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peachesofteal · 3 months

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Part two the Sassy Series but can be read as a standalone.

Simon Riley/female reader 3.5k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ Angst, PTSD, canon typical violence, bombs, blood and injury. Smut, oral sex - fem receiving, praise kink, creampie. Unplanned pregnancy. Everyone is bad at feelings. He's like a bomb. Note: This was never posted to Tumblr, so in honor of the series and to complete the masterlist I decided to clean it up a bit and bring it over here.

The truck is a silent tomb.

Rigid, hard lines of muscle hold themselves still without quiver, eyes darting from the road to the floor, hands to feet. No one speaks. Soap’s fingers tap restlessly on his leg, and occasionally, he peeks around before refocusing his vision on something in the distance, something you’re not even sure exists.

The only one really looking at anyone, is Ghost. He’s staring daggers at you in the rearview mirror, fire blazing in his irises, heat so intense it forces your head down towards your knees. Even Gaz looks away from you now, occasionally nudging his thigh against your own, but keeping his gaze fixed out the window.

You’re fucked.

Simon explodes as soon as you’re all unloaded inside the gates. He detonates like a bomb, raw fury rippling through the air, impact radius large enough that it sends nearly everyone else scurrying. “Sass.” Your call sign is rough on his lips. He motions for you to step away, forcing you out from where you’re lurking close to Soap, rage, and something else, something secret, simmering beneath the surface, something you barely glean a glimpse of when he towers over you.

“Ghost. Listen-“ you hiss, fingers flying to push his hulking body away, anger boiling in your blood. He scoffs, like you’re so easily dismissed. Like you’re a child.

“You’re losin’ it Sass. I don’t know, and I don’t care how you used to operate, but we don’t pull shit like that in the 141.”

“Fuck you, Sim-“

“Don’t use my name right now.” The paint around his eyes is cracked, revealing small swaths of skin, the crinkle of crow’s feet. “You had no idea what you were doing out there!” He yells, and you snap backwards instinctively. “You were operating blind, like a fuckin’ idiot. Cap, and everyone else, seems to think you’re a world class operator but today all I saw was stupidity. Are you stupid, Sass?” His raised voice has captured Soap’s attention, who drifts closer and closer to where the two of stand. “I asked you a question.” Ghost snaps, and you want to melt into the ground.

“No.” you whisper. It’s too much. This is too much.

“Then why would you do something like that?” He snarls, and you shy away. You’ve never seen him like this. You’ve seen him ruthless, cold blooded, laser focused on target. You’ve watched him shove a pistol in another man’s eye socket and pull the trigger, torture someone, and in the same breath, turn around and save a child from a burning building.

But you’ve never seen this. Gunpowder and rage. Metal and carnage.

You’re about to ask him what the hell his problem is when Soap steps between you both, hand out towards Ghost like he’s trying to gentle a scared animal.

“Take it easy, LT.” You use the distraction to make your escape before he can see the tears that are trying slip down your face.

Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry.

“D’ye wan’ talk about it?” Soap sits with a thud next you, soft blue eyes shining in the setting sun.

“I think you got the gist.”

“LT can be kind of intense, but don’t take it personally.”

Don’t take it personally.

Don’t take it personally that last week he was shoving his cock down your throat, telling you how good you were.

Don’t take it personally that last week, when you woke up sweating and shaking, he pressed his face to yours with a whisper. “Just a nightmare Sass, I’ve got you.”

Don’t take it personally, that five, six months ago in Belize, he was screaming in a field medic’s face, promising to hurt them if you died.

Don’t take it personally.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He shrugs, slapping you on the back playfully.

“Get some sleep, lass.” Across the gap between two tents, Price and Ghost stand with their arms crossed, murmured words drifting on the wind.

Price glances at you. His mouth moves. Ghost nods, and then leaves.

Great.

A day passes, then another.

Then a week, then two.

Ghost- Simon, vanishes from your life. Evacuates whenever he sees you coming. At first, you tried to run him down, tried to corner him, get him to talk to you, but he’s too smart, applying his tactical prowess to his new mission: avoiding you at all costs.

One day, you catch sight of his retreating back around a corner and sprint after him, calling his name, not his call sign.

He ignores you.

He’s not Simon anymore, at least not to you. He’s Ghost.

You give up. You have enough sense to know when you’re not wanted.

“Sassafrass!” Johnny gleefully calls out as you duck into the ten for the briefing. Ghost tenses like he’s just stepped on a landmine, but you roll your eyes. Dickhead. You position yourself as far away from him as possible, just to the right of Soap, out of view.

He doesn’t even look at you anymore, anyway. Not like it matters.

“It’s an easy extraction, get in, grab the target, get out. Don’t over complicate it.” You nod your understanding, and Price gives you a smile. “Sassy, you and Soap will tackle the southeast side of the building from the back door. Gaz and Ghost will come through north. We’ll meet in the middle.” Again, you nod, and Soap grins at you like a goofy faced teenager. “Alright. Let’s load up.” You shimmy your backpack high above your hips and roll your shoulders, partially listening to your partner’s excited, halfcocked thesis on entry tactics.

It's the behavior that catches your attention. The guy looks nervous, skin gleaming with the sickly sheen of anxious sweat, tense and poised, like he’s waiting for something.

You’ve seen it before. Too many times.

“Soap.” You whisper. Your tone is dead serious, and he turns with a question in his eye.

“What’s got ye spooked?” Your gaze flicks over to the guy you’ve flagged. You shake your head, just as your target is swinging his backpack around and unzipping the top pouch.

You try to warn Soap.

You press your comm and try to tell the 141.

You manage to do neither before the world explodes.

Your eyes open to pandemonium. People are screaming. Kids are crying. You can hardly see, debris and smoke from the explosion making your eyes water and practically blotting out the sun.

There’s blood on your face.

Everyone is scattered. The screaming echoes around you, mirroring the screaming in your mind.

Where are you?

Your comm’s been knocked loose. Your gun is gone.

Your body is not your own. It’s acting on instinct. Fight. Flight. Push. Pull.

It shoves everything down. Everything your brain can’t compartmentalize right now gets locked away in a dark place. You can feel it all, later.

Right now, you have to survive.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Soap yells over the noise, snapping you out of autopilot. He’s somewhere behind you, sense of relief making you dizzy when you turn and see him crouched next to a large chunk of concrete. Thank fuck.

“Johnny? Shit.”

“Yeah. Shite. What was that?”

“A bomb.” You say, dryly. He gives you a dirt look.

“We’ve gotta split, lass.” The ground has a unique dirt pattern to it. The grains are all a different size, different shades of reds, greys, brown. Where are you? They work together, forming a chaotic design, one blanket of earth, dust and dirt swirling together and- where are you, where are you, where- “Sassy!” Soap’s face careens into your point of view. It looks distorted. You jerk backwards, the quick movement making your head spin. “You okay?”

“Where are we?” The words stick to the roof of your mouth. He gives you an odd look.

“Hey, Sassy. You alright?”

“I’m good. Yeah. All good.” A pause. A deep breath. A denial. “You got comms?”

“Negative.”

“Great.”

Johnny is bleeding. You didn’t notice right away, but the crimson stain spreads under his shirt near his hip, and your panic returns, ice slowly spreading through your veins, threatening to freeze you where you stand.

“You’re hurt.” You pat his shoulder, and he nods.

“We’ve got to find the others. Or the truck.”

You can’t find the god damn truck. You have no comms. No guns, only your combat knife and two grenades between the two of you, and Soap is actively bleeding.

It looks bad.

It feels even worse.

“Maybe we should just sit tight.” He grunts, and you startle.

“Yeah. Yeah, Johnny. Let’s just sit here, in the middle of active territory, with no comms, no guns, in the middle of the street. When you’re fucking bleeding out from your gut.” You snap. Confusion flickers across his face. You never snap at him. Gaz? Maybe. Ghost, yeah. Even Price sometimes. But never Johnny. “Sorry. Sorry, Soap. My head is still spinning from the blast.”

“It’s alright, lass.” His voice is calm, smooth. You can feel him watching you from the corner of your eye before he straightens, head turning the other direction. “There’s a hostel, a few clicks down the road. Want to give it a go? They probably have a phone.” You look at him, and then down the length of your own body, tallying and subtracting, plus or minus the odds.

Fuck it.

It’s not very far, but it feels like a full days’ walk. Your head is still buzzing, proximity to the blast too close, too much, too familiar. It’s scrambled your brain, and you find yourself trying to focus on the back of Soap’s head, breathing through your nose. One foot in front of the other.

Somewhere, a block or two away, a car backfires.

Your muscles flex, and you flatten against the side of the building. Soap is talking to you, but you’re immobile, and you can’t hear him. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Something kickstarts in the back of your brain and your feet move. You give him a nod.

The woman behind the desk is terrified of you. Her eyes go round when you approach, gesturing to the phone, and she hands it over immediately, nervously looking between you and Soap, who’s slumped over in a plastic chair, bleeding.

You dial the number you know by heart without pause.

Soap is leaning against you when the truck roars around the corner, dust fogging the air beneath its wheels. He’s doing alright, your rudimentary medical skills coming in clutch when you decided to pack his wound as you waited, and the woman at the desk kindly gave you some towels for pressure. You flag them down, Price white knuckled behind the wheel, familiar skull mask in the seat next to him.

Your heart sinks.

He’s going to kill you.

When he jumps from the passenger seat, he looks anything but angry. His eyes are frantic behind the mask, wide and darting from you to Soap, pulling him from your side into his as you get closer.

“Johnny.” He says gruffly, and Soap cracks a smile.

“S’all good, Sassafrass patched me up.” He groans, and Ghost loads him into the backseat, sliding in beside him as you take the spot up front.

You’re numb. Price is asking you questions, and you’re answering as best you can, surprised when he seems satisfied after the play the play. He even says you’ve done well, the praise from your captain warming a little spot in your cold body. You nod robotically, shallow smile on your face, and check on Soap in the rear-view mirror, relieved that he’s got good color in his cheeks, still breathing.

You catch Ghost’s eyes in the reflection. They burn into you from behind the mask, pulling you apart to see inside. He doesn’t blink, and you turn away, uneasy.

You stumble away from everyone after you give Johnny a pat on the head. He’s still smiling, and squeezes your hand affectionately, medical team carting him away to receive actual care.

He’s fine. We got here in time.

You’re staring at the blood in the sink when someone tries the door handle. After it doesn’t budge, a heavy fist thumps against the thin plywood.

“Someone’s in here.” You croak. The fist bangs again, and you sigh, swinging it open to tell whoever it is to go away.

Except, it’s Ghost standing on the other side.

“Fuck off.” The bewildered words come easily, and his eyes narrow. He shoulders through the door, slamming it shut, large hands gripping onto your shoulders and then tugging you into chest, heavy arms pressing you so tight into him that you’re having trouble breathing.

Your heart flips over.

He holds you, in silence, for a moment that feels like a decade. The balaclava scuffs along the top of your head, and he steps back, still clutching you by the arms, looking you up and down.

“Where are you hurt?” He shifts, thumb stroking a tender spot above your temple where you have a scratch, pulling the wet cloth in your grip free and dabbing it to the side of your head gently.

“N-no. I’m not. Just Soap. I’m fine.”

“Good. That’s… that’s good.” You stare like he’s grown two heads.

“Ghost.” You’re cautious, unsure. Confused. You don’t know what’s happening, why he’s standing in the bathroom, caressing your face, helping you clean up. He holds the cloth under the tap, bringing it back up to your cheek. “Ghost.” You try again. Nothing. Finally, you try; “Simon.”

His hand stops moving. He’s as still as marble in the bathroom, lungs frozen in his chest.

He’s looking into your eyes with a long, dizzying gaze that has your own stunned wide, unable to blink, unable to look away.

Until he lunges for you.

He snatches you by the waist, dragging you out the bathroom and hoisting you over his shoulder. You yelp. “Simon, what the fu-“

“Hush.” He swats your ass like you’re a petulant child, beelining for your tent.

Sometime in the night, when the base is somewhat quiet and the lamp light has dimmed, he folds you in half on the threadbare mattress, pressing your legs back towards your ear, eyes trained on where your cunt flutters for him, clenching around nothing as you wriggle and try to press your thighs together for friction.

“None of that. Be good.” He admonishes.

“Simon. Please.” You’re not too proud to beg in this moment, that’s what nearly dying will do to you. You need him.

He sinks to his knees, still framed between your legs, and rolls the bottom of the balaclava to his nose.

It’s the first time you’ve ever really seen the skin on his face in such a large amount. No paint. No skull. No black cloth. Just his jaw, broad and sharp. His lips, full and wet, flash of tongue darting out from behind his teeth, mouth hot against your pussy, thumbs spreading you open to have his fill.

“There she is.” He murmurs, lips on your clit like a lover’s kiss. His tongue seeks your swollen nub under its hood, and it’s so much, warmth of your body, his face, all of it melting into your skin. Your heel pushes against the mattress as you rock your hips up into his mouth and he chuckles, a hand pressing down on your lower belly. “You taste good, Sass.” You clench, twitching, getting close, orgasm barreling through your nerves, body moving in tandem with each swipe of his tongue, muscles seizing-

He pulls away, hand wiping his face and rocking backwards on his knees.

“What the fuck?” You screech, propping yourself up on your elbows. He’s loosening his belt, and you can’t resist reaching, wrapping your fingers around the throbbing length of his cock. He snatches your hand away, holding you by your wrist and bending you back down, laying his weight on top of you and pushing inside your cunt with a single thrust. It’s been months, yet your body yields to him immediately, aching burn fizzling out as your walls flutter and you whine.

“My girl.” He moans, fucking into you like a man starved. “My good girl.” You stutter out a response, some jumbled nonsense that sounds like his name, sounds like Simon. “My sweet girl, takin’ my cock like you were made for it.” He rears back, pulling your leg to his shoulder, foot dangling next to his ear.

“Fuck, Simon. Don’t- don’t stop please-“ His thumb continues in a circle on your clit, pleasure shooting through your muscles.

“Are you going to come?” you nod furiously, eyes clenched shut. “Look at me.” He bears down on you, gripping your face, and you find his usual guarded gaze nowhere, nothing between the two of you, just two raw currents slamming against one another they’re sparking. You can’t look away.

He thumbs your clits hard, giving you more as he thrusts, rising crescendo forcing insane noises from your mouth, sounds you don’t even recognize, gasping as your orgasm rolls over you like you’ve been hit by a truck. You tighten around him like a vice, and he swears, burying himself deep, walls pulsing around him, pulling his orgasm into you with ease.

You both slips into uneasy sleep, his body wrapped around yours so tight it almost hurts. Your dreams are broken, shattered fragments of bombs from past and present; voices screaming, friends pleading. You scream, pain and fear scratching under your skull, an attack, and bombardment you didn’t see coming. He holds you, soothes you, kisses you, still tense, coiled, ready to spring if need be.

“I got you, Sass. I’m here.” His voice is soft in the dark, fingers smoothing the sweat dampened skin of your face. “I’ve got you.”

Two days later, he rips the rug right out from under your feet.

“What the FUCK is this?” you brandish the stack of papers in your hands at Simon, who sits calmly in the corner of the tent. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge your shrieking, your voice reaching frantic pitches of incredulity.

“Can’t have you here.” He says simply, like that’s all the explanation that’s needed. You’re vibrating, rattling with fury, with fear.

“You reported an intimate relationship with Price, to get rid of me?” His eyes narrow behind the mask, but he doesn’t deny you. “Oh my fucking god, Simon.” You laugh, and it’s sour, spoiled. Rotten, like the sickness that’s turning your stomach. This has to be a joke.

“I can’t have you here.” He repeats himself like a broken record, before he’s on his feet and heading for the exit.

“Simon!” You hiss at his retreat, but it’s far too late. It’s too late for all of this. He’s already gone.

He doesn’t come to say goodbye. Johnny shuffles out to the airfield to give you a hug, Gaz and Price with him. Betrayal burns the back of your eyelids as you shake hands with your captain, and he gives you a knowing look. A sad look.

When the helicopter banks over the tents, you see the black spot of someone standing outside, face turned up to the sky, and you stare at the white and black skull until it disappears from view completely.

You’re restless.

Your house is a skeleton, the walls of the rooms empty, silence so loud you swear you can feel it reverberating in the floors. You were technically on leave, but available for transfer, even though you hadn’t put in for anything, and hadn’t put any feelers out for private sector either. There was something glitching in your brain. Something serious after that last explosion. The whispers of self-doubt echo in your mind. You were off after that bomb, there’s no denying it.

You’ve tried to cleanse yourself of it. Of him. Of everything. You stand under the spray of the shower and scrub your skin until it hurts, letting the bathroom become so thick with steam it’s hard to see. It’s the only thing that relaxes you. It’s the only place that feels quiet.

It’s three weeks later when you start to get sick. At first, you think it’s a bug and expect it to pass. You have a hard time keeping anything down, your stomach sending food and water right back up your throat, forcing you to sip electrolytes throughout the day to keep from crashing.

When four days of the same turn into five, and then six, and then a week, you start to get nervous. You start to do the math.

That’s how you end up in the drugstore, staring at the selection of pregnancy tests. Just to rule it out. You tell yourself. There is no way you’re pregnant. You were good with your pills. You rarely ever missed one. Better safe than sorry.

The test glares at you, fully aware of much an affront it is.

“This can’t be happening.” You whisper to yourself in the mirror. “This isn’t right.” Fear ricochets up your spine.

Fuck. Simon.

#sassy series #peaches writes #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader

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the-californicationist · 5 months

Text

he lets you watch

When you overhear Captain Price watching porn in his office, you decide to turn his fantasies into a reality.

Link to AO3

MDNI/18+

TW: femdom, gagging, one slap

You were working late. Again. It was the most frustrating part of any operation: recon review. All the footage collected from all the soldiers’ body cams had to be reviewed and documented. Any dialogue? Syntactically tagged. Any shots fired? Counted. Any kills? Confirmed. You were glad to help the team, but this stage of discovery was dreadfully boring.

Even worse, your new-found crush on your captain was driving you insane. To be honest, you’d had your eye on him for a while. There was something about a man in charge, but it was when this last set of footage came through that you really went off the deep end.

Price had gone with Gaz into a warehouse that was suspected of housing enemy munitions, and the captain had uncovered crates and crates of target-marking spray paint. Huge canisters that attached to the bottoms of planes were all stuck in little rows, lined up and ready to use.

Unfortunately for the captain, one of the canisters was propped open on the top of its box, and when he lifted the lid, he got covered in red dye. You watched it explode, covering the camera, and then when it reconnected, there he was. Shirtless. Down to his boxer briefs. Wiping red dye off of himself with his clothes. Gaz had brought a full kit, so Price was changing out, hoping to stay covert and camouflaged in the clean gear. Couldn’t well be a glowing red dot while trying to escape enemy territory.

His chest was broad and full of dense, dark hair, laying flat like soft fur, untrimmed and natural. His beard was streaked red, and half his face was painted, making him look like an ancient Celt, ready for brutal highland battles and bedding willing lassies. He was frustrated by his accident, so all of his movements were sharp and aggressive, his muscles raging and wrestling against his skin. Then, he moved closer to the camera, and the bulge in his underwear became glaringly apparent.

Hung. Thick. Not so long that it was out of place, but heavy. His cock was imposing, and when he readjusted himself, you could see how dense the muscle really was. You couldn’t help but pause the film, staring, in glorious 4k. You nearly had to wipe the drool from your mouth.

Price looked so confident here. He was always self-assured, but sometimes, when you spoke with him, there was something that he was holding back. Some shyness perhaps, maybe just a reserved nature, but not here. Not in his livid rage, he was like a wounded beast - angry and virile. Full of righteous energy. It made you imagine making him come undone in other ways, in the ways a woman was meant to make a beast like that come apart at the seams. Ripping the constricting threads and freeing the hulking creature looming within.

Now, he was sitting in his office, right next to yours, and he’d started watching footage of his own. Or, at least, you thought that he was watching the cams…until you heard a woman’s salacious moan penetrate the thin wall between you.

Your eyes grew wide, and your breath caught in your chest. You sat in the silence of your office, hearing your heart pound in your ears. You waited to hear it again, just to be sure.

Then, a very quiet,

“You wanna come?”

You let out the breath you’d been holding. It wooshed from you like a wave crashing against miles and miles of sand.

Something snapped, some darkness possessed you. You found yourself standing, walking toward the door to his office. It was so late, everyone else had turned in. Just you and him in the west hall of the base awake. He never slept, it seemed. A night owl like you.

You opened his door without knocking. You’d never done that before, and objectively, it was a truly insane choice.

In your mind, his hand had lingered when he took his cup of coffee from your hands. In your imagination, he’d cocked a sly smile when you made a joke, just between you and him. You thought you’d seen him checking out your ass in the gym. But, you didn’t have any real proof.

Popping open his door was the equivalent of pulling the trigger on a bazooka.

He stood, caught like a fox in a snare, his chair clattering as you came into the room and shut the door behind you quickly.

“Sergeant, uh,” he recovered, “What happened?”

“Captain.”

It was a full sentence. And, it was all you had. You were finished.

The video was still playing. The lurid slapping of skin on skin. Her over-acted moans, his ritual panting. Every few seconds, you counted three, there was another soft,

“You like that, daddy?”

You smiled. He turned red, just like he’d been painted again.

“Sergeant, I was just…”

He paused the movie. Then, with his body, with the hand roughly rubbing down his face, with the palm tightly covering his mouth, he said a million other words. He was still pink with shame, and then he laughed,

“Yeah, no. I was ‘bout to have a wank. Not sure why I was trying to make you believe otherwise, love. Sorry. It’s too loud?”

You smiled wider. His genuine honesty was so smooth and effortless. A thief caught with his hands in the cookie jar, begging you to punish him for it.

“No,” you shook your head, “Just wanted to see what you were watching.”

He didn’t register what you said at first, still staring down at his boots. Then, realization washed over him and he looked up at you, eyes shining, brows arched.

“Oh? That so?”

You nodded,

“Let me see what’s got you up so late.”

The captain rubbed a big, calloused hand across his mouth, smoothing his beard, a bit nervous. Then, he pulled a chair around and motioned for you to sit beside him. You sat. He sat. He hit play.

A woman was straddling a man, both of them hairless and slick like brand new Barbie dolls, spray-tan orange and bleach-blond hair. Americans. She was riding his larger than average dick slowly, deliberately slow, edging him with her pussy. She had a hand around his throat, grasping his jaw tightly, pushing his head back. He was tied to the chair, straining against it, clearly desperate as he writhed beneath her, fighting his restraints.

“Please, baby. Please, let me come?” He begged.

“You wanna come, daddy?” She teased.

“Yeah, can I come?” He begged.

“Ah-ah! I don’t think so…” She teased.

Begging. Teasing. Begging. Teasing. A vicious, uncontrollable cycle of cruelty on her part, always pulling the proverbial carrot farther and farther from his snapping jaws.

You turned to Price who was watching, rapt. He noticed you staring at him. Before he turned to face you, he smiled, sighing,

“Sometimes, when you’re the one barking orders all day, it’d be nice to turn your head off and follow someone else’s for a change.”

“You could follow my orders,” some psychotic part of you spoke.

He gripped the side of the chair, his once-relaxed hands now making the cheap aluminum frame creak and pop.

“What’d you say, Sergeant?”

“You heard me, Captain,” you didn’t know if you should call an exorcist or what. Who was this version of yourself and how quickly was she going to get you court martialed?

“You think you can order me around?”

You leaned in, close enough to smell the tobacco on his breath, Cuban cigars leaving earthy notes of vanilla and licorice behind. You whispered,

“I know I can.”

He breathed out, his exhale caressing your lips, threatening to kiss you.

You didn’t move. Not a muscle. You locked eyes with him,

“Sit on your hands, Captain.”

“Sergeant,” he tried to kiss you, but you pulled away quickly.

Part of your body screamed at you, wondering why you’d avoid his advances, but your mind knew what he wanted. He needed to lose control. For a man like Price to lose it, it must be taken from him. Forcibly.

“I said sit... on... them,” you sneered, making yourself larger by standing over him, placing your hands on his thighs to press into his skin.

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughed, patronizing and light-hearted. It made you want to break him of that habit. Of thinking you were just his sergeant. Just the girl who brought him coffee. Just his gym buddy.

He still hadn’t complied, chuckling to himself. Out of no where, you straight up fucking slapped him. Hard. Right across the jaw. Grabbing him by the collar,

“Sit on your fucking hands, soldier. That’s an order,” you barked.

He sat on his hands, staring at you like you had doused yourself in gasoline and caught yourself on fire, in awe.

You pushed his chair back until you had room to move in front of him, and you began peeling off your clothes, one by one. Your shirt, your cargos, your bra, your panties; they all ended up on the floor, leaving you naked and touching yourself lazily, letting your hands wander.

He moved to lift his hands off his seat, wanting to touch, so you backed away from him. It was a warning: move and this ends. Follow my orders, and I’ll stay. He settled back down.

“You know, I should punish you for slapping me, Sergeant. That’s insubordination,” he chided, trying to regain control of the situation.

You took your panties off the ground and found the wet stain he’d caused, showing it to him coyly, like you’d picked up a pretty shell from the beach. It gleamed in the light of his desk lamp. Then, you walked over to him, swaying your hips, and bent down as if to kiss him.

As he opened his mouth to kiss you back, you pushed your panties into it, past his teeth, clutching at his jaw with the other hand as roughly as you could, knowing you couldn’t hurt him. You shushed his surprised noises, putting a finger to his lip,

“Shh, Captain. That’s enough. You’re not in charge anymore, are you?”

He furrowed his brow as if he would fight back, as if he would remove his hands and teach you a lesson. Then, as he tasted you on his tongue, he realized that you were offering prizes for obedience. He would reap the rewards, if he was willing to play along. His face softened, and he shook his head no.

“Good boy,” you whispered.

You kissed his mouth, awkwardly, since it was full of your wet panties, there was little he could do except experience your kisses. He reacted as if he wanted to kiss you back, and as you moved to kiss his jawline, he moaned.

Price’s moans were rumbling and deep, long and low like a bull elephant’s roar. You wanted to drag that noise out of him again. Your hand found his belt buckle, and you rugged at it, willing it to loosen. As you kissed his neck, you drug down his zipper and freed his cock from the fabric.

The captain was not soft. If anything, he was harder than he should’ve been for a little teasing and some neck kisses. You decided to use that to his disadvantage,

“My, my, my. Someone’s eager…”

You tugged up and down with length in a long, languid massage, feeling how his foreskin slipped over the head and down the shaft, smooth and supple. He was hairy around the root of his cock, just as you’d hoped, and after seeing the video of him covered in paint, you wished you could strip him down and run your fingernails through his chest hair, delicately scratching his skin and peaked nipples.

For now, you spit on his cockhead, using it as lube as you rubbed him. He threw his head back in ecstasy. You removed your hand. He snapped back to attention, staring at you a bit desperate for relief.

You giggled,

“Is this for me, or for her?”

Pointing over your shoulder, you motioned to the paused video. You took your hand away, feigning hurt feelings.

His body arched toward you, missing your touch, and he shook his head, trying to say something.

“For her? How disappointing,” you pouted, playing with the head of his cock with one finger, drawing circles around the edge.

Price was saying something muffled through the fabric of your panties, shaking his head, scooting his chair closer with a quick thrust of his hips, making his cock flag from the jolting movement.

“You know,” you whispered, drawing him in with your quiet tone, “if this was for me, I’d really be looking forward to feeling it inside of me.”

“Mmm. Mm, mm!” He tried to correct you, his shoulders straining as he pulled them forward, struggling against his self-imposed restraint.

“Oh?” You caressed his face, rubbing your hand through his soft beard, feeling the stubble on his chin, “It is for me after all?”

“Mm hm,” he nodded, leaning his cheek into your palm, eyes hooded with relief.

You could tell he was enjoying the game. You were enjoying it, too. You could feel how wet you were, watching him gaze at your shining folds hungry. Impatient.

“In that case…” you straddled him, planting your knees on either side of his hips, trapping his cock between you both. His body felt warm, and his breathing was labored.

You rubbed your wetness up and down his shaft, spreading yourself along his length, making wet little sounds as you smeared him until he was slippery.

Carefully, you moved his head into your eager pussy, your walls pounding for him like a heartbeat. Then, you held his throat with your hand, forcing him to look at you.

“You don’t get to come until I tell you to. Do you understand, soldier?”

“Mm, hm,” he nodded, rolling in the ecstasy of your tight cunt.

“Good, boy.”

#captain john price #captain price #john price #call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #captain price x reader #captain price x you #cod

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ghcstao3 · 3 months

Note

Im currently watching brave and it’s given me brain worms hehe

It’s to do with the will o’ the wisp!

Either soaps been seeing them his whole life guiding him to the task force or after a rough mission, totally lost/injured and with no way to contact anyone they guide his way back to ghost :D

Thanks for everything you write it genuinely makes my day to read all your works!!

ooh i really like this. also- apparently will o' the wisps are actually Not good in folklore so i wrote a little twist to fix that ;)

Throughout his life, Soap's nan had always liked to tell him stories about the many malevolent creatures he should hope to never have the misfortune of encountering—kelpies, redcaps, sluaghs; just about everything that existed in his homeland's folklore.

A little cruel in retrospect, Soap thinks, but for a while he'd just understood it as his nan's way of ensuring her grandson was to behave. They were myths, old tales and explanations for the unexplainable, and he can appreciate the determination to share tradition.

But now, as Soap is stranded in thick woods after an operation gone awry, blood sticky on his temple and a bullet stuck in his leg, he's not so sure they were just stories. Not as he's currently staring down an unnatural wisp of light in the darkness, hovering just a few feet away from where he'd collapsed against the thick, gnarled trunk of a tree.

Will o' the wisp, his mind supplies. Omens of death, his nan had told him, like many other creatures and spirits. They appear to the weary and lost like himself, flickers of glowing blue light almost hopeful as they guide one along a seemingly nonsensical path—but instead of leading someone to safety, they lure people to their doom.

The wisp just floats, unmoving, as Soap sits frozen. He tries his radio to no avail, and realizes with a great dread that he only has two options: attempt to find his own way back to his team, to anyone, anywhere, with the great risk of only getting more lost—or follow the wisp in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, it may actually lead him somewhere useful, no matter how bad the destination. Soap could only hope that doom is something he can fend off with a gun.

His decision is made rather easily because... he supposes it doesn't really make a difference, does it?

So he pushes himself away from the tree and toward the light—it vanishes as soon as he steps toward it, but with another step forward, another wisp appears.

Soap limps along, following the wisps. They weave him through trees and take sharp, sudden turns, disappearing and reappearing endlessly as Soap pursues the trail they leave. His head is on a swivel with every sound that isn't the crunch of branches beneath his own boots, with every flash of movement in his periphery.

He feels like he’d been walking forever by the time the forest has grown less dense and the wisps fade away for good—and that's when Soap sees it.

The large, imposing silhouette. The hulking figure cloaked in black. The glimpse of a skull in the sliver of moonlight that had managed to break through the forest's canopy.

Soap swallows a laugh. The will o' the wisps must have led him to Ghost, not realizing doom would have only been certain for Soap had he been the enemy.

Funny.

Ghost spots him and raises his gun, pauses, then after a moment lowers the barrel.

"Johnny?" Ghost grunts. "Where the fuck've you been?"

Soap shrugs a shoulder, wincing as he steps closer. "Lost my way running from the facility. Comms were dead." He flashes a crooked grin. "Worked out though, aye?"

Ghost snorts. "Aye," he echoes. "C'mon, then. Exfil's waiting. Save your explanations 'til then."

Soap gladly follows, relief nearly exalting.

But as they walk shoulder-to-shoulder, Soap can’t help but cast one last glance back at the trees from where he had emerged.

He wonders if the wisps had really made a mistake. He wonders if maybe they hadn't been done leading him, but Ghost had gotten in the way.

Questions he'll likely never find the answers for.

But regardless, now in safe hands—Soap thinks he had better refresh himself on his nan's stories as soon as he gets the chance.

He doesn't know now, whenever they might come in handy.

#ask #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #ghost x soap #ghoap #writing

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bettyfrommars · 5 months

Text

Death Becomes Us

Part 8: Warm Hands, Frozen Hearts

vampire!eddie x supernatural!reader

masterlist playlist

18+Only, werewolf!steve, allusions to smut, allusions to devious deeds, mention of addiction, mention of drinking blood, angst, waitress!erica, Bob Newby lives, Chief Hopper sighting, as well as another glimpse of vampire!max.

summary: you go on your "just friends" date with werewolf!steve, but meanwhile, Eddie makes a bold decision and things heat up between the two of you. Jareth's interest in you grows stronger, as does his determination to find out exactly who/what you are as everything begins to come to a head.

word count: 4.8k

author's note: for the sake of this story, Jareth is meant to be a cross between Jamie Campbell Bower and Eric Northman from True Blood. As a little reminder, The Upside Down exists in this story, but not the same way it does in ST. All of the ST characters in this do not know each other in the same way they do in the show. But, Steve and Robin are friends, because, well, always.

Fanger: derogatory slang for Vampire

Previous Chapter here

One week earlier

Steve was summoned to visit Sacrament in the Upside Down, and he should have gone with a few of his brothers in the pack but decided he didn't want company. He snuck out there through the portal in the woods in his hulking wolf form at first, to sniff the place out, noting the high number of vampires and demobats circling overhead.

He came back the next night in his truck, through the bridge, and was told to ask for Craven at the bar.

Craven sniffed the air and snarled when Steve walked up, and Steve returned the gesture, curling his top lip to show that he had sharp teeth too. Werewolves were very strong—supernaturally so—but they were not immortal like vampires, and so it was always wise to operate around bloodsuckers with a measure of caution.

“I’m here to see Jareth,” Steve shouted over the synth music, squeezing in between two scantily clad human women.

Steve was dressed like he’d just come from chopping wood in the mountains in a plaid button-down and jeans, and a wholesome curl of dark hair that bounced over his forehead. Craven, on the other hand, was tattooed from neck to hands, wearing a wife beater that fit tight around his muscles and slicked back hair that was a bit greasy, but in a sexual way.

“No one sees Jareth without an invitation,” Craven said smugly, throwing a rag over his shoulder to brace his hands in front of him.

Steve gave a wry smile. “You think I’d come here just to shoot the breeze with you Fangers? He knows I’m coming.”

Craven clicked his tongue disapprovingly and went to grab the phone on the wall above the cash register, but in the blink of an eye, Jareth was already standing there, right next to Steve. He must have watched him come in on one of the cameras mounted on the ceiling. Steve moved back, out of surprise, but then he stepped forward again, meeting blonde, vampire Jareth eye to eye, letting him know he wasn’t afraid.

Steve really wasn’t afraid; his alpha ego was too big for that. Sure, he knew there was a chance that an older vampire might best him in the end, but he’d get the fight of his life.

“Whatever he wants, it’s on the house,” Jareth told Craven, all while never taking his eyes off his guest.

Steve declined a beverage and followed in Jareth’s wake through the sea of people moving to the music under the blue lighting.

Back in the simple black and cream decor of his office, Jareth found his firey assistant Maxine sitting behind his desk and he waved her out.

“Oh? You didn’t tell me we were adopting a pound puppy,” she teased with a deadpan delivery, keeping a bored expression on her face.

Steve knew they’d be taking cheap shots at him, he’d prepared himself for it.

“Get out, Maxine,” Jareth said impatiently. “I need to have a word with our lycanthrope friend here.”

She obeyed, slinking out the door in her skin tight latex dress and platform heels, smacking her glossy lips in Steve’s face as she went.

Jareth was in all black with a slim leather jacket on that looked like it had been tailored just for him. He perched at the front of the desk, crossing his booted feet at the ankles, and folded his arms over his chest.

“Take a seat,” he told Steve.

Steve glanced down at the chair in front of Jareth. “I’ll stand, thanks. What is this about?”

“You really don’t know why I’ve asked you here?” Jareth’s face looked like it was carved out of stone. “Do you need a hint?”

For the first time, Steve broke eye contact. “I don’t have any news about the girl.”

Jareth tilted his head back, so that he was looking down his nose at the visitor. “You’ve been keeping an eye on her, like I asked?”

Steve gave a tight nod.

The truth was that Steve hadn’t accidentally bumped into you at the bookstore that day two months ago; he knew where you would be and he’d sought you out. His pack were in league with what some would consider “vampire royalty” and they made a lot of money doing jobs for them.

At first, he started looking out for you because Jareth told him too. But after around the third week, he realized he was protecting you because he cared about you. He didn’t trust anyone from the pack to watch your trailer after dark, so he did it himself. There were a few nights when he swore you’d looked out from your kitchen window and saw him: two red eyes glowing in his honey brown fur.

“What’s your interest in her?” Steve chanced, knowing full well that Jareth would not answer it if he didn’t want to.

“She says she’s human, but I don’t believe her,” Jareth raised an eyebrow. “There’s something else going on with that one, and until I find out, I don’t want any harm to come to her.”

You weren’t human, Steve knew that from the first smell. You were part human, part something else, as if your blood were filled with static from a television.

“I asked you here because I need you to get closer to her, to see if you can find out anything more about her…condition.”

Steve didn’t like this anymore, he felt like he was being dishonest to you, and that one day you’d find out he was hired to watch you instead of being the avid science fiction lover he’d claimed to be. Every time he interacted with you lately, he wanted to mention it, but he couldn’t figure a casual way to say, “hey, I’m being paid to watch you, I sleep in the woods outside your trailer a few nights a week, but I’m starting to have feelings, and was wondering if you were free for dinner?”

Steve pulled his shoulder’s back, puffing his chest out a bit. “If you want to know more about what she is, why don’t you just ask her, man? What’s with all the cloak and dagger?”

Jareth pushed off the desk and walked over to look at a piece of abstract splatter art on the wall while he spoke, clasping his hands behind his back. “My presence at her trailer park would certainly ring some alarms, I’m sure you are not so dense,” his tone was condescending but proper. “I don’t want anyone, especially Munson, to know that I have any interest in her. Not yet, anyway.”

Since Steve had been watching you, he was also well aware of Eddie’s comings and goings. “Eddie hasn’t interacted with her in weeks, not that I’ve seen,” Steve told him. “Appears like the two are avoiding each other.”

Jareth scoffed. “I’m not particularly a fan of his, but when Edward has a job to do, he does it well,” he turned from the painting and went around the desk. “My gut tells me that he has something up his sleeve, and my gut is never wrong.”

Steve let the information sink in. “You don’t think Eddie would hurt her? He’s a car thief and a drug dealer, but not a killer.”

Jareth bent down to pretend to look at some paperwork, but then his eyes lifted to Steve and he smirked. “Is that what he told you?”

“We’ve never really talked but—”

“I’ve been doing my own investigating, but until I get some answers, just get close to her however you can, I want to accelerate this end game.”

“And what endgame is that?” Steve’s voice was low and commanding as he pushed the sleeves of his flannel up to reveal the generous muscles in his forearms. He rested his back against the wall, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

“The official endgame, Sir Harrington,” Jareth’s striking, ancient blue eyes gleamed. “Is none of your business.”

—---

“Sorry about that,” you told Steve as you climbed into the cab of his truck. “I had no idea he was coming over.”

You were apologizing for Eddie, of course, and the way he’d been giving Steve the death stare when he’d come to pick you up. The snow was coming down harder now, in huge wet flakes the size of quarters, plopping like dissolving puffs of cotton onto the windshield of the truck.

“Was he bothering you?” Steve asked protectively, glaring at the door to Eddie’s trailer while you fumbled with your seatbelt.

“No, he’s…he’s just a friend,” you said, trying to blink away the flashes of all of the sex dreams you had of him that were ricocheting through your head.

After Eddie had stepped out of your trailer and shut the door, he’d stood on your porch for a minute, taking his time to light a cigarette before slowly making his way over to his place. He made eye contact with Steve a few times through the windsheild, wondering if he should kill him.

The inside of Steve’s big old truck was warm, it smelled like winter wool and the yellow vanilla car freshener he had hanging from the radio knob. The song Working Man by Rush played low from the speakers.

You’d heard about the Werewolves of Hawkins from Bob and Argyle when a few of them came into the bar one night. Apparently, they were very reclusive and only ventured to town in human form every so often.

“Have you never seen a werewolf before?” Bob Newby, the owner of the bar you worked at, asked you with a tilt of his head and a curious smile. “They’re all over the woods. Beautiful creatures.”

He’d said it so casually, as if a man turning into a wolf and roaming around at night was the most normal thing in the world.

“Are there no werewolves where you come from?” Argyle asked while he wiped down a bottle of tequila.

You moved your eyes as if to think. “Uh, nope, not that I know of anyway. Hawkins is the only place I’ve ever heard of them ever existing before. What’s next? Are you going to tell me that Faeries and Shapeshifters are real too?”

Bob and Argyle exchanged a knowing look. Bob gave you a consolation pat on the back, “one day at a time there, missy. Let’s give you a chance to get used to werewolves first, and then we can move on to the next.”

That night in the darkness of the movie theater with Steve, you turned to whisper in his ear. “Can you change into a werewolf whenever you want, or only during a full moon?”

He chuckled, leaning in so that his cheek was on your head. He was so warm, you wondered if he had a fever. “When you’re a pup, in the early days, the transformation happens at the most awkward times. Once we get older and learn how to control our emotions, we can go through the change whenever we need to.”

“Like right now?” Your lips were close to his neck, breath tickling his skin, giving him goosebumps.

The side of his mouth moved against your forehead. “Just say the word, darlin’.”

Your hands fumbled together a few times while reaching for popcorn at the same time, and a voice in your head said:

This is nice

Steve is nice

Steve was a good guy who probably thought you were a normal woman who’d led a fairly typical life, and you worried you were misleading him.

There were a few times though, after the movie and on the ride back, when you felt like he wanted to tell you something, but then he would stop short. He’d rub the back of his neck and start out with, “yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” but then he’d shake his head and jump to another topic.

Steve cursed to himself at how bad he was fumbling the night, he felt like he was a goddamn teenager again.

The only thing he knew for sure after that night was that he liked you a lot, and more than ever he needed to cut ties with Jareth. He’d been meaning to break free from the politics of the pack to become a Lone Wolf, and this felt like the perfect opportunity. He was next in line to be Alpha, but it was a role that he had no interest in playing.

Parked next to the hearse in front of your trailer again, the snow had stopped, but it was up to your ankles now, and you couldn’t help but notice the light in Eddie’s living room was on.

“Here, wait, let me walk you,” Steve insisted.

“No, I’m good,” you were already on the ground, looking up at him across the seat. “If Bela hears your voice too close to the house, she’ll just go nuts again.”

You'd told him about your new companion earlier, and he looked at you like you'd decided to take in a pet dragon.

“I’ll wait here until I know you got in okay.” Steve said softly, giving you a nod. “Hey, are you doing anything tomorrow night?”

“I’m, well, I think–” you stammered. Was Steve about to ask you on an actual date? “I might pick up a shift at Main Vein tomorrow night.”

“There’s going to be a reading at the bookstore, and I promised Robin I’d help string some lights and set up some chairs. So, I’ll be in the neighborhood if you want to get something to eat or, whatever. I’d really like to see you again.”

He said the last part in a rush, partially hoping you wouldn’t catch it.

The admission made your cheeks hot under his steady gaze.

You told him you’d stop by if you weren’t waitressing, and at your front door with the key in the lock, you turned to wave at him one more time over your shoulder before slipping inside to flip the deadlock behind you. You closed your eyes and leaned against the door until you heard the rumble of his truck growl onto the main road, and then you flipped the lights on.

“Mr. Wonderful couldn’t walk you to the door?”

The voice made you jump and a scream caught in your throat.

Eddie was sitting on your couch, arms stretched out over the back of it, as if it were his trailer and he’d been expecting you.

You let the shock of it subside, taking a long breath to slow your heart rate.

You hung your bag on the hook by the door and started to shrug out of your coat. “You know, when I invited you in, I didn’t mean break in whenever you felt like it.”

“I didn’t break in,” he lowered one arm and rested that hand between his legs. “I know where you hide your spare key.”

“It’s not funny, Eddie,” you threw your jacket on the recliner. “I’d like you to leave now, please.”

“How was your date?” He bit out the last part.

“I’m not answering any of your questions,” you stopped in your tracks and looked around, suddenly alert. “Where is Bela? I don’t hear her. Eddie, if you did anything to her, I will —-”

“I would never hurt her,” he moved to stand up, and under his breath he added, “or you.”

“So?” You flapped your arms out, impatiently, blood pressure spiking. “Where is she?”

Eddie came forward and put a finger to his lips, motioning for you to lower your voice. He guided you down the hallway, ignoring your protests, until he arrived at your bedroom door and turned the knob, opening it slowly.

Bela was curled up on your bed in a blanket, breathing heavy like she’d just been dosed with a tranquilizer.

“She broke out again while you were gone,” he whispered. “Blew the bathroom door right off its hinges and came scratching at my door like maybe I had you.”

Your eyes went to the window across the room, seeing that there were boards hammered over it now, which was more of Eddie’s handiwork.

Feeling you softening at his side, Eddie pulled the door closed with a click. You were having a hard time meeting his eyes. You’d been so mad at him, so ready to scream and kick him out into the snow.

“She let you hold her?” You asked, noticing that you no longer had a bathroom door, Eddie must’ve taken it out to fix it.

“I'm charming, what can I say?” he shrugged. “And I gave her some of my blood from a little eyedropper.”

“You what?” You spun on him, appalled.

“Don’t sound so horrified,” He put his hands on his hips once you reached the kitchen. “They need vampire blood to calm their nervous system. She’ll sleep like a baby now.”

In the book you were reading, the author did say that demobats who drank regular doses of vampire blood seemed to fare better than the others, but you’d decided to disregard that information as speculation.

“In that case, I guess I should say thank you,” you opened the fridge and took out the Brita water filter and a glass from the cupboard.

Eddie crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his thigh against the counter. “Did that Steve guy try to make a move on you or what?”

You frowned at him. “Listen, you don’t get to invade my space and bombard me with personal questions. Why does it matter so much to you what we did?”

“I don’t trust him,” Eddie had his eyes trained on one spot in front of him, studying a patch of air while he worked his jaw.

“If it’s any comfort, I don’t think he cares much for you, either.”

Eddie’s head spun to look at you. “What did he say about me?”

“Nothing!” You clarified, raising the tone of your voice to match his. “He didn’t mention you at all, actually. It’s just a feeling I got.”

You took a drink, and when you put the glass back down, Eddie moved in, bracketing your hips with his hands on the countertop, caging you there while he searched your eyes. “Did he kiss you?”

You didn’t answer right away, and so he asked it again.

“Did he kiss you?”

The way his lips hovered there so close to yours made you swallow hard. The air between the two of you crackled with electricity. You waited for his eyes to go black, for his fangs to eject, for him to take your blood into his mouth like he had that night in the alley.

“Would it bother you if he had?” There was an air of pleading in your tone that you had not intended to be there.

Please let it bother you.

Eddie slid his bottom lip through his teeth and leaned back, stepping away from you. “I just think you should keep your distance from him, that’s all. Werewolves are notoriously…” he trailed off as if searching for the right word. “...undisciplined.”

You wondered about Eddie’s discipline, how hard it was for him not to go the rest of the way and claim you just then. To sink his teeth in and suck on that nectar of yours that he craved so deeply. You could see the desire in his eyes, the way the brown irises melted into umber and his pupils expanded.

You would not have stopped him, that was the final truth of it.

In that moment, you knew that if Eddie Munson wanted to kiss you, you would not put up a fight.

You would not pull back and ask, “what are you doing?”

You would just know.

“I changed the bulb in your porch light, by the way,” he added on his way to the door. “Noticed it was out.”

You did not turn to watch him go, you kept your back to him. “Thank you again for Bela and for boarding up the window.”

He mumbled something under his breath that made you look over your shoulder. “What was that?”

He stopped in his tracks with his hand on the doorknob, hair long around the shoulder of his leather jacket. “I said, you know where I am, if you ever need anything.”

Eddie stepped out onto your front porch and exhaled a shuddering, long-held breath. He shut his eyes and rubbed the heels of his palms into them. “Holy shit, Munson, you are such an idiot,” he scolded himself, feeling a sprinkle of snow again on his flesh.

He took a step down and then paused, thinking he should go back in.

Thinking he should tell you…everything.

Maybe you would understand.

Maybe you’d lean into his kiss and pull him closer.

Maybe…

But then the shadow of uncertainty shrouded him and he kept going.

—-------

You ended up covering for Argyle behind the bar the next night while he went to California for a week, and thankfully it was a slow shift because you were still figuring out what alcohol went in which drink. But then a crowd of people on their way to the poetry reading at Robin’s came through, and two of them were vampires, so you had to get out the manual to remember which synthetic blood type to use in the various mixtures.

“Another whiskey with a beer back for the Chief,” Erica scooted up next to you and tapped your arm to get you to lean in closer to her. “Do you think he’s waiting for someone?”

Jim Hopper was in a booth by himself in the dimly lit room, facing the door, and you had noticed that he seemed very interested in getting a good look at everyone who came in that evening. He still had his uniform on, since he was only recently off the clock, and he was tapping his knee and chewing on the side of his fingernail with some type of anticipation.

You knew that if you got closer, you’d be able to get a better read on his emotional state.

“I’ll take it to him,” you said to Erica, and then the two of you talked about the movie you went to with Steve because she hated it and said she was angry those were two hours of her life she could never get back. “I can’t believe you let a werewolf take you on a date,” she squinted. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were looking for trouble.”

You moved around her with both of Jim’s drinks and winked. “I’m the one who’s trouble. They come looking for me.”

“Oh I believe that,” she quipped in your wake.

The closer you got to Jim, the more you could sense the yearning inside of him. There was desperation with sadness around the edges, and the hint of a familiar sinister urge, much like you’d felt with the Klemps all those weeks ago.

His eyes met yours only briefly when you set his drinks down, and then you asked if he wanted one menu or two.

“Not tonight, thanks. I’m waiting for someone, and then I need to split,” he nodded as he warmed the whiskey in his big hands and wiped a sheen of perspiration from his forehead.

Well, there was your answer.

You and Hopper both looked up when the door opened that time, and you were pleasantly surprised to see Steve standing there. Shoulders broad in his plaid shirt and his luscious head of hair looking wild from the wind outside. His face lit up when he saw you.

“Hey stranger,” you walked over to him, beaming.

Steve had been pacing out on the sidewalk between the bookstore and the bar for the past 15 minutes trying to decide if he should go in or not. By the way you were smiling at him, he could tell he'd made the right decision.

“Hey, you,” he gave a smirk and raked his big hand through his unruly hair a few times. He glanced around at the 8 or 9 customers. “Do you have a break soon? Or can I bring you anything?”

“My shift is over in an hour,” you talked as you returned to your station, waving at Bob through the serving hatch. Steve rested his elbow on the bar. “I was thinking I’d make my way over to the bookstore if you’re still around.”

“Oh I think I’ll be around,” he assured, tapping his knuckles on the wood, not wanting to sound too eager. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Erica glaring at him. She was not much of a fan of the supernatural.

Right behind Steve, a strikingly beautiful woman with short black hair and red lips strolled in. She had a long leather coat that she pulled tightly around her as she walked, and she appeared to know exactly where she was going, strolling over with ancient grace to Jim’s table. He stood up to greet her, and then they hunched across the table toward each other as if they were telling secrets.

You realized you were staring as you spotted a tiny vial of dark liquid in her palm just before she slid it across the way to him under a cupped hand.

“I’ll come back when you’re finished,” Steve said a few other things, but your mind had not retained them. “We can walk over together.”

“Sure,” you said absently. The mysterious woman with Jim got up and left after only a minute or two. Jim downed the rest of his drink, left a tip, and exited out the back, putting his hat on as he went.

A bit later, as you were changing out of your apron in the back room and counting your bills, you wondered where Eddie was and what he was doing.

It made you curse out loud, the persistent way your mind clung to him.

It was irrational and wholly unfair.

You wanted him to pull up in the GTO and tell you to get in without any explanation of why or where you were going.

The customers continued to wane, and Bob told you to skedaddle 20 minutes earlier than you’d expected, so you figured you’d get a head start and meet Steve half way. Erica flipped you off, playfully mocking the fact that you could go home before her. You snuggled down into your winter coat and pushed through the employee door that led to the parking lot at the greeting of a gust of bitingly cold wind. You stopped to pull your gloves out of your pockets and the door that could only be opened from the inside locked shut behind you.

When you looked up, Jareth stepped out of the shadows and loomed there, blocking your path.

“I’m afraid you'll have to come with me, love.”

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hugs and kisses, thank you so much for reading! Your comments, asks, and reblogs mean the world xoxo

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Taglist: @trixyvixx @sllooney @writinginthetwilight @sidthedollface2 @atomickaratel8dy @probablyin-bed @kiyastrf94@briamunson92 @joannamuns9n @jasminelafleur @@bellalillyrose @dashingdeb16 @alba8688 @corrodeddeadlydoll @brassreign @likedovesinthewnd @ilovetaquitosmmm @skrzydlak @onegirlmanytales @angietherose @probablyin-bed @reidsbtch @moonbeamsandmayhem @eddiesxangel @hideoutside @secretdryrose @nailbatanddungeon @thorfemmes @corkadymu @kellsck @mrsjellymunson @poofyloofy

#Eddie Munson fic #Eddie Munson #vampire!eddie #werewolf Steve #Death Becomes Us #vampire Eddie Munson #True Blood au #Eddie Munson series #paranormal reader #Eddie Munson x reader #Spotify

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unhingedmarvelandclassicwhobuff · 6 months

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According to the MCU wiki, the Blip is today. So I figured I'd take the time to detail the four biggest reasons why the time jump in Endgame was a universe-shatteringly horrible idea that should never have seen the light of day

the absolute biggest problem, of which there are many, is the fact that countless people died as collateral damage in the initial Snap. Hell, we are shown it in the Infinity War post-credit scene with those multiple car accidents and that helicopter slamming into a building. And that was just the tip of the iceberg; imagine how many planes crashed because the pilots were dusted, or how many babies starved because both their parents were dusted, or people who may have died on the operating table because a surgeon got dusted. All of these people are totally ignored. It's never so much as mentioned when talking about bringing everyone back, and Tony insisting that the last five years remain unchanged is implicitly saying all of those people remained dead when the dusted returned.

the second big problem with this plot point is that it's used as an excuse for every character except Nat to be totally unrecognizable. Bruce becomes Professor Hulk, Thor gets fat, Tony has a family (and I fucking love how the movie inadvertently says he just let the world rot for five years instead of using his billions of help. That is 100% in character for him), Clint went on a mass killing spree, and Steve... I actually have no idea what made him change so radically. None of this is shown to us at all, it's just told to us.

this is less a problem with Endgame and more a problem with Phases 4 and 5, but the other worse thing about this development is that absolutely nothing has been done with it. Far From Home played the time-jump for comedy, WandaVision had that one great scene in the hospital and then did nothing else, Shang-Chi had a singular throwaway line about the Blip, Hawkeye had that one neat visual of getting Snapped from Yelena's POV and then nothing else, Multiverse of Madness had a single conversation where Strange wonders if letting Tony have his way was the only way to save the universe, Quantumania had a single scene addressing the homelessness issue and then nothing else, and I think Secret Invasion tried to do a bit of a look at how Talos reacted to the Blip, but that show was so awful that I'd rather not think about it. The only projects to do anything at all with the Blip as a major plot point are Falcon and the Winter Soldier and Eternals.

the fourth and final massive problem with the Blip is pretty simple yet complicated; it ignores the absolutely insurmountable societal implications both the Snap and the Blip would have. Think about it; half the fucking universe disintegrates into ash. There are SO many things that would do to just human society alone. But even more importantly, five years after all those people were declared dead (meaning wills are executed, spouses remarried, jobs and homes redistributed, etc) those people suddenly reappear, and from their POV it's only been a second. Just to put it in perspective, the Snap happened on April 29th, 2018. Doesn't that feel like forever ago? If the Snap were real, all those people would have been gone until today. That is such a huge mindfuck that I'm shocked no one went insane. And even looking aside from the psychological impact, all those people are pretty fucking screwed. Far From Home had a single scene addressing this, then promptly forgot about it.

My final point is less of a problem and more of an amusing byproduct; since Tony directly forbids Bruce from undoing the last five years, that means the events of WandaVision, Falcon and the Winter Soldier, Hawkeye, Multiverse of Madness, and Secret Invasion are on some level his fault. That’s fucking hysterical.

I suppose I'll be absolutely fair and say that rewinding time isn't a morally perfect solution either, as you would be erasing any maturity the survivors gained during those five years, as well as anyone born in that time. But that's just all the more reason to NOT HAVE A FUCKING TIME-SKIP!!! I still think the only reason it was done was for cheap shock value.

All in all, the five-year time jump is the single worst major plot point in the MCU. Fight me.

#anti endgame #the blip was an awful idea #anti tony stark

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moodyfish · 2 years

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The creators of She-Hulk legitimately don't know what they're doing

I think a lot of people have heard the director state

"There's a lot of talk about her body type and we based it on Olympian athletes and not bodybuilders."

Does anyone want to know a specific "Olympian" they based She-Hulk's body off of?

"Olympian Misty Copeland was a body that we referenced, you know, of someone who was very, very, very strong, but also could walk through the world and operate in the normal world at a scale that is very large, but it's still very human because she has to go on dates she has to work in a regular office."

Misty Copeland. Misty. Freaking. Copeland. She is a goddess and an icon. Here are some of her greatest accomplishments.

"2008 Leonore Annenberg Fellowship in the Arts and was named National Youth of the Year Ambassador for the Boys & Girls Clubs of America in 2013. In 2014, President Obama appointed Copeland to the President’s Council on Fitness, Sports and Nutrition. She is the recipient of a 2014 Dance Magazine Award and was named to the 2015 TIME 100 by TIME Magazine." - American Ballet Theatre

Misty Copeland is an amazingly talented person, who has dealt with immense struggles due to her body type, but she is not an Olympian. She's a ballerina. Ballet, by definition from Oxford Languages,

"...is characterized by light, graceful, fluid movements."

I'm especially pissed because when growing up, I was a ballerina. And my sister was a Track & Field thrower. When I heard of She-Hulk as a kid, I always imagined her looking like my sister. Looking like her build - not the ones of prima ballerinas.

While writing this, I've been sitting here thinking about how many great ACTUAL Olympians they could have used as inspiration for She-Hulk's build.

Raven Saunders aka The Hulk. 2020 Tokyo Olympics Silver Medalist in Shotput.

Hidilyn Diaz. 2020 Tokyo Olympics Gold Medalist and Record Holder in 55 KG Weightlifting.

Tamyra Mensah-Stock. 2020 Tokyo Olympics Gold Medal in Freestyle Wrestling.

There are so many incredible female Olympians they could have used as inspiration. There are so many strength-based sports. The Summer Olympics alone have 33 sports.

But they specifically wanted She-Hulk's build to be inspired by

"not bodybuilders."

Even if this meant putting more work on the VFX Artists of the show who made her larger to begin with. Sean Ruecroft, a VFX Artist who worked on Infinity War and Moon Knight, took to Twitter to let people know the struggles Marvel put their team through.

"I was at a company that did VFX for this. Apparently, she was bigger early on, but the notes kept saying to ‘make her smaller.'"

They put more work on the artists, pushing them into the same inspiration that was used for Natasha Romanoff.

"...light, graceful, fluid movements."

The creators didn't want a Hulk. They wanted grace, sex appeal, and a tiny waist on an hourglass figure.

#she-hulk #she hulk #shehulk #rant #Olympics #athletes #marvel #Disney

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shuttershocky · 1 year

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So Das Conk Creet Baybee numbers are out and she uh. Reaches 4.5k defense just by herself huh. Wonder what use that gets but probably *some*

I love her, she's a gag operator

This looks absolutely baffling until you realize Cement's main purpose is to be funny.

She's a mole girl. Her hulking physical strength means she's carrying around a 500 KG shield and a huge ATK stat. Her Skill 2 gives her the funny meme number (+420% DEF) which inflates her DEF to a gargantuan 4238 at maximum stacks, the highest DEF in the game. On top of that she also has a max 24% (32% with module upgrades) physical damage resistance, a godlike physical tank.

Except she didn't apply to be a Protector. She's a duelist. She's supposed to be fighting, not tanking. She can only block one enemy at a time while blocking them better than anyone who ever blocked that isnt Mudrock. But only one at a time.

#arknights

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t-top-apologist · 7 months

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At the end of the day the average civilian wishes to be catered to like an old money steel baron or perhaps one of those chaps from Downton Abbey. The entirety of modern society has come together to enable this, mass-producing cheap facsimiles of fortunes that should rightly either be built on child labor or perhaps serfdom.

Their lawns, taking up what could otherwise be used to grow crops or serve as "outdoor garage space," exist to ape the wide ranging estates meant for the nobility to chase down a fox while adorned in silly jackets. Their houses sport columns and stupid windows meant to imitate three different classical artforms at the same time because of something called "economies of scale." They even have male-centric social clubs meant for parlour games, discussing sports, and dining with friends, in this case franchised out under such names as "Buffalo Wild Wings."

This aping of the upper class continues to the hire of "artisans" to do relatively simple work deemed too complicated to warrant the time of the average citizen. It's not that the jobs are too taxing for your average person, but rather that the market has crystallized around the desire to live like budget royalty. Therefore they take their wafer-thin computers to artisans (now more commonly called "experts" or "Apple geniuses") for repair and have democratized the position of carriagemen to 22 year old dealership lube techs named Ryan who will turn a 15 minute job into a 30 minute endeavor thanks to frequent vape breaks and a brief brush with what the industry refers to as "a misplaced drain bolt."

The mid-40s project manager and mother of 3 is no less competent when changing oil than her grandfather before her who knew what "Valve Lash" is, but what separates the two is a series of wars in the 1900s that required an entire generation of men to become very familiar with operating and repairing machines better than the Germans and Japanese (an exercise that Chrysler would later abandon in favor of the phrase "if you can't beat em, join em").

This conflict ended with a surge of able-bodied men finding themselves returning to their project management jobs (like their granddaughters after them) but armed with captured German weapons and a comprehensive understanding of tubochargers. Just as a line can be drawn from troop drawdowns to political violence, there's a distinct correlations between GIs returning home and the violence with which Ford Flathead V8s were torn apart by inventive supercharging methods paired with landspeed record attempts.

Give a man a racecar and he'll crash it on the salt flats in a day. Teach a man to repair a racecar and it will sit in the garage of his suburban house for a few years in between complete engine rebuilds required by what can only be described as "vaporized piston rods."

Of course this hotrodder generation created the circumstances we live in today, as the market saw their fast cars cobbled together from old prewar hulks and simply stamped out new ones from factory, faster and more convenient for the next generation than building one from scratch. Now the project manager mother of 3 drives a 4wd barge with climate controlled seats boasting more computing power than the moon mission and an emissions-controlled powertrain with more horsepower than her grandfather's jalopy and her fathers factory muscle car combined. And she doesn't care at all.

Yet Amongst the average civilians there walks a rare breed: people who know how to change their own oil. We the chosen move among you silently, bucking the system, operating outside the cultural helplessness and trading in forbidden knowledge in almost-abandoned forum threads (flame wars over conventional vs synthetic).

While we do have a marked air of superiority about this, I can't say I haven't stooped to imitating the rich myself. I've been known to wear a silly jacket from time to time.

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spockiguess · 1 year

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A Good Morning Blowie, Eh? || Tyr x Fem!Reader

A/N: I love coming back after literal months to post something completely random and unexpected. Like, you’d think the mainly Oual Dano writer would keep writing Oual Dano if they only posted that but... whatever, actually. You guys don’t even know some of the fics I have locked away, never to see the light of day. ANYWAY!!!! Tyr’s fucking hot as balls and I wanted, no-- NEEDED-- to write about him. Also, headcanon time: Tyr is fucking baller at eating pussy. That’s all I can say.

Oh, also, IMPORTANT: If you like this, request more Tyr, or even Kratos fics WITH specific details you’d personally like to see.

Warnings: Smut. Lots of it. Also terms like “cunt” and “pussy” used because I can’t fucking handle the shitty little, cutesy ass nicknames people give vaginas. Like, it’s a fucking pussy. Give me a break.

Pairing: Tyr/Fem!Reader

Great beams of light spilled through the large circular windows of Tyr’s room, a small space nestled in one of the many corners of the germaphobe dwarf Sindri’s immaculate tree house. There wasn’t necessarily a day or night in the Realm between Realms, but it did operate on a time system very similar to Midgard, with brighter purplish-blue light in the mornings and a deeper plum at night.

This was how you knew that it was past the time to get up, and you figured everyone else had already set off for whatever journey they had in store as you ran your hand down Tyr’s muscular forearm, squeezing his hand as a gentle way of waking him up.

The only honorable Aesir didn’t stir, however, only squishing his face further into the crook of your neck and sighing contently. You chuckled lightly before lightly calling out his name. Still, he showed no sign of waking up anytime soon, instead wrapping his arms tighter around your waist.

Giggling at the sensation of his breath on your neck, you tried calling his name three more times, each louder than the last, but he didn’t budge. Tyr was a deep sleeper, and you knew this, so you pondered possible ways to wake up the hulking teddy bear.

Soon, a wicked thought popped into your head, rousing you to move and carefully remove each of Tyr’s arms from your midsection. Your plan was devious but entirely foolproof, seeing as it worked every time you tried it.

A playful smile dawned on you as you gently nudged Tyr onto his back. The nonviolent god of war only hummed, quickly getting comfortable in this new position.

You could barely contain your mischievous laughter as your hand crept to the hem of his shirt, your movements painstakingly slow as you inched the material just above his belly button, giving you a nice view of his ruggedly toned physique.

Unable to help yourself, you kissed along this exposed ridge of skin as you wormed Tyr’s pants down until they sat just below the middle of his thighs. From what you could see, Tyr was already half-hard, no doubt from the cuddling just moments ago.

Your mouth watered at the sight of his girthy cock. It was definitely proportional to the rest of him, coming to about eleven inches tall and at least a couple of inches wide. Taking the behemoth of a dick in your comparably small hand, you gave it some experimental tugs, watching as Tyr became restless in his sleep.

Once again, unable to help yourself, you went straight to it and licked a wet line up the length of his dick, feeling it come to life before tonguing the tip, smiling to yourself when you could taste the salty beads of precum already leaking from him.

Tyr hummed in his sleep, unknowingly arching his hips at the contact. This only pushed you to continue, and with renewed vigor, you swallowed as much of him as you could fit (which wasn’t a lot, to begin with).

Fighting back the tears and urge to gag, you ducked your head further until your jaw couldn’t open anymore. Staying there, you licked and sucked on the length you were able to fit in your stretched mouth, gathering the spit that dribbled down the length with your hands to work the rest of him. Tyr moaned in his sleep, whispering your name as his whole body reacted to your touch.

After your jaw acclimated, you pulled back and hollowed your cheeks once you reached the tip, savoring the taste of the quickly growing amount of precum that soon filled your mouth. Ducking your head back down, you didn’t swallow until you reached the point you were at before.

Finally, Tyr woke up with a start, “Oh Hel, that feels so–” Tyr’s hands flew to your hair when you hummed around his cock, fully enveloping your head when his fingers carded through the tresses.

Now that Tyr was awake, you allowed yourself to work his dick faster and harder even though your jaw was already beginning to ache. Tyr’s deep moans were all that you needed, and besides those, you could tell he was enjoying it by just the amount of pre alone.

Sucking up and down, you looked into his glowing eyes as you cupped his balls. Tyr groaned as his head fell back onto his pillow, and you simply continued your work.

Soon, your mouth and jaw were beginning to hurt, so you resorted to licking the spot just under Tyr’s tip that you knew drove him crazy. When your tongue met the spot, Tyr shuddered, and not long after, he spilled into your mouth, almost causing you to choke on his cum.

You didn’t swallow yet, choosing instead to pull off and show Tyr the pool of white liquid that filled your mouth before you drank it down greedily. You still held his cock in your hands, and when you did this, you could feel it twitch in excitement.

Hazily, Tyr asked, “What did I do to deserve this?” You only smiled as you trailed back up Tyr’s long body, planting your hips just behind his still-hard dick.

Running your hands under Tyr’s rumpled shirt, you innocently replied, “I needed to wake you up.” Tyr laughed as his arms easily wrapped around your frame and pulled you closer to him.

“Hel, you’re a little temptress, aren’t you?” Tyr’s smooth voice shot straight to your core, and you unconsciously ground against his length as you burrowed your head into the crook of his neck, suddenly sheepish.

“Forgive me, darling, but I don’t think you exactly have room to act shy when you woke me up with a– what do they call them?”

Meekly, you answered, “A blowjob.”

Tyr echoed your response breathily, “A blowjob.”

Tyr’s hands followed the curves of your body before reaching your ass, and with a sly smile, he grabbed you firmly, relishing in the moan you provided.

“Mm, did you get yourself worked up, dove?” You nodded, still grinding against his dick, “Let me help with that, then.”

In a flash, Tyr flipped you over, and your head came colliding with the plush pillow he was just resting on. Tyr didn’t often show off his otherworldly strength, except during times like this. Even though he rarely admitted it, being able to hold you down without barely breaking a sweat thrilled him beyond belief.

Just then, Tyr began to pull your pants down and kiss each newly exposed inch of blazing flesh that he held beneath him. Tyr’s untamed beard tickled your stomach, causing you to giggle wildly.

“Your laugh sounds like heaven.” Tyr’s voice was low in his throat when he spoke, and as your cheeks burned, your giggles turned into an airy moan when he reached the hem of your underwear. Then, Tyr’s massive hands came to the crux of your legs and spread them apart tenderly; his kisses were like embers against your sensitive skin.

Spreading your legs willingly, you still hid behind the safeguard your hands provided, unable to bear the weight of Tyr’s intent gaze.

Tyr tsked, one of his long arms easily reaching both of yours, “No, no. I want to see you.” His voice was like a thick coating of honey, making you shiver under the words.

Obliging, you removed your hands, mentally forcing yourself to keep your eyes on him as he continued his work.

Tyr’s deft fingers wormed beneath the hem of your underwear, swiftly yanking the garment down and exposing you to the chilly air. Tyr’s eyes widened as his thumb returned to your pussy, running through the slick that gathered there. You could even hear how wet you were just from that alone.

“Is this all for me?” You nodded, and Tyr couldn’t decide whether to look at your inviting, dripping cunt or your lusty eyes, “Oh, you don’t know what you do to me.”

Before you knew it, Tyr was spreading your pussy and diving in for a taste. His tongue was a welcome pressure against your core, simultaneously stoking and quenching the fire that burned there.

Tyr groaned loudly, and you almost shushed him before you moaned, too, the sound reverberating off of the walls. Admittedly, neither of you minded now as Tyr’s tongue found and suckled at your clit. During this, one of Tyr’s enormous fingers found your twitching entrance and circled it before nudging in slightly. His fingers were enough for you, and oftentimes, Tyr had to work you open on three or four before you could even begin to take his cock.

Instantly, Tyr found a healthy rhythm that made you squirm and writhe under his touch. Your toes curled, and your back arched off the bed as Tyr’s mouth ate you out like a fine meal while his finger went to work finding the spot that made you cry out for me.

When his finger found the spot, Tyr allowed himself a moment to speak, “You taste so good, Gods, how I missed this.”

With Tyr’s mouth returning to your eager cunt, you felt that familiar fire course through your veins and collect in the tips of your fingers and seat of your belly, the feeling making your moans come in quick succession to the other.

All the while, you adored the full feeling that came from Tyr’s single finger and inwardly ached for his dick. You knew everyone would be back soon, however, so you filed that want away for another time.

The mixed sensations working in tandem made that wire coil tighter and tighter before, ultimately, it snapped. The fire roared inside of you, filling your ears with a rushing sound and causing your head to go momentarily dizzy.

Tyr kept eating you out, though, unrelenting in his pace before you started to whine out from overstimulation. Finally, he slowed down and let you come down from your high, sliding his finger out and licking your juices off the digit, all the while giving you a sly smile.

Tyr’s voice was raspy when he spoke, “You’re perfect. I still can’t believe I have you here with me.”

Feeling cold, you beckoned him back up, content with having him holding you again as you whispered words of love into his ear.

#tyr #tyr god of war #tyr god of war ragnarok #god of war #god of war ragnarok #fanfic #tyr x reader

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landofadonises · 1 month

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Adonis Consumerism - Shifts in Modeling, First Forays into Muscular Forms

It's incredibly interesting to look back at the tangible history of male developments within the nation of Adonis, as even the... for lack of a better term, twinkiest roles in society began shifting due to who was readily available. It honestly didn't help that the models they were using the seasons prior, at a solid 140 lbs of toned, lean form, suddenly returned for the next season's preparatory stages at 210 lbs or more, with statures of on-season bodybuilders.

The operators of the magazines and brands fervently sought out the most similar they could find to what they were used to within the sea of hulking men that began popping up, so even the smaller men found their niches, but even this realm wasn't safe from what was to gradually approach, stabilizing at a catalogue of men of very decent, eye-catching size. Personalities were allowed to shine through even more than what was conceivable prior, as quite frankly, the professionalism behind the role began to fade for a time so that they could find prompt replacements.

#hugemuscle #plausiblesizedifference #adonisconsumerism

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thisisnotthenerd · 2 days

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justification below the cut because it got long but is probably valid to read before you answer anyway:

battle of the brands:

the gunner channel are a 6-person party with the assistance of a large creature/mount (aurora nebbins, CR 3). while they are level three in terms of ship deployment, they are not using those skills in this encounter.

at this point they were level five. they had access to third level spells for the spellcasters, extra attacks for the gunners, uncanny dodge for skip and multitasker for margaret.

they had the opportunity to shop for items before the encounter: this included shield generators, armor, lots of grenades, new weapons, extra psychodrones, and critically, the charge fragmentation used in operation slippery puppet

they were fighting in the battle of the brands-- a free-for-all against other brand champions in an arena with a significant drop; one of the win conditions against each opponent was sending them over the edge to suffer max falling damage.

objectives: fulfilling their contract with acme-ashmun as brand ambassadors, surviving the fight, and defeating the other brand champions

they faced four opponents: smaggy squirrel, brobbin bunny, brutus the corn brutie, and the triangle mint plinth.

smaggy squirrel and brobbin bunny were at the very least 9th level rogues--this puts them at a CR 5

the plinth was a homebrewed statblock--i evaluated it at a CR 14, similar to an elder brain.

brutus the corn brutie was based on an adult green dragon, at a CR 15.

if we go by XP with no multipliers, they would get 28100 for the encounter. well into deadly, with an overall encounter CR of 22.

the last stand:

the bad kids are a 6-person party with the assistance of 4 CR 1/2 summons (mephits) and 2 CR 3 mounts (daymare and hangman)

at this point they are level 13. they have access to 7th level spells for the full casters, paladin smites and functional smites (fandrangor), 7d6 of sneak attack, and the new barbificer subclass, which allows non-concentration spells to be held while raging

they also have access to many magical items: the infaethable bass, the heavy metal ax, the sword of sight (sword of the elven oracle), fandrangor (sword of the elven kings), the teddy bear of helpfulness, the sword of shadows and arquebus, all of which grant unique abilities, including +5 to performance and retaliatory damage, crits on 19 and 20 and max damage to objects, bonus action divination cantrips granting the dodge action (true strike), added d6s of damage using spell slots, the ability to hold multiple concentration spells, misty step, magical tranq, net, and signal flare bullets.

they were fighting in the last stand; a simultaneous academic exam and fight against an endless horde of monsters.

objectives: answering questions correctly, protecting the proctor, and lasting as long as possible. the bad kids were granted a preparation round for spellcasting and ability activation and a surprise round on the first wave of creatures. read my notes here for their academic preparation.

they faced a total of 39 opponents of varying CRs. these are sorted below into the waves that the bad kids faced them in.

first wave: otyugh (CR 5), 3 ochre jellies (CR 2), gorgon (CR 5), hydra (CR 8), 8 skeletons (CR 1/4), and a mimic (CR 2)

second wave: manticore (CR 3), shrimp dragon (CR 7), roper (CR 5), umber hulk (CR 5), and 8 stirges (CR 1/4)

third wave: wyvern (CR 6), crab man (CR 5), 8 rust monsters (CR 1/2), pentacorn (CR 6), and a purple worm (CR 15)

if we go by XP with no multipliers, they would get 37500 for the encounter. well into deadly, with an overall encounter CR of 27.

#dimension 20 #dimension 20 spoilers #d20 poll #battle of the brands #the last stand #the gunner channel #the bad kids #a starstruck odyssey #fantasy high junior year #d20 #dimension 20 meta #thisisnotthenerd's d20 stats #battle episode of all time #fantasy high #fhjy #fhjy spoilers #fantasy high spoilers #d20 fhjy

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the-californicationist · 1 month

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Troubleshooting

For @glitterypirateduck's super fun Oh, Captain! challenge. This is for prompt #8 where our deceptive captain tries to hide a secret from his gunsmith.

She could smell him long before she saw his hulking form stop in front of her office door. The sweet scent of his signature Romeo y Julieta cigars gave him away; a jewel from Villa Clara, Cuba. The tight-rolled tobacco smoldered amber and gold in the dark, its rustic funk and black licorice smoke gently curling out of his parted lips, trapped under his dirty boonie hat.

When she had been assigned to his team, she’d been dreading the constant relocating and high profile secrecy. It was hard enough to find 5.56 ammo for that mouthy Scot’s Steyr bullpup, much less have it delivered to a black site without a postcode. But, as she let her eyes wander up his mountainous shoulders, tracing the outline of a sharp, scruffy Adam’s apple, watching as his jaw rippled and clenched to bite down on the soft end of his cigar, she admitted to herself that she could deal with a few shipping delays as long as she got to enjoy John Price. Now, just a few weeks into this roughshod operation, she ached to see what lurked under all that gear.

She cleaned up her station, carefully screwing on the cap to her powder and putting it under the workbench. When he spoke, it was always confident but soft, like a stage whisper, words only she was meant to hear.

“Smithy,” he took a long drag from his Cuban and pulled the creamy smoke in through his nose, a very casual French inhale, breathing it out and down sharply, purposefully avoiding her face.

He’d never called her by her name, only by his clipped version of her title of Chief Gunsmith. She knew he must be aware of it since he requested her transfer, but she had always been “Smithy” to him.

“Captain, how are we this evening?” She gazed into his eyes with intent, hoping he would see her desire in them and be pleased.

“We’re alright,” he took the cigar from his mouth and let it rest between his fingers, smiling down at her as he loomed, his height making her feel small. He removed his hat, placing it on her bench before leaning against the table, his huge hand spreading wide across the stainless surface. He continued,

“You know, this M4 has been giving me a bit of trouble. I cleaned it, but even after a full breakdown, the bolt isn’t sitting flush. Think you could help me get it all the way in?”

She let his quiet rumbling voice wash over her like a wave, lapping at her mind and making her breath catch in her chest. The double entendre was so obvious as to almost be in jest, but his suggestive tone - though subtle - was enough for her to believe in it.

“Did you use enough oil? A little lubricant goes a long way, Captain, but some parts need more than others. Especially if it was a vigorous cleaning,” she threw him a bone in hopes he would bite it.

He did, replying with a sly smile,

“Perhaps I went a little rough with her. Think you can take a look?”

He licked his lips, watching as the flush tinted her neck and cheeks, hungry for her attention. She watched him shift his weight, rocking forward towards the bench, flexing his hips. Obviously, she was getting to him. She turned up the heat, pushing her luck,

“Rough is just fine, John, but with the size of the bolt head you’ve got here, you just need to make sure she’s slick enough to take it.”

She smiled sweetly, taking the rifle from him and laying it across the bench. Now that she had turned her attention to the gun, she could only watch him from the corner of her eye. But, she knew she had landed a punch when he had to turn his head away from her and pull at the inside leg of his pants, adjusting.

Then, as she took apart the barrel from the bolt and its lever, she realized he had been lying to her. He had replaced the trigger assembly before the bolt, effectively causing the problem he was asking her to solve. Price knew this gun better than the back of his own hand, and he had come down to her office with this game, hoping to score.

Her heart raced when she discovered the error, and she tried her best to maintain a straight face, not wanting him to realize she’d caught him yet. She still wanted to play.

She rebuilt the weapon, glossing over the false mistake, and pulled the bolt back flush.

“There,” she sighed, “good as new.”

The ball was clearly in his court and she waited to see what he would do. His voice had dropped into a deep, threatening register, and he was leaning so far over the workbench that she could see his pupils dilate, pushing back the bright blue and revealing the blackness behind it,

“What was the problem, Smithy?”

He began to stalk her around the edge of the table, taking impossibly slow steps toward her side of the bench, eyes fixed on her mouth. She saw his chest rising and falling faster and stronger, lifting his protective vest and causing the lingering smoke between his lips to billow chaotically around his dark beard. She held her ground, turning her body toward his as he walked,

“You made a rookie mistake, Captain Price. One that you’re not capable of making...”

His eyes sparked to life, focusing on hers now, and he knew that he’d been discovered. She continued to dismantle his farce,

“…and I wonder how it can be possible…”

Price rounded the first corner of the table, hanging on her every word. He took his cigar and pulled a long drag.

“...that such an experienced…”

Another step. The leather of his boot creaked as he pressed it down.

“...intelligent…”

Another step. She could smell his cologne now. Vetiver. Musk.

“...diligent soldier…”

He crossed the second corner, letting the smoke fall out of his mouth, pouring like water down his chin and tangling in his beard, holding his breath to let her view the effect. His teeth were clenched together behind his full mouth, and he began to smile in a sinister, pained way. She went on, quieter, her voice betraying her nerves,

“...would somehow forget how to put his own gun back together.”

Price’s cigar had come to an end, and he crushed it out under his boot as he stood in front of her, too close for propriety, just close enough to smell her coconut shampoo. He hummed, playing along, falsifying a sense of wonder and mystery in his tone.

“That is quite the mystery, innit? Must’ve been distracted by…” Price brought his hand up to touch the tip of his gunsmith’s long braid as it lay draped over her shoulder, laying on her breast, “…something important.”

“John,” she whispered, leaning toward him instinctively.

In the half-second between her speaking his name and the silence that came after, he struck like a snake, wrapping the rest of her braid around his fist like a rope, yanking her head back and pulling her to his body, letting their gear and clothes rustle between them, not caring where the vests and belts and buckles twisted and pinched, letting the tension linger. His free hand grabbed her jaw and neck in his wide, open palm, fingers pressing into her skin, warm and callused.

His voice was so strained and full of his want that it seemed like a growl, rambling in a rushed, fervent monologue,

“You’ve been teasing me again, Smithy. Ever since we got back from that damn operation. You’ve been coming to the gym at night, when I lift, and you wear those fucking shorts and you show off that thick arse, bending over in front of the racks, pulling them up higher so I can how see your wet cunt is soaking right through them,” his hand yanked her head back, making her gasp. He loved that noise,

“Delicious. Your pretty little cunt, ready to eat. Right within my reach. A whole gym, empty, and you pick that spot every damn time. Moving past me in the lockers, letting me smell you, and now I want a taste.”

She felt the stinging tightness of her scalp as he tugged on her braid, locking her body in place against his, controlling her head, moving it toward his face. He grimaced like he was in agony even though she was the one under his fist. His touch was such a relief. She’d been torturing him for weeks, and she surrendered to him, pliant to his whims, hoping he understood that her lack of resistance was essentially her begging him to forgive her for leaving him starving.

��Alright,” she smiled, still at his mercy, “If you want a taste, you can have one.” She watched as his eyes grew wide with anticipation as she unbuttoned her pants and tugged down the zipper. She bit her lip and shrugged, “On your knees, soldier.”

AO3 Link

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #captain john price #cod mwii #john price #cod #captain price #call of duty #oh captain my captain #ohcaptainchallenge #it's captain season

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jpitha · 11 months

Text

The First Few Rows Will Get Wet

Just for a moment, it looked like everything was going to work out.

The Starjumper Remaining Grace was taken by surprise while headed to the research station Rear Window. Pirates had been spotted operating in the general area, but they were known to leave the research stations alone.

Three pirate ships - calling them ships was generous, they were hulks destined for the scrapyard mostly - descended upon Remaining Grace as they made preparations to link away. Most of the time, piracy is pointless between the stars. Any ship out there can just link to a new location and with no way to track a link, there's no point in attempting to pursue. Pirates tend to be a local problem, centering on centers of populace. Rear Window, Vertigo, and North By Northwest are all long distance observation stations a short link from the Starbase Rakish Swagger. Everyone - including the local authorities - assumed the Pirates were based out of Swagger, but nobody could prove it.

Grace was full of supplies and scientific equipment and so a target that the pirates could not pass up. As they attacked from above, Grace defended themselves.

"Two are coming in from 11 o'clock high, one is trying to sneak around to the rear!" Penny LaGrange calls out from the radar station. Grace runs a small crew, so everyone helps out with the roles. She isn't the radar operator, but she was closest to the station when the attack started.

Captain Kennison grips the arms of his chair tighter. "Grace, did you WEP the reactors? We need all three batteries going while being able to finish computing the link home." He doesn't bother with the whole lines about giving permission and telling Grace the order with which to make decisions, Remaining Grace is five times older than the whole crew put together, he assumes they know what they're doing."

"Aye Captain, we're at War Power and climbing. Primary, Secondary and Tertiary batteries are free and firing. Henry, where are we with those link coordinates?"

"Sorry Grace, working on it. The computer crashed, I had to restart it. We're calculating from zero again." Henry Smithfield is sitting at the other station, willing the computer to calculate faster.

It's just the three of them and Grace themselves. Small crews are pretty normal these days. An AI can honestly run an entire ship themselves and they often do. Having more hands helps though, especially when things get busy. Henry's station pings and he looks up, relieved. "We have coordinates! We can link away anyti-"

A ripple of heavy thumps interrupts his announcement. From the Command deck, an alarm can be heard quietly warning the crew that isn't in engineering.

"Lucky hit! Reactor 4 is venting and entering overspeed!"

Sweat beads on Captain Kennison's forehead. "Grace, can you dump it and we link away before it blows?"

"We're going to try. Henry, enter the coordinates and link away on my command!"

"You got it Grace, coordinates entered and ready."

"Aaaaaaand-" There was a loud booming clang as a door was flung open -"now-"

****

Captain Kennison came to consciousness slowly, painfully. What was going on? Why was he on the floor? "Huh, this carpet is nice" he thought, as his consciousness rose to prominence and he heard the muffled shouts of Remaining Grace "Captain Kennison! Captain Kennison!"

He sat up. "What is it Grace, did we link away? That was quite a hit."

"Yes Captain, it looks like we had a missile strike as soon as we opened the wormhole, it detonated as we linked away. I took a very hard hit. We have other problems right now though."

It was then that Peter Kennison heard a noise that he had never heard aboard a Starjumper.

He heard the roar of atmosphere.

"We're falling!"

"Yes Captain, there was a link error, we've entered an atmosphere."

"What about juke charges? I remember reading that was used during a mis-link to reorient the ship"

"I'm too large Captain. I think I know the event you're talking about, it was a Frigate early in the K'laxi/Xenni war. We're going to have to land."

"Land?" Captain Kennison sounded incredulous. "Can a Starjumper land? I didn't think the could."

Remaining Grace sounded testy. "No, they normally can't. I don't know about you, but I don't particularly want to slam into a planet, do you?" Grace threw an image up on the screen as Henry and Penny regained consciousness. "It appears that this world is mostly water, so we're going to try to ditch in the ocean. I need you three to rig for ditching while I try and orient us Stardrive down and use that to slow our decent."

"Rig for ditching?" Penny shakes her head and wipes some blood from her forehead.

"Water landing. Now please help, I need to concentrate."

As the three of them got out of their seats, they felt and heard the Stardrive fire erratically. Grace was trying to use bursts of thrust to steer them and that combined with the gyros was setting them engine first towards the planet.

When people see a Starjumper in space, they think it's long. It's a reasonable assumption. Most Starjumpers are between 3 and 5 kilometers long with smooth sweeping lines.

They're incorrect though. A Starjumper isn't long.

It's tall.

All of the decks of a Starjumper are oriented like floors on a skyscraper. If you think about it, that makes sense. Starjumpers existed before wormhole technology, before artificial gravity even. They would thrust at 1 gee for weeks, and then coast between stars, before flipping over and thrusting again at 1 gee to slow down. With the engines at the "back" thrusting at 1 gee made that the "floor." Orient the ship like a building and now everyone is comfortable while they thrust.

Falling through the atmosphere, Remaining Grace looked like a skyscraper falling on a pillar of intermittent fire. While Grace worked hard to keep from slamming into the ocean, Penny and Henry ran around the bridge, flipping ancient mechanical levers and switches that were hidden behind long disused panels, while James shouted commands reading from a very old doc on his pad. Some paranoid engineer a thousand years ago worried that a Starjumper might have to make a water landing, so a process was developed and tested.

Finally, Grace was able to get themselves mostly oriented correctly, and fired their Stardrive. In the atmosphere, the roar of the drive was intense. The whole ship vibrated and roared as they rode the pillar of fire. "We're still going too fast!" Grace sounded like they were speaking through gritted teeth, this must be taking nearly all their effort. "You need to buckle up, I'm boosting to three gee."

Everyone quickly scrambled to their seats and strapped themselves in as Grace ramped up the thrust. As they sat in their seats, pressed by the hidden hand of thrust, they could feel the thrust swing around as Grace worked to keep themselves pointed straight up and down.

After what felt like an eternity, the Stardrive cut, everyone felt a sickening drop as they fell the last few feet, and then there was a gentle rocking as the ship bobbed like a buoy in the ocean. "Everyone, I can say for sure that I am as surprised as you all are, but we're down and safe." Grace sounded... amazed that it worked?

"Thanks Remaining Grace, that was masterfully done." Penny and Henry gave their assent. "But... now what? How do we get home?"

"That... is a little harder. We're going to have to repair or replace the wormhole generator and link back... somewhere. Probably Rakish Swagger or Rear Window themselves. It's not like they don't need the supplies anymore."

"But Grace, can we link from the surface of a planet? Do we have to boost to orbit first?" Penny was scanning the area, trying to figure out where they were."

"Honestly, Penny, I don't know."

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #humans and ai #humans are space capybaras #scifi writing #humans are space australians #sci fi writing #writing

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