piratesfromspace

[piratesfromspace]

I don’t care if it’s “a trance” and “they’re only doing it to hypnotize me” I think the most romantic part of being attacked by a vampire is when they cup your face and stare deep into your eyes before tilting your head up and to the side so they can reach your neck better.

[piratesfromspace]

Simon with herding instinct on that physio snippet.... God what I'd do to be Reader (I'm not sick but I'm KO by my period, so I think I also deserve herding instincts and a cup of tea made by someone who is not me)

I think you deserve a little treat for your body torturing you Same reader as this (female reader)

"Fuck." You draw a deep breath through your nose and blow it out slowly, trying to push the pain away. You have a busy schedule today, and the 141 was expected to be back which meant you'd have the Lieutenant on your table at some point between now and twenty one hundred.

You do not have time for period pain.

Your appointments waltz in and out through the day, your focus turning from the stabbing, burning ache in your belly, quads and lower back, until the clock finally ticks down to nineteen hundred, and you slump over in your chair. A moment's reprieve, a second to get off your feet, exhaustion sinking into you, your longing for your bed and a heating pad stealing the whole of your attention. You can almost feel it, the hot shower, the comfort of your sheets, a cup of tea. Almost.

For now, you swallow more paracetamol and hope it lasts you through the rest of the day.

The door to the clinic swings open, and you don't need to peek outside the door of your office to know who it is.

No one has footsteps as heavy as his.

The Lieutenant.

The man you do not understand. The one who treated you like a small, fragile animal when you were sick, barging into your house and forcing you onto the couch, doling out medicine and hand feeding you warm broth. He pressed cold cloths to your forehead, held your hair and rubbed your back as you vomited.

The entire time you trembled with nerves, staring at the stitching of his balaclava, looking away each time his face turned towards yours. He hated you, why was he here?

Your fever broke, he disappeared. And the next time you saw him-

He went back to treating you just as he always did.

Coldly. Gruffly. Rudely.

Tonight would be no different.

So when you step outside and see him still in his full kit, arms folded across his chest, you wilt, already defeated, stomach tying itself in knots.

"Need m'back looked at." He barks and you fight the instinct to jump.

"Yeah, o-of course." The words are unsteady, you're unsteady, just like each time before, and he doesn't say anything else, just looks you up and down before brushing by you to get to the table.

He's the width of your workspace. Wingspan larger than should be humanly possible, width of his shoulders and back difficult to comprehend. He could tear you apart, if he wanted, so you've always treated him so carefully, staying focused, making sure you don't slip up and push his muscles too far or cause him pain. It's the same care you apply to all your patients, but with him, it's different. It's like diffusing a bomb.

His head is turned towards you as your fingers walk down the middle of his spine, working pressure points. Every time he twitches, or grunts, or even breathes deeply, you tense, but you keep your focus, kneading down to his sciatic nerve, pushing in deep, deep enough to make him groan, your heartbeat pulsing in your ears.

You don't even realize he's saying your name until he shifts on the table.

"S-sorry?" His eyes are locked the space between your legs, and you follow his sight line, gasping when you see what he sees.

Red.

Your standard issue khaki pants are stained dark red at your thighs.

"Oh my god. Oh my god, I'm sorry, I'm," you stumble backwards, hands flying to cover yourself, scrambling on how to get yourself out of the room and into the bathroom as quickly as possible. Your cheeks burn from humiliation. "I'm sorry, I uh- I'll be right back."

"Do you have another pair of pants?" He cocks his head.

I don't... I don't think so."

"Hmm." He continues to stare, and then, like he was having a conversation with himself, he swings off the table, reaching for the jacket he showed up in, before stalking towards you.

You stumble back, but you're too slow, and he catches you by your wrist, tugging you forward. You close your eyes. "Lieutenant-"

"Hush." The jacket goes around your waist, giant sleeves tied at your navel, the length of the hanging directly over where your pants are stained. You're not petite by any means, so the fact that this garment can even begin to cover you is a miracle in itself. But then again, he is massive. "Stay." He moves around the room, ducking into the other one with your desk, flicking the lights off, before grabbing the keys off the hook and shepherding you through the clinic to the front door.

"What... what're you doing?" There's a murderous look in his eye when he turns to you, and it freezes your blood.

"Takin' you home."

"I can get h-home myself." You hate the way your voice shakes.

"Covered in blood? You really want the entire base to see you like tha'?" The shame burns, and tears build on your waterline. "C'mon." His hand settles between your shoulder blades, essentially turning you into a ship with no sails, only a rudder at your back. Him.

He steers you into your house by your hips. You live directly off base, in civilian housing, luckiest of them all, if you're being honest, though in this moment, you're not sure you are so lucky.

"Leave your clothes in the sink." He orders when he lets you go, moving towards the kitchen.

"My clothes?"

"You know how to get bloodstains out of your clothes?"

"Oh, uh... n-no."

"Then..." he motions with his hands for your pants.

"Right now?" You squeak, and he nods.

"Now, pet." You fumble with the zipper and the button, hands trembling so bad you struggle with them. "Need help?"

"No! No... I got it." you get them down to your knees after a struggle, and then kick them off. Will he ask for your underwear too? He answers like he can ready your mind.

"Leave 'em on the bathroom floor. Shower, and then straight to bed."

"I'm not a child!" The protest is bold, boldest you've ever been with him, insecure, scared feelings coming forth in the outburst.

"Could've fooled me. Children need takin' care of, jus' like you." The words jam in your throat, stolen by the intensity of a cramp, and his eyes soften. "Go on up. I'll bring you somethin' for the pain, and some tea." There's no fight left in you, drained like the blood from your body, and your shoulders slump.

An hour later, in the dark, your door cracks. You're curled up in a ball, heating pad tucked against your pubic bone, buried beneath a mountain of blankets when the bed dips, the mass of the Lieutenant's weight settling next to your hip.

He sits you up, like a doll. Makes you take more paracetamol, finish a glass of water, and then pushes a hot tea in your hand.

By the time he's done, you slump back against the pillows, exhausted. Your eyelids go heavy, and he shifts you back to your side. You're too tired to argue with him, fight him, and when his fingers start applying counter pressure to your lower back, working through the tension, the tightness from your period, you let out a low moan. He chuckles. The man actually laughs.

"Why are you here?" You murmur in the dark, and he doesn't answer right away, sitting in the silence for too long.

And then-

"My mum always taught me to take care of my things."

[piratesfromspace]

Everyone: Please please please don't write your books in Google Docs. Frankly don't use Google Drive for personal stuff.

Their terms of service say they take down stuff like content related to terrorism and trafficking, but this Google Sheet was literally a list of movies I'd watched this year and books I'd read.

[piratesfromspace]

Omfg I’ve been doing comms all day but took a 15 min break to doodle ghost lol

[piratesfromspace]

John Price having to hunt you down in the woods and keep you in his cabin for whatever reason 🫣

john price in my head

[piratesfromspace]

so glad ghost and soap fucked nasty at the end of mwiii <3

[piratesfromspace]

sleepy omega!reader x poly 141 just constantly wanting cuddles or just sliding into their beds in the middle of the night because the massive stuffed teddy in their nest isnt doing it for them-

Gosh dang it, I've become such a sucker for anything Omegaverse 🥹 Thank you for your request! I hope you'll like this blurb 🩷 And I'm so sorry this took so long, omg!

Pairing: alpha!TF-141 x omega!gn!Reader

Warnings/Info: military!Reader; packmates; alpha/omega dynamics; domesticity; hurt/comfort; fluff; teammates/friends to lovers

No matter how much you're tossing and turning while clinging to your favourite ginormous bear plushie (a gift from Price himself), your nest feels... off. It's not nearly as warm and cosy enough as you need it, and you don't understand why.

You haven't made any big changes, have you? You'd simply fluffed up all the blankets and pillows and plushies you own; the usual routine. Your nose wrinkles as you sit up inside your nest to sniff around in the dark. Okay, perhaps the scent of your pack mates isn’t quite there anymore—only barely lingering on your nesting materials, but that shouldn’t bother you as much as it does right now.

They’re right here, just across the hallway in their respective rooms or perhaps still lounging in the living room, quietly suffering with their episodic insomnia. So, knowing that they’re under the same roof with you should be enough, but it simply isn’t.

As you dig yourself out from under your pillow fortress, you immediately shiver as soon as the chilly winter breeze currently sweeping in through the cracked window hits your flushed body, because even in the deepest winter season, you cannot sleep with the window closed. And now clad, or rather drowning, in one of Simon’s hoodies and a pair of warm sweatpants, you’re still cold.

No, something isn’t quite right.

You feel too restless, uncomfortable, and lonely.

Crawling out of your nest, you scramble to your feet and make your way out of your bedroom and into the living room down the hall—where you can already see the flickering light of the flat TV around the corner, though the volume is low and heavily drowned out by your pack leader’s hackle-raising snores. 

Peeking around the corner, not wanting to disturb him, you find John sprawled out on the large armchair, clutching the remote in one hand, his head tipped back and mouth wide open while he continues to sound like a berserker with sinusitis. It’s an endearing sight, seeing him this openly vulnerable and relaxed, and you can't stop yourself from getting a whiff of his sleepy, musky scent as you sniff the air greedily.

It makes your heart flutter and a pleasant shiver run down your spine.

Oh, how tempted you are to simply walk up and crawl into his lap, bury your face into his chest and sleep with him like this, but you don’t want to risk waking him up, so you let out the softest sigh and slowly turn to sneak off into the other direction, back towards your own cold, empty bedroom—

Just to bump into a tall, solid mountain of lean muscle.

“Havin’ fun stalking the Cap while he’s knocked out cold?”

You swallow a surprised squeak and stare up at Kyle with wide doe-eyes as he swiftly reaches out to grasp your forearms to keep you steady and in place. His voice is soft, full of amusement, his warm brown eyes nearly twinkling in the flickering lights of the TV as he looks down at you. “Aw, did I scare ya, little mouse?”

You shake your head adamantly. “No, I was just getting a glass of water.” It’s a white lie, but you don’t want to start explaining something you have no explanation for yet.

Kyle lifts an eyebrow and releases you to cross his arms as he scrutinizes you while you can clearly see his nostrils twitch as he scents you discreetly.

“I see,” he replies eventually, though, knowing Kyle, you can tell that he’s not buying your lie one bit. “So, you’re good, yeah? Headin’ back to your den then?”

The question lingers in the air and as you open your mouth to answer, he beats you to it.

“Or perhaps another room tonight?” Kyle watches your lashes flutter as you blink dumbly, and he ignores the sudden urge to squish your cheeks with his hands and pull your face against his neck to scent-mark you thoroughly. “I’m just saying,” he shrugs, “ya haven’t been seekin’ out any one of us lately, ‘s all.” He’s not accusing you, just stating an observation he’s made.

And it’s true. You haven’t been seeking out the alphas of your pack; too afraid to be viewed as annoying or too clingy. It’s been hard enough to be the only omega in TF-141, after all. You don’t want to be their burden but an asset instead. 

Swallowing thickly, you really wish you had a cold glass of water right about now. “Uhm, well–” You press your lips into a tight line before you shrug, feeling like a complete idiot. At this point, you might be worse than Simon when it comes to articulating your feelings—not that you’d ever willingly admit that out loud.

“I just... don’t wanna bother anyone. You’re all stressed and busy and uh... yeah, I’ll just go back to my room, I guess,” you grumble, hoping that neither sadness nor disappointment spike your scent to tell on you.

Kyle lets out a small huff through his nose and rolls his shoulders as he listens to you. There’s a slight twitch between his brows as you mention being a bother to them, but then he fixes his face into a more neutral expression before he steps aside.

“Alright. Have a good night, sweetheart.”

You give a small nod, wishing deep down that he’d simply tug you along and make you sleep in his bedroom tonight, but Kyle stands stock still, and you walk past him back down the hall and into your empty, chilly omega den—somehow feeling worse than before.

Your gloomy bedroom feels even colder while you rearrange your nest for the third time, but never feeling satisfied with it. You keep swallowing down the little, high-pitched chuffs and whines of distress bubbling up in your throat; afraid someone might hear or smell the underlying bitterness now lacing your usually bloomy, comforting scent.

When the door suddenly creaks open, you freeze and hold your breath, spine straightening as you kneel in the middle of your nest, clutching your plushie to your chest.

“Relax,” Johnny chuckles quietly, his voice hoarse and gravelly with sleep, “…s’ jus’ me, hen.”

He slips through the crack and leaves the door ajar before he casually walks towards your nest, stretching languidly with a yawn before slipping inside with you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble reflexively, nearly whining, “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

But Johnny only clucks his tongue, eyes already fluttering shut in bliss as he pulls you into his arms. “None ‘o tha’, hen,” he grumbles, letting out a contented chuff as soon as he buries his nose into your hair. “Ah missed ye.”

The vibration of his low rumble makes you shiver, it breaks you out of your momentary stupor, and you swiftly reciprocate his embrace, burying your nose into his neck and huffing his lightly smoky scent eagerly with a happy purr.

And while you and Johnny cuddle, bringing balance back to your room, your bedroom door is pushed open once more and a warm, musky scent is added to the atmosphere—like suede and cask aged bourbon.

Simon slips into your nest and curls his massive body around you from behind with nothing more than a deep, sleepy grumble as his heavy arm snakes around your torso, pulling you closer until the tip of his nose is pressed against the nape of your neck.

Feeling like you’re finally on omega cloud nine at this point, surrounded by two of your precious alphas in your own nest, you can barely hear the other two males stumbling into your room above the beginning snores coming from both Johnny and Simon.

“C’mon, Cap, this way.” Lifting your head up, you can hear Kyle mutter quietly as he guides a sleep-drunk Captain Price towards your nest.

“Stay.” Johnny mumbles in his sleep, curling his arm tighter around your waist below Simon’s arm as you shift in their snug embraces, but before you can reply, Price lets out a soft growl—not a warning but a non-verbal order—and suddenly, all four men arrange themselves in your nest, dragging their bulky bodies around sluggishly until they’ve build a proper cuddle pile around you.

They end up snuggling and hugging you one way or another, their noses pressed into your skin while you’re practically buzzing as you purr for them.

“T’was a proper pain in the arse to wake ‘em up, sweet’eart,” Kyle mutters with a soft sigh, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “Next time you feel like this, you let us know. We’re here to take care of our ‘mega… and don’t lie to me again,” he grumbles, interlacing his fingers with yours tenderly while your heart thuds steadily against your chest.

“You’re a shit liar.”

[piratesfromspace]

its not a greentext but can we all agree the capra demon post is the best 4chan post

[piratesfromspace]

cowboy AU price

[piratesfromspace]

John Price is so done messing with the youngings who latch onto him and try to get his attention as soon as he steps boot into any pub or bar.

Yes, he's aware of the aura of authority that engulfs him like a bloody halo (a cruel metaphor, given his job and lives he's taken). And yes, he's aware of the dominance oozing out of his very pores, because he can't and will never switch off his leader and work mode.

However, when a certain single woman in her 30s throws a witty remark at him while he passes by her table—how someone should put him down for a good nap and maybe give him his whiskey in a baby bottle while they're at it—he stops dead in his tracks.

Perhaps it's your appearance, perhaps your confidence, perhaps the way you're cooing at him so condescendingly yet laced with genuine concern for his well-being, but John's brain short-circuits, then reboots.

His mission changes from getting piss drunk to finding about anything and everything about you, and ASAP, too.

He lingers and seizes you up before pointing at the empty seat across from you as your friend excuses themselves and scatters to grab another drink.

And you don't even have the decency to look surprised when he sits down with a groan, bones and muscles aching from training and sitting stiffly at his desk for too long, folding his sore hands while holding your smug gaze with his usual stoicism like he's about to interrogate you.

"You got quite a mouth on ya, darling," he remarks gruffly, though there is no menace behind his words while his eyes flickering to notice the neat whiskey in front of you. "And good taste, too. May I?"

But John doesn't wait before he reaches for your glass to take a sip, relishing the spicy taste and warm burn in his parched throat with a rough hum.

"And you look like you take strolls in hell every Saturday for fun." That, paired with the cheeky smile you shoot him, makes his stomach clench with hunger. A raw, primal, taboo hunger.

"Oh, aye?" His eyes crinkle at the corners with a rare smirk, glass still lifted halfway to his mouth for another sip. "Perhaps next time I go there, I can take ya with me, love."

The challenge is right there in the open, and you haven't met a man who matches your wit in such a long time. You know you would be a fool not to take a chance right now, not when the sudden tension between you and this stranger makes your skin prickle so deliciously, heart fluttering with excitement.

Your friend doesn't return to the table, but your phone buzzes with a message from them.

Grabbing an Uber. Let me know when you get home and you better call me with the tea tomorrow. Don't break his dick, bestie 🫵🏼😚

[piratesfromspace]

nsfw!!!

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p i c k y o u r b o y

[piratesfromspace]

I have a pathological urge for more hairy Price (and a fever) and I can't stop thinking about sitting on that big, hairy behemoth of a man—with his soft, hairy tummy and big, hairy arms, and how it would just feel. All that coarse, thick hair rubbing at the sensitive skin between your thighs, brushing against the bottom of your ass. Tickling your palms when you run your hands up and down the matted curls on his belly and chest. Sucking on his finger and having those wisps on his knuckles tickle your lips, your nose. How they darken, just a little, when they're wet with your spit. With you.

The catch of it on your nails. The way it'll tangle around your fingers, tickle the little crook between each one.

How it's so much softer, denser, beneath his belly button—the little curve where his stomach pushes out, silky smooth skin under the crescent spill that you like to kiss (just to make him shudder) before he gets too impatient and shoves your face in the v of his groin where the hair is longer, thicker. The smell of him more intense, too. A tangled mess of dark hair, the tops dusted with grey, like the ash in his trays. Thick and pillowy, all the way down to the tops of his thighs. The inner curve of them, too. Matted, softened with friction. How you can't help nuzzling into the mess of him that springs out, kneading into it like a cat scent marking its possessions.

Or the feel of it when you sink your fingers into the spill of it hugging his chest, wry curls folding over your digits in a way that messes with your head. Makes you think, often, of sinking as deep into him as possible. Like mother nature reclaiming lost cities. Ivy ensnaring concrete. Something about human nature and that festering, unfed want for warmth. To be wrapped up inside something safe.

And how it clings to your sweat-slicked skin when you lift up from the hot, fever-soaked seat of his thighs; that ticklish drag of wry hair over flesh. How the sweat clings to it, too. Making everything a wet, soupy puddle. A melting spill of too-hot limbs on damp sheets. But he's stable—solid. Immovable. Because the drag of his hair on your slick skin keeps everything in place—even when you want to move, peel yourself off, it glues to you, refusing to let go. Trapping you in a sticky-slick web of fur.

And even when you do manage to get away, you usually end up with pieces of shed afterwards. Little curls still stuck to your skin, itching the back of your throat. A sight that darkens something in his eyes when he sees it, like a distant light going out. All black. Possession tangled up in need. A small, silly claim he can't stop himself from biting at.

But the best is the grunts he makes beneath you. The way that big, hairy body shudders, hips twitching, when you grab a fistful tight in your palm, tugging and clinging to him as he bucks into you from below. Taking even when you're looking down at him, spread out between your thighs—this warm smear of burnt umber under you, something you can't help but tug on. Cling to.

He likes the sting of it, he says, words mangled in the raw mess of his throat. That sharp burn that comes with every tug-pull of your little fists catching on his hair sits deep in the hollow of his belly, feeding a hunger, teasing an appetite, he didn't know he had. Hoding on, being held—like the way his hands anchor on your hips, squeezing until it feels like there's nothing but thin skin separating him from bone. A give and take.

And after, too, when he glues his hairy, damp chest to your spine, rough, warm hand anchored on your sore hip (holding, holding on), you can't help feeling wrapped up, spooled tight, inside of a blanket—a web of flesh and fur woven around you, just you, furnace hot and skin soft.

Something to sink into as the bristles flatten against his body, allowing you to inch just that much closer to the inferno of him until he groans—this deep, bone-melting sound because he feels it, too. Basks in it. In the way his hairy belly pushes against your spine, stroking along that same hunger you didn't know how to feed until he let you push your fingers into the fuzz covering his chest for the first time, awakening something inside of you—the instinctual urge to seek a warm, safe place.

(Or maybe the possessive, hungry need to sink deep inside of the things you want—ivy on concrete. Fingers on skin, tangled in fur.)

And who better to feed that hunger than the most bearish man you know?

[piratesfromspace]

price and gaz are a mind-spinning duo.

the younger man pressing your back to his chest while your legs hang over his arms. cradling your form and shushing your cries with little coos and soft kisses onto your shoulder. keeping you from squirming when the flat of price’s fingers smack into your pussy. hands spreading your lips to swipe his tongue over your folds between each spank. he’s been edging you with a cruel smirk for what feels like eternity, kyle the only thing keeping you from melting into a puddle of tears.

“doin’ so good, luvie,” gaz promises, nudging his bulge against you for a little relief. huffing at the beads of pre cum he can feel drooling out of his tip already.

“she is, isn’t she? just a few more, then gaz’ll fuck this pretty puss here nice ‘n slow,” john tells you, reaching to wipe one of your tears. he licks it from his thumb before smushing the pad of the digit against your clit just to see you writhe some more. “then. i’ll take the rear and stuff your ass. just like last time, hm? remember how good you said that felt?”

you bob your head with an eager nod and kyle grins, pecking your ear–licking at the lobe a little before suckling the skin just beneath. your chest heaves at the thought of taking both of them. cocks railing into you as you cream around them for dear life.“good. just a few more’a these,” price spanks you again, and you whimper with a head thrown into the man behind you. “‘n we’ll get right to it, dove…”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[piratesfromspace]

Y'all.

[piratesfromspace]

Frank Castle when he meets The Thing wondering why he looks exactly like David Lieberman

[piratesfromspace]

Someone was asking in a thread what kind of people could work for ICE right now.

I think it's a good time to remember that the image above are the people who put children into gas chambers.

When I was little, I asked what kind of person could work at a concentration camp.

The answer to both questions I think is "normal people who have accepted the dehumanization of another group of people."

[piratesfromspace]

RE: Knight!ghost

What of the princess doesn't bleed? Cause you know he's making it good for her, and some women don't bleed their first time. What are people gonna say? What is the princess gonna say?

He'll cut his hand open and smear it on the sheets. If you don't bleed, and he hopes against hope that you don't (or that even if you do it is so minimal that you don't feel the sharp pain of being opened), then he will take matters into his own hands. There is no corner of this kingdom that will think you were ruined by any man --much less a man like him-- before your wedding night, Ghost will make sure of it.

He's sure you would have something to say about that, some embarrassed little edge to your voice that would tell him all the propriety that's been drilled into you hasn't been wasted. Just like he's sure when he does fuck you, you'll wrap around his cock like a vice and he'll find himself just as ruined as you will.