”

“..Copy.”

You bend down and pick up your rifle that had been forced out of your hands, wincing as the pain in your muscles and your side is beginning to catch up to your brain. Despite wearing a vest, it seems like something managed to cut through to your side. You can’t help but look around and you press your lips together when you see rebar sticking out of different places; partially above you on the remaining slabs that haven’t fallen down to your level, as well as rebar stuck in large chunks of the concrete. It smelled like pure concrete too, if that makes sense. You hum when you know that your wound must be bad enough to soak through the vest, but you don’t want to stop and wait around just so they can slap an oversized bandaid on your side. You can do that later at the safehouse yourself.

You take a deep breath which leads to a cough, your hand coming up to brush some of the white dust from the infrastructure off of you. You get yourself out of the collapsed building and grip your rifle correctly, pointing it in front of you with your finger near the trigger, scanning your environment. All you see is ruined civilian buildings with dead enemy soldiers lining the streets, and unfortunately a few normal civilians, too. You take another look and you see the yellow house in question, but it’s a ways away. “Eyes on the yellow house, five, maybe six klicks out.”

“Copy, the perimeter is secured. You know the drill. Over and out.”

It admittedly takes you longer than it should’ve to get there. As you made your way to the rendezvous point, part of the adrenaline in your system began to stop pumping, which made you intensely aware of the gash in your side, the bruises forming deep within your muscles, and how heavy your body feels overall. It was not looking good.

After dragging yourself through the eerily quiet and bloody streets—you did have to stop a couple of times—you finally managed to get to the yellow house. ‘You know the drill.’ Find an alternate entrance other the main door, knock in a specific pattern, then wait for the door to open. You get yourself to the entrance of the house and you lift your arm, trying to ignore the way it feels like gravity is pulling on it more than usual, and then you knock the pattern you and the team agreed upon a while ago. It takes a moment before Soap opens the door with his rifle pointed at you, and you raise my hands. Soap lets out a sigh of relief and lowers his rifle, stepping to the side. “Steamin’ Jesus, looks like you’ve been through hell, aye?” He comments as you trudge your way inside. You grumble and wave him off. “Something like that.” You reapond, your voice hoarse. You make your way into the biggest room of the downstairs, which ends up being the living room. You scan the room and see Price, Ghost, and Gaz. “Saw you were in the building that collapsed. You broken?” Price grips his rifle harsher as he walks over to you, and you shake your head. “Nothin’ I can’t handle, Cap’.”

Gaz walks over to you next, his finger pointing at your bloodied side. “You sure ‘bout that? That doesn’t look too good, Cinder.” You avoid looking anyone in the eyes in fear that they will see past your already shaky facade, and you shake your head yes. “I’m.. I’m sure, just a bit tender.” This isn’t good, because the pain is managing to hit you harder and harder now. It’s like your gash is a spot where someone branded you and the burning hot sensation won’t leave for a long time, and when it finally does?—only pure pain will remain. Gaz scoffs and grabs your rifle from you, causing you to furrow your brows. “Hey, what gives?—“

Gaz then leads you over to a chair nearby and forces you to sit down, and he then puts your rifle and his rifle on the dusty table. “Let me see,” He scans your face with hardened puppy eyes, his fingers going for your vest. You shake your head and try to push his hands away. “Kyle, I am fine—“

“Don’t you dare lie. I can see it hurts, so show me.” His voice is firm, leaving no room for you to argue, so you put your arms down. You bite your lip and mutter, “I would’ve survived to the safehouse.”

Gaz wordlessly undoes the straps and clips of your bloody tactical vest, and pulls the weight off of your body. You hiss and close your eyes for a moment, hearing shuffling, probably Gaz putting the vest down. You feel his fingers pull your shirt from being stuffed into your waistband, and you hiss from the shirt dragging against the gash. You open your eyes and beside you is Gaz and Ghost—Ghost, who is setting down a medical kit, and he eyes you before speaking. “You wouldn’t have, Sergeant.”

Everyone goes silent from that, and you’re aware of the heaviness in the air due to Ghost’s observation. You opt to look at Gaz who has worried and troubled eyes as he cleans the gash, and you try to ignore the way you’re bleeding onto him. “Shit, Soap, come over here and help me.” His voice is slightly trembling and you feel guilt bubble in your gut. Gaz should never sound like that, especially not because of you..

Soap jogs over and grabs gauze, helping Gaz to soak up the blood and clean your gash. “It’s going to need stitches..” Gaz mutters, making eye contact with you. You take a deep breath and nod. “Quickly.. please?”

Gaz looks back at your wound, breaking the slight tension, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Of course.”

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amazeingartist · 4 months

Text

alien vibe times (octosoap edition)

“alien soap being an apex predator species that ghost’s team finds floating in a test tube during a laboratory raid. soap’s conscious and floating around, tracking ghost’s movement in particular with large star filled blue eyes”

(slight divergence from the writing to this but shhh it’s fine)

(and full design here with all my little starting notes and scuffed as fuck photobash doodle)

here are some more notes that go into it a bit more if you’d like to read em (I basically made the species first and then was like, “ok soap your this now” lmao)

(also sorry for not posting for a bit before the global strike, hopefully this makes it up a bit)

currently calling the species “cephalopinna,” literally just combined scientific names lmao

physically they look like an octopus given seal qualities, but they don’t have as many bones as most of their body is just pure muscles. the bones they do have are dense like most aquatic life, and are there to support vital organs or provide the most simplistic skeletal structure

the planet cephalopinna live on is entirely water, with the landmass being submerged and most of the time floating along with the planets current. plantlife does exist, these landmasses varying in size and vegetation—from coral reefs and underwater forests, to sandbanks and floating debris.

cephalopinna are an incredibly intelligent and semi-social species, usually only straying away from other members of their species when a pair are incubating their young

cephalopinna are monogamous and only have one partner, at most two if the first partner dies, otherwise they can die from loneliness after being paired

cephalopinna also have up to 4 spawn but usually only one or two make it maturity. also technically have eggs that are kept tucked away under the hood of the adults neck, next to the gills so that they’re oxygenated and once born, cephalopinna will raise their young to maturity (young could be called pups, cubs, or whelps)

they are incredibly territorial and both male and female “equivalents” of cephalopinna will fight off a competitor to be paired (I say equivalents because there is no proper determination or designation of a male or female sex within the species by human standards)

courtships are dances where a pair will flash colours, gifts of food, and tests of intelligence via what could be considered puzzles (intelligence is highly regarded among cephalopinna)

the front fins have claws that can used for hunting, foraging, fighting, even potentially grooming (gently scraping off algae and parasites) and are very functional as hands as they sorta have a thumb claw

cephalopinna are incredibly large but are excellent ambush predators, laying in wait to latch on and bite while pumping prey full of venom. if the ambush fails, they will chase down the prey till they are close enough to prick them with venom to then follow behind from a safe distance as the prey succumbs to their incredibly potent paralytic toxin

their teeth can crush through bone, nothing of the prey is ever left afterwards

they have a long life expectancy

the connective tissue between their primary tentacles stretch to cover body, while swimming cephalopinna will cover themselves to be more hydrodynamic. they also often do this when sleeping out in the open to protect themselves.

cephalpinna grind their back teeth, like deer, which reverberates through the water, add it with their aptitude for colours, this form of communication has multiple meanings

they have an incredibly advanced camouflage ability, which helps soap in particular in this au appear human. for whatever evolutionary purpose, they have the ability to breathe earth’s—and a few other planets—atmosphere, however they do need to be kept appropriately hydrated it would seem

#soapghost #ghostsoap #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #alien!soap #personal alien species lore dump too lmao

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pumpkin-patch-cat · 5 months

Text

⸸ Savior ⸸

Satan x Fem! Reader (female presenting)

🔞 NSFW. Minors DNI.🔞

Warnings: rough penetration, semi-conciousness, language

AN: Just a little brainrot I've had cookin' in my head and decided to share with the class. As per usual, please pardon any grammatical errors.

That familiar pain. The burning ache.

‘Not again’

You look to your side toward Satan in desperation as your stride slows, your lungs yearning to take unimpeded breaths of air but each time you breath in, it's as if you're inhaling needles and foreign ozone.

“S-satan..” You croak, hastily seeking his attention by reaching for his sleeve, but the attentive king had already noticed. With no Sitri and Ppyong present, the king couldn't be happier. But not so much knowing this phenomenon plagues you and causes you pain. Pain not inflicted by his own hands, that is.

“Your room. Now” He commands with a knowing smile.

He grabs your hand, you shut your eyes, desperately trying to conjure up the familiar space, but alas, your thoughts are repeatedly interrupted by panic. You simply can not take in a good enough breath to maintain your train of thought.

“Y/n, hurry” Satan's stern voice presses. He grips your shoulders, noting the tears pricking your eyes when you open them in panic once again.

“c-can’t” you inhale as sharply as you can to gather any air that would make it through.

You claw at your throat with one hand while holding his forearm with the other in a silent cry for help.

“Shit” Satan frowns, then scans the area quickly. Most buildings are dilapidated and have fallen to ruin. ‘Damn angels’ he thinks, dragging you further down the deserted street in hopes of finding a space untouched by violence. If he had it his way, he'd fuck you where you stood, but that was reckless.

You continue to take in short puffs of air, wheezing now, nearly losing your footing.

Satan steadies you with a protective grip on your forearm, and when you both come to a stop near a darkened alley, he makes an executive decision.

“Fuck it”

It'll have to do.

It's dark and dank. Musty with the smell of dry rotted wood and moldy, wet brick. A stark contrast to the evening's inviting and dusky setting sun outside of the alley. Satan drags you in deeper, avoiding a few leaky pipes, debris, and puddles, continuously on alert to be sure no angels are on your heels.

Once the man is satisfied with a spot closest to a dead-end, the king turns and graces you with one of his signature kisses without hesitation. In the back of his mind, he's unsure if the transfer of energy will work without the proper head space, but right now there's no time to hypothesize.

His kiss deepens when a pained whimper escapes your lips.

He needs to hurry, less he lose his favorite human.

Through your dazed expression you feel the cold chill and rough surface of something hard pressed to your back.

“I've got you…” He murmurs against your lips and presses you closer against the wall, quickly reaching down to undo and slip your bottoms from your hips, the tell tale sound of a belt buckle and zipper of his jumpsuit follows after. Fabric now left to pool at both your feet.

Even in dire times, his human was still beautiful.

With his boxers at his hips, the king hoists you up by the ass, pressing against you, his dick now free and already impossibly hard knowing your most precious space is currently his for the taking.

Using the wall to keep you sandwiched against his broad chest, Satan pistons your pussy without warm-up or warning; relishing in the tight squeeze and slowly moistening flesh fighting to adjust to the intrusion. He'll apologize later…maybe.

“Argh!” A strangled cry escapes your throat despite the innate lack of air, to which a hand comes down over your mouth to quickly muffle the sounds, forcing you to attempt harsh breaths through your nose.

“Easy, little lamb. You don't want those creatures to interrupt our fun, do you?” he offers quietly.

The only response he receives comes in the form of whimpers each time he re-enters, those red eyes keeping you locked in a dazed trance.

The demon thrusts harshly upward, forgoing a lazy pace and opting for one that's sure to leave your insides bruised. His large hand grips your ass, while his other moves from your mouth to hold your thigh, guiding you up and down.

While the blooming pleasure feels incredible, it's nearly drowned out by your lack of air supply. The energy isn't being absorbed fast enough and your vision starts to go dim. You claw at Satan's shoulder, breaking skin in an attempt to stay grounded and push through the fog, but the tightness in your chest is nearly unbearable.

“Stay with me, y/n. Fuck…you feel so good…That's right, abuse my flesh. Use me!” Satan muses through clenched teeth and pushes in deeper, digging his nails into the soft fat of your ass.

Your body feels like jello. You feel as though you're underwater. Your eyes begin to roll, practically a limp, play-thing in the demon's arms, and it only spurs him on.

The demon shifts his hips in a way that manages to prod against a more sensitive spot deep within your pussy, pushing out another strangled cry from your near empty lungs. His lips connect with yours again to swallow the sound.

“Look at my little human. At the presepist of death, yet drunk off the delicious burn of pleasure…” he coos near your jaw as it goes slack in a silent scream. Your head weightlessly pulls to the side just a bit, only to be yanked back upright abruptly by the chin.

“Look at me, y/n. Hey…HEY. Focus” he taps your cheek a bit rougher than intended, but it brings your fucked out, panicked eyes back to his face.

God, you were gorgeous.

Terror and bliss playing tug of war with your features, and his heart. Fervent groans of both pain and ecstacy continuously escaping your throat. He wished he could take a picture. To freeze the expression on your face in time.

To show you…to tease you…

To piss you off.

The thought of your rage upon seeing yourself in such a vulnerable state of disarray had the demon's eyes crossing slightly, tongue lapping out and dripping with saliva into the space between your bodies. His dick engorged further as he envisioned the twisted, raw anger in your words as you scolded him for his behavior.

A bit of liquid dripped down the side of his face and over his cheek. He licked it away greedily when it reached his lips; the taste salty and familiar - his horns were leaking. He felt heavy against your walls, his balls clapped rhythmically against your ass cheeks to the beat of each relentless plunge within. You were so wet around him, for him, and it only increased the faster he moved. That's a good thing. It meant you were still alive. You were still his.

Despite your slowly deteriorating state, the king could feel the needy squeeze of your pussy keeping him locked deep inside - you were close.

“Just like that.” he breathes, brows creased in concentration.

The muscles of Satan's ass flexed and relaxed, forcing you upward in his grip.

The darkness that licked at the edges of your vision remained, but the familiar burn in your core was smoldering - growing.

“S-satan” you manage to croak again, barely above a whisper. You held on to the wefts of hair on his shoulders like anchors with what little strength you had, managing to catch the glimmer of two crimson, half lidded eyes boring into your face through the glaze clouding your vision.

“Cum for me, little lamb. Let me be your savior. Pray to me. Let me be your God” He grinned above you, face flushed red and wild.

The feeling was damn near torture. Being tugged back and forth between consciousness and a mental, black void that threatened to swallow you whole, but it did not extinguish the growing flame in your gut, nay, it pushed you further; a feeling akin to a taut rubber band.

Satan set a punishing rhythm then, the sound of wet flesh colliding together bounced off the walls around you both. His hips began to sputter, his thrusts slowed to harsh grinding where the tight curls of his pubic hair rubbed deliciously against your throbbing clit.

“S-satan…I..cum-ing!”

The moment the proverbial rubber band snapped was the moment an orgasm so forceful--so earth shattering--rocked through your arched body, and set your senses alight.

Your only warning from the demon was a drawn-out grunt that reverberated deep in his chest and his teeth coming down to latch onto your shoulder to muffle his own sounds.

A rush of hot warmth coats your insides simultaneously, and color bursts forth into your vision; air once again floods your lungs with the deepest of breaths.

In the few moments following, the only thing you remembered was a gentle hand resting on your cheek and the words 'sleep now' being uttered before your world went black.

⸸⸸⸸⸸

“You did so well. But now you need rest” The king had you dressed, as best as he could anyways, and in his arms bridal style heading for home.

Although the transfer worked and he managed to save you, it was hard to ignore the small sense of dread that bottomed out in his stomach seeing you in distress.

The further he walked, cradling your body against his, your breaths now even, he contemplated.

In the beginning, the possessiveness he felt for you had been brought on by territorial instincts nurtured by your connection to Solomon, but the longer he spent time with you, his idea of who you were had started to change.

You were interesting for many reasons, reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on, and both Ppyong and Sitri had taken a liking to you as well, though in a way that felt completely different from Solomon's time in hell.

Did that make him…happy? It's been a long time since he felt an ounce of happiness, depression was unkind like that. But you. Your presence had started to fan those flames. The thought brought a small smile to his face.

“What are you doing to me, y/n?” He asks quietly, sweeping his eyes over your relaxed, sleeping face. An inkling of warmth tingling in his chest.

Satan wasn't sure what was going on, but in that moment, he vowed to be there when you needed him. To stay by your side and protect you.

#*clings to Satan*#angy king is love #“I got chu boo” vibes #whb satan x reader #whb satan #whb #what in hell is bad #what in “hell” is bad?#fanfic #writing

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bagliblog · 8 months

Text

BALIKTURLERİ - MEGA+ (2)

Kuhli loach are a popular freshwater aquarium species known for their unique appearance and peaceful nature. These bottom-dwelling fish have long, slender bodies with distinctive black and brown stripes running the length of their bodies. Kuhli Loaches are social creatures and should be kept in groups of at least six to eight. They are shy and sensitive and require plenty of hiding places in the aquarium to feel secure. Kuhli Loaches are omnivores and will eat a variety of foods, including algae wafers, sinking pellets, and live or frozen foods. In terms of tank requirements, Kuhli Loaches prefer a well-planted aquarium with plenty of hiding places and a soft, sandy substrate. They also require clean, well-oxygenated water with a pH between 6.0 and 7.5 and a temperature range of 75-86°F. Kuhli Loaches are peaceful fish and can be kept with other non-aggressive species, such as rasboras and tetras. However, they should not be kept with aggressive or territorial fish, as they are easily intimidated and can become stressed. When it comes to care tips, Kuhli Loaches are relatively low-maintenance fish. They do an excellent job of keeping aquariums clean by eating leftover food and other debris. However, they require a varied diet to ensure optimal health and should be fed a mix of commercial and live or frozen foods. Kuhli Loaches are also sensitive to water conditions and should be monitored closely for signs of stress or illness. Overall, with proper care and attention, Kuhli Loaches can be a fascinating and rewarding addition to any freshwater aquarium.

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wasyago · 2 months

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I'm so curious, but it's okay if you do not have an answer for me; did something happen to Etho in your recks au for him to need all of those robotic prosthetics, like an accident of sorts? Or did he, I guess, experiment on himself or something like that?

Wonderful design, by the way! I can't stop looking at it, I love it so much.

haha yeah something did happen :)c

so, as you may or may not know, the world of recks suffered from a catastrophe caused by the moon going off its orbit and almost crushing into earth; which caused the creation of many gravitational anomalies all over the planet; which caused most of the big cities to evolve downwards and move under the sea level; which created this odd phenomenon of many skyscrapers in the middle of the city being abandoned and staying vacant, even if the buildings are technically fully operational.

and so teen etho, our smart little boy, thought "Hey, i don't wanna live so low underground where the sun doesn't reach when there's perfectly good houses on the surface!" so he just kinda... left his home and moved to one of the abandoned buildings. which, i mean, good for him and all that. BUT.

see, the thing about run down buildings is that they don't have a good water supply. and the thing about water in recks au is that it has a ton of bad chemicals, moon debris, leftovers of destroyed infrastructure, etc, in it when unfiltered or filtered poorly.

and etho, although smart, wasn't smart enough to give proper attention to the metallic taste of the water in the building he moved in to. like, sure it tastes a little weird but otherwise it's fine, it's something you would expect from an abandoned skyscraper right?

well, little did he know that the water he drank for god knows how many years of his life, was actually slowly dissolving his insides and poisoning him! and yknow, sharp pain in your guts every so often is one thing, but actively coughing up blood is another. and thank god he met cleo by then, because they forced him to actually do a check up to see what was wrong.

everything was wrong how you might've already guessed, to the point where the damage wasn't reversible anymore and there was no way to heal naturally. sooo etho had to get the prosthetic and say goodbye to his organs. the other option was to say goodbye to his life tho so he got pretty lucky there i think. thankfully cleo is a prosthetics doctor neurologist person, and she was able to get everything sorted fairly quickly for him and get that man on the operating table as soon as possible.

so at the end, all of etho's vitals had to be changed, including his throat and lower jaw because it also god badly damaged by being in contact with the water. (turns out etho had the raspy voice not because he was cool but actually because he was dying 😬) and! let me tell you, removing someone's entire set of vitals and changing them for the artificial ones in one surgery without killing the person in the process is actually very hard!! who would've thought huh...

well uhmm, yeah so this is what happened to etho o3o

(the eye prosthetic is another story tho, this post is already pretty long so maybe next time)

#recks au #recks!etho #recks!cleo #briefly mentioned but very important #yagotalk

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sheisjoeschateau · 4 months

Text

"Oh, so we DO love Steve..." | PART III

⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ SERIES MASTERLIST ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting, ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+

CHAPTER WARNINGS: mega plot-driven smut ahead in this part of the story. you've been warned. MINORS, DNI. 18+

***

Despite everything, you and Steve both get through battling Vecna. You both grin and bear it. You both set aside your differences when the moment calls for it.

Just like you have before. Many times.

And in the midst of it all, you can't help but wonder about your uncle. How he's doing. If he's somewhere in his bunker still, hopefully drinking less (ideally, not at all) and keeping up his phone calls with Joyce. You'd told her to keep tabs on him, and you also told your uncle to keep tabs on her. They needed each other. You had the kids and the teens, but they needed each other. And sure, your uncle has you. Always. But you have to work, and babysit, and hang around a guy who hates your guts because the circumstances won't permit otherwise.

Eddie and Robin really stick up for you. They do. They really like you. Steve can’t stand it.

Even Nancy doesn’t mind you. Honestly, she’s scared of you more than anything. Steve doesn’t care.

The kids love you. Steve won’t make them hate you. He never would. But he won’t endorse their kind sentiments about you either.

More groups are formed, along with more plans. Scary, life-threatening plans.

You stay behind with Dustin and Eddie, knowing that Steve is quietly a basket case over the concept leaving Dustin alone without having him there to protect him from all this shit, the way he has before. With the demodogs, the Russians, and everything up to this point. That kid is his brother. His son.

It’s the only time that Steve tells you thank you.

And he sincerely means it.

By the grace of some unspeakable force, you manage to not only keep Dustin alive...but also Eddie. The bats have done their damage, and you've got some damage yourself. Though not nearly as bad as Eddie. You can withstand yours with adrenaline and the sheer need to protect one of your kids and get this metalhead back to the real world so that he can get proper medical attention.

When Steve and the girls all get back to the three of you there, after all the shit hits the fan - you, Steve, Nancy, Robin and Dustin all manage to get Eddie back across the gate and get him majorly patched up. Thanks to Dr. Owens.

You keep Eddie hidden at Murray's bunker. You're shocked to find it empty, your worry growing more every single minute. But Steve tries to assure you that your uncle is likely fine, probably just out to eat or something. However... even he knows that is not true. Murray does not go anywhere.

"Bauman," he's saying to you, softly. So softly. Softer than he's ever spoken to you once. "He's gonna be okay. I promise. We're here, alright?"

Two days later, Jonathan and his Cali crew all show up. Nancy and him are reunited.

And you watch Steve break.

He doesn’t let it show, not really. But you see it. Both you and Robin do. You let her comfort him. He needs his best friend, much more than he needs you. Especially in this situation. You are undoubtedly the last source of comfort for him in this specific instance.

You reunite with your Uncle Murray, who has returned with Joyce and — to your surprise — a very much alive Hopper. It’s a beautiful reunion, as you all hug tightly.

You all fucking lived, bitch.

Given the new flurry of debris-snow-shit in the air, you all end up having to take shelter.

Steve volunteers his house, given that his parents fled to their vacation home and he told them he wasn’t going. They ditch him, so he has the house all to himself. This time, he doesn’t have to be alone though. He has his real family.

You all move into the Harrington House. Lord knows it’s big enough. But it’s also really tight, for two people who can’t stand each other unless there’s a really ugly monster guy waltzing around that needs to be killed along with his multi-species army of little uglies.

Given the close quarters, on top of the fact that you all can’t leave the house much unless it’s for supplies, you and Steve have no choice but to coexist.

He still resents you, especially seeing Nancy and Jonathan are now getting along again and seem to be doing better. But it's much more subdued now, and you both find a way to talk. Which happens mainly because of you, initiating.

You learn more about Steve's home life, given the pictures everywhere throughout the house. They're all pretty stiff, lacking warmth. You figured that Steve was a pretty lonely trust fund baby, and being that you're a lonely child you can relate to the loneliness that comes with that. Not the trust fund part. Just the only-child-syndrome part, which you know perfectly well forces you to either become very well acquainted with yourself...or hate yourself even more. Steve clearing did not lean into becoming his own source of reliability and companionship, the way that you did. And it made you understand him better. It made you understand why he needed to be around the likes of Carol and Tommy H. He did not know how to be alone with himself.

"I think my dad and I don't even like the same beer," Steve scoffs, allowing himself a humorless chuckle. You don't laugh with him, instead giving him a soft look. An apology with your eyes.

"And my mom, she just...I dunno. Sometimes, I wonder why she never left him."

You let Steve reveal as little or as much as he wants to. It just depends on the day.

The two of you watch out for the kids. You both go with them to visit Max in the hospital. You even initiate finding a way to get her to stay there while in a coma, thanks to enlisting the help of your uncle to help enlist the help of Dr. Owens. The kids love you for that.

Steve doesn’t love you… But he appreciates you.

A lot. He's beginning to find appreciation for you, for a lot of things.

Your uncle clocks the very niche tension between the two of you, now that you’re all under the same roof and he’s given no choice but to.

And damn, it makes him curious. He is, after all, the witch doctor of love…

Nevertheless, Murray takes his time choosing when to strike.

As you and Steve both help nurse Eddie back to health, and read to Max in her coma (which leads to both of you just simply talking), and make the kids laugh together, and even make conversation with Nancy and Jonathan (…it’s very double date ish) Murray watches his niece — and mannnnnn, is he amuuuuuused.

One night, you and Steve stay up to share some drinks with the adults. It’s the first time that the two of you actually make each other really laugh, heartily. The drinks help.

That’s sort of Murray’s plan. Vodka is, after all, the holy grail.

Even Eddie joins, along with Robin. But Steve sits next to you. Not his best friend, or the new friend he’s made in the metalhead. Nope, he sits his perfect, hunky ass that makes all the ladies drool right next to little ole you.

And damn, do you both laugh.

Murray’s never seen you laugh that hard with anyone in his life. He wonders if you’ve ever laughed that way at all.

And the way that Harrington looks at you? Especially when you’re not looking… Holy shit.

And the way you look at him the same way... makes Murray grin ear to ear like a mischievous kid with the plan to wreak havoc.

Hopper and Joyce are so settled into their relationship, and Jonathan seems to be winning back the love of Nancy. Eddie and Robin are so single it hurts, but it's legendary too. And you? Steve? Well, you guys are mortal enemies. And yet somehow, sitting here in the Harrington's living room with glasses of chilled vodka, belly-laughing over anything -- you and Steve exude more chemistry than all of them combined.

So when everyone goes to bed, and Murray catches you alone, he grills you. Not like the others. Nah, you’re family. He’ll cut you some slack.

…not much, though.

It sobers you right up.

"Do not tell me for one second that you don't think he's gorgeous," your uncle is saying in a low voice. You're both standing in his bedroom, having fetched him a tall glass of water which turned out just be a way to fucking lure you into his witchdoctor trap.

"I love you Uncle Murray. I really do. But this theory? -- is not one of your other bullseye's."

"Face it, kiddo," your uncle is smirking. "Your uncle's never wrong. You're just never the one on the other end of his lectures when he's making astute observations. You're always contributing to it. But this time? You're the leading lady, darling."

"False."

"You like Steve."

"Murray...!"

"You like Steve..."

You try to tell your uncle that everything he is saying is nonsense. Steve hates you. He absolutely hates you. Loathes and despises you, and plans to do so until you’re all particles of dust.

“Plus, he is so fucking annoying and whiny and entitled and has zero self respect unless it’s up against someone who calls him out for his shit,” you tell your uncle, gesturing to yourself on the last part. “Steve Harrington is a cocky guy who would just rather suffer in his own misery than ever see or lean into being this...this incredible man that he's...capable of being, the role model he has become to those kids, who love him, they love the human most deserving of being put first —”

.................

…oh fuck.

The silence is deafening. Murray’s smirk and all-knowing glare only adds to your being aware of what you just said to him, and admitted to yourself, out loud.

“Oh…oh so we do love Steve.”

Your uncle’s words are the cherry on top of the cake you just baked, and didn’t know you had the ingredients to make.

You don’t sleep that night.

***

The next morning, you and Steve both sit with Max.

"Wondering what she wrote in yours?"

Steve is nodding at the stack of letters on the bedside table. You all left them there, promising yourselves not to open them. Because she will wake up.

Lucas took it hard, Max dying. You'd been there to hold him, comfort him, along with Steve. You both watched him burst into tears numerous times, sometimes sobbing uncontrollably, despite the fact that she was somehow still here. It broke both your hearts, but you both got through it with him. Together.

And while the other kids were taking it hard too...so fucking hard...it was Steve who carried the most guilt. Remorse, anguish and guilt.

"I failed my kid," Steve had told you at the hospital once. You looked at him with a furrowed brow and concerned eyes.

"Steve, no you didn't."

His voice shook, eyes drowning in nightmarish thoughts. "I wasn't there for her. I wasn't -- wasn't..."

"You could never fail those kids. Not even if you tried."

He didn't believe you. But he wanted to. You had squeezed his hand that day, sitting in the waiting room. And to your surprise, not only did he let you...but he squeezed it back, letting your hands rest that way for an hour as you fell asleep in the seats before being woken up.

And now, sitting in one of his guest rooms while Max lay asleep in the coma still, you can see that guilt in him is spreading.

Steve is holding the letter that she gave to him, and you ask him if he’s wanting to read it.

Steve snorts. "God, you kidding? She'll wake up just to kill me before going right back to sleep."

You smirk, biting back a real laugh. “True.”

But Steve looks conflicted. He fiddles with the letter in his hands, wanting to tear it open. You know that he does.

“…want me to read it out loud to you instead? She can kill me in your place.”

Steve chuckles at that.

...but he doesn’t say no.

In fact, after biting his lip for a minute and thinking, he finds himself nodding. Yes. Please, read it to me, he’s thinking.

So you do.

You take the letter and read it to him. You read him the words that only a little sister could write to a big brother who she loves and wishes she will grow up to be like. You read him words that make him light up like a Christmas tree, yet cause him a painful ache deep within his bones. You read him a letter of love that no one ever took the time to write, let alone express, to him his entire life.

Steve fights tears. He bites them back, successfully. You’re the last person he ever wants to see him vulnerable. Hell, he can’t even see himself like that without judging his own self harshly. He can only imagine that you will, too.

He doesn’t know, though, that not only would you never judge him for that. But selfishly, you wish he would feel safe with you. Or God, someone at least. Just not Nancy. Someone who deserves him wholeheartedly.

"Steve," you speak softly.

He's staring into space, zoned out. But then, he finally looks over at you. He sees the kindness in him, and it almost takes his breath away. The way that you look at him...he just never thought you could...that you could --

"You're all of these things. Everything she wrote in this? You're all of it. And then some. You're the hero all those kids dream of being when they grow up. You're their favorite person. The one they trust, go to for everything. Even if you don't think that they do, they do."

He listens, unable to move. Speak. Breathe.

"You are...a great person, Steve Harrington."

***

That night, there’s a knock on your door. You’ve been given the guest room upstairs with no bunk mate. Unlike most of the people in the house. But given that Joyce and Hopper are together now, and El sleeps in Max’s room to keep watch, the four younger boys share a room with Eddie, Nancy is with Jonathan, Erica sleeps at her own house and Robin shares Steve’s room since she splits her time here and at home — you and Murray got the solo rooms.

Steve is now grateful for those sleeping arrangements tonight.

Because when you open the door, he’s on the other side. He looks sad, conflicted and lost. Like his mind is racing at a million miles an hour, yet can’t think of anything to say. He’s tongue tied, just staring at you expectantly…

What is he expecting?

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Is it Max?”

Something about your question makes Steve brows pinch together. Like it’s suddenly confusing him even more. But he doesn’t speak.

You wait patiently. But truth be told, you are anxious as fuck. Because damn, he’s pretty. He is so stupid pretty. And fuck it’s annoying. His lips are just the right shape in a pout, and it’s really fucking annoy —

His lips are crashing into yours before you can even finish dissecting them.

Steve is kissing you like life depends on it. Gentle at first, but eager. Determined.

And when you both pulls back -- you don’t hesitate for more than a solid 2-3 seconds, your eyes shocked while his eyes silently ask, is this okay?

Your lips crashing back against his answers — yes.

Steve is a hurricane of both madness and all things serene in the ways that he touches your body. He explores your skin with his lips and hands, as if he has all the time in the world. The curve of your jaw and neck. The jut of your collarbones. The feel of your clavicle, which leads him to the shape of your tits and nipples. He cherishes your body, hungrily exploring it. It’s heated, hot and heavy. He licks a stripe down your abdomen to the waistband of your sweatpants. The way his brown irises look up at you, all round and doe eyed, makes the back of your throat groan with need. It’s not loud or brash, nor is it strained and quiet. It’s soft but certain. Steve melts at it, his fingers curling one by one around the band of your sweatpants, his eyes still asking — please?

You’re nodding without even having to hear a word out of him. And Steve pulls.

Euphoria is the feeling of Steve’s tongue exploring your folds. It’s the sound of him sighing into your portal in pure pleasure, and the way he sucks your clit with fervency yet flicks it with supple patience. His hands knead into your thighs, one of them reaching to squeeze your hips so that he can pull himself up to you and let you taste yourself on his tongue. He wraps an arm underneath your waist, hooking you to him, asking in the breathiest of whimpers, “Please let me, angel.”

He’s getting a fistful of your hair into one of his big hands, adoring the way that you squeak a yelp. You suck on his tongue, hard, and it’s enough to drive him mad. He pins himself against you, grinding. But you sit up, keeping your bodies glued together and now using your teeth to tug on his lip and paralyze him in pure ecstasy. You take the opportunity to slide your teeth and tongue down his jaw and neck, trailing pecks and kisses along the way, and the throaty whimper he lets out makes you see stars behind your hooded eyes as you drag your tongue down his chest. The wet stripe you’re leaving glides down to his toned abdomen’s bunny trail, and as you curl your fingers around his sweatpants, you pause… letting your lips press the most fluttery of kisses to each of his scars.

Steve can’t help the shudders, sighs and whimpers that escape his lips, along with your name. It’s raw, uncensored. He clutches your hand, which you extend up to him in a greedy grab as you slowly work his pants down with your other hand. You hook your fingers onto his chin, forcing him to let go of your hand in his and look down at you. He does, and it’s game over. You watch him and never break eye contact as you use both hands to push down his briefs…

…and thank God for that — because otherwise, you would see just what you’re up against as far as pleasuring him goes.

You feel the tip of his hard length tap your chin, and you scoot farther down into the mattress — on your knees like a perfect angel. Your tongue plays with its head, tasting the tang of his pre-cum, and Steve is shaking so hard he can’t stand it. He clenches his jaw, gritting out blissful curses through his teeth. “Fuck, baby, fuck.”

You take in the intense length of him, pleasuring him until he is touching the back of your throat and nearly gagging you senseless, and the mess he is up above you — it sends your mind into a tailspin. He has never looked so pretty, eyes squeezed shut except when he’s glancing back down at you with more fondness and adoration than you ever thought possible from not only a man who hates you…but any man at all.

And when Steve is just about to cum, he begins to beg. “P-please. Wait, please.”

His hands urgently cup your jaw, forcing you to look back up at him and cease your sickeningly perfect work. He pulls, and you follow. He drinks you in with his gaze, staring into your soul, as if he’s trying to figure you out. He stares and stares, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, his brown eyes searching yours like you are the most beautiful mystery he has ever needed to solve. He looks as though he might ask you something. Say something...

But he dives in to kiss you again before he lets himself.

His hand wraps around the bend of one of your knees, tugging it up so that he can hook your leg around his waist. Then he does it to the other. And before you know it, you’re straddling him.

“Fuck, Bauman, please,” Steve Harrington groans into your mouth. Then softer, murmuring against your lips as he kisses them endlessly, “please let me, please.”

And you know what he is asking. You know what he wants. You don’t have to even think twice. Lifting yourself up, lining him with your entrance, he stretches you out and the euphoric sting of it sucks the air right out of you. And Steve.

Steve is winded by the feeling of how tight your walls are, and by just how right it feels to be inside of you. You both fit. Like a perfect match.

At this point, you’re both a frenzy of fucking. You ride him – slow, hard, fast, all of it. Steve keens into your mouth, then your neck as he buries his face there — completely overwhelmed. You hold his head there, comfortingly and securely, and so fucking perfectly as your fingers tug at the ends of his perfect hair.

“I’ve got you, baby,” your voice shakes in a breathy whisper, just for him. “Let it all go.”

And Steve does. His fingers dig into the curve of your back, pulling you impossibly closer to him as he presses the loud growl of his climax into your bare shoulder. He releases himself into you, hot and loaded, and you drip just as much onto him as he just shot into you.

As if that wasn’t enough to send you reeling — enough to make you see angels and devils and god — it’s the way that Steve shudders against you, catching his breath…and then pulls back to look at you…that renders you speechless.

His hairline leaks sweat, his face beaded with it. His eyelids are hooded, the dark brown irises dazed and daring to meet your gaze. His lips are parted perfectly — and the way he looks up at you with his tousled hair, somehow still perfect after it’s been pulled and messed with, is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Steve Harrington is so fucking beautiful. He’s an all-American boy, yet a Greek god.

The way that Steve gently brings your forehead to his, breathing against you, closing his eyes at the contact — you find yourself timidly nuzzling the tip of your nose to his. And you feel him smile against you, opening your eyes just enough to steal a peek — and that’s when you feel a deep ache in your heart and soul that might as well kill you.

Because now you realize. That is love.

Steve is love.

But you let it die inside of you tonight, not wanting to make this moment end any sooner than it has to. Instead, you let Steve entangle his limbs with yours, not daring to ask if he wants to stay. Because if you do, he’ll likely leave. He’ll realize that being in bed with you is the last place that he wants to be, and that he’s made a mistake. He’ll go back to hating you, more than he already does, and it will be the death of you. So instead, you just let it ride out however it’s supposed to.

You try not to count the minutes as Steve absentmindedly traces circles with his fingertips on your skin. Your hip bones, your shoulder blades, your spine. You tell yourself to forget that time and its limits exist as you stroke the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck, your temple against his forearm, his outer arm draped over you. You tell yourself that this is it. This is heaven. This is eternity. You tell yourself even if you wake up and it’s just a dream, you’ll remember it for as long as you live. Because on the other side of death is this, and it will never end.

You let that ease your mind as he presses his lips to your forehead and you no longer fight sleep.

So when you do wake up…and find that Steve is still there…you’re shocked. But you stay that way until he wakes. He looks at you in awestruck wonder. Not confusion or regret. Just…wonder.

He props himself up on an elbow, still looking at you, deep in thought. All you can do is stare back, wishing you knew what the hell he was thinking but not daring to ask. It wasn’t worth risking this. You stay that way for a little while.

He finally breathes a sigh, whispering, “Kids will be up soon.”

You give him a soft smile and gentle nod. You can already see Dustin waking up to go knock down Steve’s door, and that’s…not gonna end well if he finds out that Steve is walking out of your room instead.

Steve contemplates god-knows-what for another long moment before pressing a quick kiss into your hairline as he rises.

You watch him stand and dress himself, your heart throbbing at the way he looks in the early morning light streaming through the windows. His body is god-like. Tall, lean and athletic. His skin has the most beautiful constellation of moles that put the entire galaxy of stars to shame. And you ache at the thought of never being able to touch them again.

He gives you a soft grin after he throws his t-shirt back on, and before you know it he’s gone.

You lay there staring at nothing, feeling yourself leak a couple of silent tears and wondering why. You find yourself afraid to get up and face whatever new reality lies ahead of you on the other side of that door.

***

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tags: @erastourvip @xprloki @get0ut0fmyr00m @eddiemuns0nl0ver @marrowfrog00

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington stranger things #dustin henderson #murray bauman #enemies to lovers trope #they're in love your honor #Murray is a schemer #sorry stancy

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