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toournextadventure · 2 years

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everyone but her pt.4

a/n: i have no posting or writing schedule fyi. but here we go, we're truckin through. EDIT: previously titled perfect date

Word Count: 2.5k Warnings: swearing, mentions of an autopsy, descriptions of a dead body (not graphic) Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Reader (Masterlist)

“Crackstone’s Crypt is overrated,” you groaned, throwing yourself onto Enid’s bed. “It’s gotta be somewhere else.”

“Nowhere else is creepy,” Enid said with a shrug. “That’s all we’ve got.”

“It’s not good enough,” you mumbled more to yourself than to her.

“Just go somewhere else,” Enid offered when you didn’t say anything else.

“I can’t,” you whined. “It has to be perfect.”

You pushed yourself off the bed and up onto your feet. With Wednesday out of the room, you had let your wings free and they shook as you started pacing. Enid had to admit, she rarely saw you this stressed out. You didn’t even freak out like this over finals, and everyone knew you should have been. And yet, somehow asking Wednesday Addams out on a date was going to drive you up the wall.

“It’s not supposed to be stressing you out this bad,” Enid said once you completed your fifth lap around the room.

“I’m not stressed, I’m devastated,” you said, stopping for just long enough to look at her. “I haven’t even asked her out yet and I’m already out of ideas.”

“Then we’ll brainstorm,” Enid said in as chipper of a voice as she could manage. She sat down cross-legged on her bed and started thinking. “What about visiting Nicky?”

“Out of the question,” you said with a shake of your head.

“Wednesday would love it-”

“-Nicky’s off limits.” Your hands shook as you lifted them to rub your face. There was a glassiness creeping over your eyes as you shook your head. “I’m not ready.”

“Okay,” Enid said softly; you knew she had meant no harm, but she still regretted the suggestion anyway. “Then what else would be enough for Wednesday Addams?”

You both looked at each other dejectedly. Enid had agreed that something creepy would have been an excellent idea. You both knew she enjoyed autopsies, torture, and the occasional murder. None of those, however, were legal, so they were off the table. Who knew this was going to be so difficult?

“Are you sure they’re not coming back soon?” You asked as you gestured to Wednesday’s side of the room.

“She and Thing are at a hummer’s meeting,” Enid said with a shrug. She hadn’t asked questions because, quite frankly, she didn’t really care.

“A meeting?” You asked, turning your head back to look at Enid with furrowed brows. “But I wasn’t invited.”

“Are you a hummer?” Enid asked.

“I thought I was,” you mumbled. “Well now that’s just rude.” You turned back to look at Wednesday’s bed with a frown. Your feathers ruffled with your frustration.

“Y/N, focus,” Enid said with a snap of her fingers. “Date ideas.”

“Oh yeah,” you said, “let’s see.” You spun on your heels and started pacing the floor once again. “Wednesday… black… spooky…” Enid smiled to herself as the gears continued turning in your head. “Gothic… Victorian… old…” You sighed loudly and shook your head. “Abandoned… decrepit- Gate’s Mansion!” You shouted, turning quickly and pointing your finger at Enid.

“Great word association,” Enid said with a tight-lipped smile, “but you might get arrested for trespassing.”

“I bet she’d love it,” you shrugged.

“I don’t have enough bail money for the both of you,” Enid said with a sigh.

“That’s okay! You bail out Wednesday.” You looked off into the distance. “I bet I can convince Principle Weems to bail me out.”

“Okay!” Enid said, causing you to flinch and look back at her. “Next step, how are you finding a body?” You can’t just make one.”

“No, that’ s murder.” You cocked one hip and lifted your left hand to your face, rubbing your chin as you thought. “But homicide-”

“-absolutely not.”

“Fine, we’ll just dig one up,” you said with a huff. “She likes gravedigging.”

“How do you even know that?” Enid asked.

“She told me during tutoring one night.”

“You know what, I’m not questioning it anymore,” Enid said with a shake of her head. The fact that you weren’t disturbed even a little bit by Wednesday’s… hobbies just further proved her belief that you two were perfect for each other.

“Then it’s settled,” you said with a nod to yourself. “We dig up a body, take it to the basement in Gates’ Mansion, she gets to perform her autopsy, and it turns into the best date she’s ever had. No murder involved.” You smiled to yourself. “Thanks for the help, Enid.” You made your way to the door, not even gracing her with a goodbye.

Wait.

“Or homicide,” Enid chimed in before you could finish stepping out of the door.

“You’re a killjoy, Sinclair,” you said as you leaned back in. “What about involuntary manslaughter-”

“-no!”

—---

You had asked her on a date. You hadn’t used that exact word, but that’s what you were asking. You’re going out with me tomorrow, you had said before walking off before she could even answer. Every nerve in your body had been on fire, you couldn’t have waited to see if she would say no. Pretty brave, you would say.

But now you were standing beside a now-open grave, getting soaked to the bone from the rain, and watching as Wednesday continued to dig deeper and deeper. She wasn’t smiling - because why would she? - but it was clear she was having the time of her life. Never had you seen her move so energetically.

“Found you,” Wednesday said. She lifted the lid of the coffin to stare into the fairly fresh body within. “Can you carry him?”

“It would be my pleasure,” you said as you hopped into the grave. Don't be a baby, you thought when your knee ached upon landing.

Even though you were more than happy to be there with Wednesday, you weren’t as big of a fan of dead bodies. Maybe it was the trauma. It’s common fucking sense, you moron, your inner voice argued. No, it was definitely the trauma.

Wednesday stood back and made room for you as you bent down to haul the body over your shoulder. She warned you to be careful with it so it didn’t stretch too much; your stomach rolled at the thought of it stretching in your hands. You swallowed the bile rising in your throat and held on to the body tightly, urging Wednesday out of the grave so she could help pull you up. Well, she tried to help pull you up; truthfully she was no help at all.

"Where to?" Wednesday asked, her eyes wide as she studied the body that you were desperately trying not to focus on.

"Short walk from here," you said and gestured your head in the direction of the mansion. God, the smell of this body was horrendous.

It was a silent walk; with Wednesday it normally was. The only true sound was the rain continuing to pour all around you. Your footsteps were drowned out by the squelching of mud, but it was almost comforting. Truthfully, it reminded you of home.

As soon as the Mansion was in sight, Wednesday's head snapped in your direction. There was a spark of joy in her dark eyes that wasn't unlike that of a child in a candy store. You kept your mouth shut but gestured toward the gates, and she practically ran over to pick the padlock while you trudged the rest of the way.

"Hurry up," you called out once you walked through the gate. "He's getting heavy."

She gave you that murderous stare that you liked so much, but led the way to the side of the house where a single door was located. It was locked; no surprise there. Your eyes trailed down to her boot when she bent down, taking something out of it and getting to work on a door.

“Do you always keep a lockpick with you?” You asked as she continued to work on the lock.

“Of course,” she answered. “You never know when you might need one.”

“Right, right.”

She pushed the door open after only a few more seconds of maneuvering. It was impressive, truly, the way her small lithe fingers could work a lock in less than a minute. But you didn’t stop to think about it before rushing inside to get out of the rain, lightening accentuating the atmosphere when Wednesday closed the door.

“Oh this is creepy,” you mumbled as you walked down the hallway.

You had no idea where anything was in this stupid house. When you had staked it out and brought everything, you had managed to slip through a small window to the basement. Not once had you actually surveyed the layout, so it could take ages before you found out where to go.

“Why do people live in places this big?” You asked when you looked into the fifth cobweb-filled room.

“The Addams mansion is bigger,” Wednesday mused, making you flinch when she silently appeared beside you.

“How do you remember where anything is?” You asked again. She started walking away and you followed behind her.

“Because it’s my home,” she answered.

Of course, you thought with a mocking shake of your head. The body on your shoulders shifted, sliding further down your back and pressing down painfully on your wings. With a grunt, you hoisted it up higher, easing as much pressure as you could and making the weight a little lighter on your legs. For a dead body, he was awfully heavy.

“Find the basement,” you said with a huff. “I’m about to drop him.”

Wednesday nodded at you once before using her sleuthing skills to find the stairs. Watching her work, even just to find something, truly amazed you. The slight tilt of her head when she was thinking, the movement of her eyes betraying her thoughts and emotions, the very methodical way she went through her thoughts. It was all enough to distract you from the burning muscles in your arms and legs.

“This way,” Wednesday called, and youfinally got moving.

Your legs protested, but you trudged your way to where she was standing. Looking down the stairs was probably your first mistake of the night. Digging up a body wasn’t? Your inner voice asked. It was pitch black down there and the stairs looked like they would break if a speck of dust landed on them. You had two bodies’ worth of weight, what if you fell through?

“I’ll go first,” Wednesday said after most likely noticing your hesitation.

“No, I got it,” you said quickly. No way in hell were you going to seem afraid in front of Wednesday Addams.

You took a deep breath in, then essentially fell onto the first step. It creaked, but stayed intact. With a few small nods to yourself, you continued moving. Your feet hit the wood hard with each step, your muscles telling you to stop or they would let you fall down the stairs. But you kept it up, focusing instead on Wednesday’s boots behind you.

When your feet hit the solid floor, you let out a sigh of relief. The hard part was done, and now the real fun could begin. At least, it would if you could find the lights…

The switch flipped and light flooded the room.

“What’s all this?” Wednesday asked, and you turned to face her with a smile as you could finally explain your plans.

“It’s an autopsy da- um.” You looked away. “Party.” Now that’s just stupid.

“For me?” Wednesday asked, looking up at you. Her eyes were wide and her lips were parted ever so slightly; she was surprised.

“Well, you took me birdwatching, so.” You shrugged. “And it’s not like I’d dig up a body for no good reason.”

You walked over to the metal table you had moved to the center of the room and finally, finally placed the body down on it. Even with the body off of your shoulders, you could still feel its weight. The decomposition had stained your shirt and you just knew you would never get it out. Dammit, you liked that shirt…

“Are you going to join?” Wednesday asked as she stood beside you, looking down at the body with a joy that you rarely if ever saw.

“I’ll just be your assistant,” you said with a nervous chuckle. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your experience.”

She turned to face you quickly, the smallest fraction of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. You inhaled sharply as your heart stuttered in your chest. She didn’t even truly smile at you and your heart felt like it was going to explode. You turned around quickly. If she kept looking at you like that, you were going to give her a fresh body to perform her autopsy on.

“Want some?” You asked as you held the Vick’s vaporub out to her.

“No need,” Wednesday said as she turned back to the body. “I enjoy the smell.”

“Well I’m using it,” you mumbled to yourself as you scooped out a generous amount and smeared it underneath your nose. It helped, but by no means did it erase the smell still clinging to your clothes.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Wednesday asked, that miniscule smile appearing on her lips again and a crack of thunder as added theatrics.

Oh, tonight was going to kill you.

—---

“Good night, Wednesday.”

Enid sat up as soon as she heard your voice from the other side of the door. Her phone read 11:29pm; you had both missed curfew. Did that mean the date had gone well? Wait, neither one of you had used the word. Did the outing go well? Surely it had, nothing was more tailormade for Wednesday than this.

“Good night.”

She didn’t even pretend to be asleep when Wednesday finally came back into the room. Her movements stuttered when she saw Enid sitting there, staring at her with enough excitement that she felt she was going to explode. This was going to be the best night ever.

“Did you have a nice night?” Enid asked immediately.

Any normal person would have thought it had gone bad. After all, Wednesday was soaked to the bone, coated in mud and grime and… other things, and smelled like a dead body. By Enid’s standards, it would have been the biggest disaster in the entire history of the world. But for Wednesday?

“It was adequate,” she answered.

She immediately went to her closet and grabbed her pyjamas before heading to the bathroom to get cleaned up and ready for bed. But Enid saw the darkening of her cheeks and the small pull at the corner of her lips before she closed the bathroom door. Thing gestured to Wednesday, and Enid nodded in agreement.

“Our ship is sailing,” she said with a smile, giving Thing a fistbump.

Oh yeah. This was going to be amazing.

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams

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yeyinde · 1 year

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circle the drain | Captain John Price x F!Reader

》 WARNINGS: SMUT 18+ — P-in-V sex; unsafe sex; gendered female reader, female gendered anatomy; implied power imbalance; no substance only smut SUMMARY: Somehow, you know his hands are the only things capable of keeping you whole. 》 WORD COUNT: 7,6k 》 NOTES: This was supposed to be a valentine's day gift, but it's super late on account of me being ridiculously sick. I'm also becoming the Patron Saint of "soon-ish" but this is the sequel to Caught p., i. Yeah. That fic that's been requested a bunch lmao. ANYWAY. It's FINALLY here. This was written in a day and edited under a feverish delirium in what feels like four months but was actually less than 10 minutes.

His hands are firebrands, fingers the lit end of a cigar. When he touches your skin, you hear the sizzle of your flesh burning away, and the pop of it cauterising under his blistering heat. He seals a little part of himself in the wounds he wrought: buries them deep in your dermis until they leak into your bloodstream.

There is no victory in this.

And yet—

"Fuck me, captain—"

—you just can't help yourself sometimes.

His eyes flash. "I didn't tell you to stop."

》 Caught p., i

MASTERLIST | JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | AO3

It's the firm press of his front against your back that starts it all.

His hands, rough, firm. Scorching. They drop to your shoulders, one palm sliding down your bicep, fingers curling over the soft skin in the crux of your elbow.

You try not to tremble when his broad back presses flush to your spine. When he ducks his head down, bending a little at the waist to reach you—Price is a mountain, a tower—and you feel the coarse hairs along his jaw, chin, scratch against the soft curve of your neck, the back of your ears, your cheek.

"Steady."

Your teeth snap tight together when you feel the rumble through his ribcage before he even opens his mouth to utter the words. The rasping little groan—mmh—he makes rolls over your spine, the back of your ribs. It rattles through your bones, clotting in the fibrils of your tissue.

The fluttering wings of a hummingbird beat in the cavity of your chest when he speaks.

"One…two notches higher."

You scent burning sycamore when he breathes out, the rasp of his breath brushing your shoulder. Heat bleeds into your spine when he sidles close to you, hands firm on your body as he strings you into the position he deems best.

You wonder, then, how those broad hands would move you around in a different context. How the unyielding press of his chest would feel naked against your back—

"—y'right?"

Squeaking out a clipped affirmative is all you can do amid the roiling currents that batter through your chest—a dizzying concoction of want, need, for the man pressed against your spine.

He rumbles again, his pitch a guttural whisper that seems so opposed to his very essence—Týr in flesh and bone; a behemoth on the battlefield yelling himself hoarse—and the slow, smoky roll, the muted murmur, makes your toes curl. Fingers itch.

"Yeah?" He presses, unwilling—or unable—to let go until he's satisfied, until the worry in his chest over his men, over you, is abated. Shifted to some other place where it can't distract him. He leans in closer, and you find notes of Tobacco and malt nestled amongst the cindered Sycamore. Psalm ashes tickling your nose.

"Yes—," it's barely more than a breath. A ghost of something you can't place.

When it comes to Price, you never sound like yourself. Breathless, breathy. Voice a whisper amid the rumbling clatter of a rockslide careening down a mountain. His very presence seems to syphon the air from your lungs until you're gasping.

It feels like you've run a marathon—throat throbbing like an open wound; infected and raw. The taste of heme wells on your tongue. Your lungs burn. Ink blots clot over your vision.

"I'm—yeah, I'm good, cap." You say, and try not to focus on how his proximity makes you dizzy. Desperate.

He feels good against you, and you can feel the smoulder of his body even through the thick layers of his tac-vest, his military-issued jacket, and his long-sleeved shirt. The heat is dizzying. Liquifying your sense of propriety, decorum; it leaks over your threadbare resolve—that brassbound lockbox where you keep all of your hidden secrets tucked inside a place no one, nothing, can touch it.

It's absolute hot—one decillion, four hundred and twenty nonillion degrees celsius—and, well—

Who can withstand the hottest possible temperature matter can reach?

The box isn't just burnt or turned to ash—but erased. Swallowed whole by the flames that spark so hot, they don't even leave behind a scorch mark but burn the platform it laid on, too.

It frees everything you struggled to keep bound within you when he steps back, when there's more distance between his thundering heart and your liquified spine than ever before. A chasm.

Your chest is a hollow crevasse, an inexistent hole, and when he steps back, you feel threads of absolute zero snake over the scorched flesh.

You hear the sharp inhale through tobacco-stained teeth when you add sir, and wonder if he feels the same chill clot inside his marrow that you do.

When you swallow, his eyes drop, flashing to the smooth column of your throat. Liquid puddles in those sapphire pools—cenotes framed in burnt umber—and the burn of his eclipsing pupils makes you feel like you're choking.

Price clears his throat, his eyes skirting away from you in a mockery of something disquieted, demure. The loss of his eyes on you makes something sour twist in your guts.

You want it back, you think, and know, then, that it's far too late. That whatever tenuous hold you had over yourself had been carbonised and charred to cinders when he touched you with his molten hands, melting that gossamer of resolve you clung.

And—

Fuck.

His eyes are fixed somewhere on your forehead—either unwilling or unable to look you bare in the eye, and you worry for a moment that he knows. That he can see the want in your gaze, the heavy weight of sin that rolls over your shoulders until they quiver. The want in your hands makes your fingers tremble.

But it dissipates when he offers a facsimile of a smile.

"Good work," he says, the words sticking to the nicotine in his throat, and you wonder if you could become addicted to smoke just from the fumes he exudes.

(You feel the itch in your veins for the smooth draw of smoke into your burning lungs when he moves away from you.)

Fuck—you think, eyes fixed on his broad back, his taped waist, heavy shoulders—indeed.

You've never smoked a cigar before, and somehow you find yourself feening for a hit, for the smooth curl of tobacco smoke in your throat, sticking to your teeth.

Your eyes are drawn to the flash of orange in a perfect ring of controlled fire, to the stem of dark brown clenched between an even thicker thumb and forefinger; the lips pursed around the butt, the beard peppered with ash.

The craving hits you harder than ever when you look at him: the complete picture of your leader, captain, hunched over a bed of papers and files.

It's when the ashlar blue of his gaze flickers up, catching the end of something Soap says, that you know, without any sense of uncertainty, that all the cigars locked inside his case wouldn't be enough to quench the hunger in your chest. Rapacious. Greedy.

(Greedy hands, they'd say when you took too much.

Your joints burn with the urge to cling, to hold.)

Price looks up, catching your wanting gaze. He holds it for a moment, just long enough for you to forget how to breathe, how to function. Something shudders over the thin veil of indifference he wears, sealed over his face like a scab. It splits, peels back until the oozing wound below is once again exposed to the open air.

Raw, pulsating.

You wonder what would happen to your mortal body if you syphoned the ichor of Tyr, let it pool on your earthly tongue.

Your mouth is dry. Lips chapped and numbed. Your tongue lashes out, wetting them. A distraction—an unconscious action. You've studied enough to know that chewing on your lips, nails, the inside of your cheeks until the skin splits and bleeds is a self-soothing mechanism to abate the flood of anxiety that rips through you. Still. You do it, anyway.

It's a trick of the light, you think, when his eyes dim, lowering down to your blood red mouth, narrowing at the tease of your tongue flicking across your trembling bottom lip.

A manifestation, a delusion.

When you want something so badly, your mind is startlingly, debilitatingly, adept at playing pretend.

Your gaze drops to your unfinished plate, and you struggle to pretend you're not losing your mind to the whims of your desire because for a moment there—a brief, almost imperceptible second—it almost felt like he wanted you, too.

You bum a cigarette from Soap, and try not to think about that cold, windy night in Cairo when Price dropped his cigars to save you.

The barking laugh that hacked from his soot-stained lungs when you found a pack of Cleopatra Lights in the warehouse you were hiding in.

"Ain't the same, love." He huffed, white teeth flashing in the blue-green light of the Azbakiyyah quarter spilling in through the smeared windows. "No substitute for the real thing."

You take a drag, and sputter over the side of the balcony, gasping and coughing through the thick musk of tobacco that chokes your lungs.

It does nothing to abate the hunger inside of you.

With tar-stained lungs, and nicotine glueing to your aching throat, you think: no, not the same at all.

(Once you get a taste of the perfect vice, love, no imitation can compare. Keep the cigs. They'll only make me anxious if I start smokin' 'im now.)

The itch in your joints becomes too much.

You slide your fingers over your flesh, and wish it was him—

Your head lifts, glancing once more at the entranceway to the changing room.

Liquid sapphires. Brow drawn tight.

Your heart stutters. "C—captain, I—"

His eyes flash. "I didn't tell you to stop."

It's curt. Direct. Blunt. Everything he is—all narrowed down into this claustrophobic space that fogs with steam; the walls bleeding with condensation. It's sticky, balmy. Feverish heat that prickles hot and cold against your skin.

He says: I didn't tell you to stop.

And you say: I didn't tell you to watch.

An impasse. Stalemate. No victor, no loser.

(Except you. Always, always you.)

This promises nothing but your ruin should you let your arms drop from the tight clench around your bare breasts, nipples hardened, prickled and sensitive from when your delicate, small fingers rubbed at them and dreamed about his mouth.

An invitation.

One you can't bring yourself to open. The envelope is ripped, torn. But the card is folded neatly on the table in front of you.

(Take a peek, it beckons when he shifts, the unmistakable outline of his thick, hard cock bulging through the fabric of his trousers. Just a little look. A little taste.)

But it won't be, will it? Just a little. Laughable. Don't be stupid.

You never learned how to say no to yourself, how to hold back.

(Your moon is fixed in Cancer.)

You give, give, give—and, in equal, if not a little more, measure: take, take, take.

Want, want, want.

You think of his heat searing your back, liquifying your spine, turning your calcified bones to polymer, and know, deep down within your aching marrow, that what you crave is blue.

You can't let yourself want this—want him.

It's dangerous. Wrong. It's a gaping maw of hurt and agony just waiting to sink its teeth into your fleshy body, to tear you apart; ripping you limb from limb until you're a pulpy mess of tendon and crushed bones, barely human, but alive. Stuck in anguish.

He's heartbreak in smoke, in Maduro brown with a golden logo on the stem.

—means dark. Ripe. Used to only be made from the highest leaves, 'cause they spend the most time on the plant.

Dark. Ripe. Price.

Dangerous. Addictive. Inescapable.

His eyes—l'heure bleue—gaze at you through the dense fog. Waiting. Waiting. It's in your hands, now. The option to march forward and commence, to push yourself into his palm, in the worn hands that touched brushed the small of your back one day, and ignited a fire in your veins.

Or to retreat.

To walk back, to end this. To call it. Mentor, mentee. Captain. Disciple. Distance will split between you, stifling like the air that clogs the tiled, tacky room. Heavy, oppressive, and—

Inescapable.

Fuck.

You either take, take, and then deal with the aftermath of a bloody battle that will leave false starts on your bones, cutting deep to bleed marrow into your bloodstream, or you—

Forfeit.

There is no future in this. No grand declaration of romance or togetherness. It's the artificial merging of bodies in an offering to Hēdonē; an evanescent dance. It leaks heartache in the seams, and carries the tang of disillusionment should you dip your fingers in glacial blue. It'll stain you. His fingertips are drenched in agony—molten red, a hot poker—and will brand your flesh, scar your body with the perfect imprint of his touch. Of him.

It'll rear, in those soft, lonely moments when your thoughts are too loud and the room is too quiet, and the phantom press of his skin will become a burden.

Yearning.

You hate how it tastes oh so familiar.

Perpetual. Never-ending. Stasis.

You look at him and see blue: blue eyes, blue blood, blue heart, blues.

(Ache.)

But if you don't:

Stagnancy.

(Is it so different from stasis, really?)

It's nautical twilight somewhere, surely. The centre of the sun is six degrees below the horizon. You have six more degrees to go before it ends.

Six.

And then—

(It's not a jump, but a leap.)

Your fingers dig into the skin of your forearm. Piercing. Painful. The bite leaves crescents behind. Blue moons. You pry them apart, and—

Drop.

Into the sea. Into blue.

He says your name when you bare yourself to him again, consenting to this—whatever it is—and giving yourself over like an offering to some whimsical god of lust and poor choices.

The rasp of it makes your spine prickle—a low simmering heat sparks in your belly: satiated by your own fingers but never satisfied. Him standing before you, eager and wanting, strokes the flames until they burn in a frenzy of wildfire; consuming everything in its wake until you're raw, charred husk on the verge of collapsing.

A fragile supernova.

Your core is molten; liquid heat—absolute hot—and when he moves, you feel the foundations wobble, and start to fall apart at the seams.

(Somehow, you know his hands are the only things capable of keeping you whole.)

Price, still dressed in his sweatpants—tented with the obvious outline of his turgid arousal—and tight t-shirt crosses the threshold in seven easy steps. The soft squelch of his feet against wet tile echo in the room, somehow louder than your gasping breaths.

He doesn't walk to you, he stalks. His gait is measured, purposeful; each step brings him inches closer to your trembling, bare form, and the heaviness of his lidded gaze, liquid blue in a chamber of pearlescent white, cudgels into your ribcage, breaking your resolve apart as it pries the protective ivory wrapped around your delicate, fragile heart apart.

"Price—"

The grey of his pants is splattered with the inkblot stain of the water sprinkling from the looming showerhead. The darkening patches draw your eye to the jut of his hips, wide and expansive, and then further down to the damp outline of his thick, heavy cock still housed in a cotton polymer.

There's a fever in your veins—a sickness echoed in the folds of ever blue that pierce through the smog clouding around you. A blunt weight, a burning heat.

His shirt moulds to the contours of his chest when he finally, finally, stands in front of you. The burnt umber of his chest hair bled through the logo of his faded, worn tee. Liverpool Football Club in bright red against stark white. It glues to his pecs, his biceps.

Your mouth waters at the sight.

"You want this?"

His hands lift, biceps bulging, flexing under the tight cotton when he presses them against the slick, humid tile. His hair clings to his forehead, dark and wet. Droplets bead in his beard.

He presses forward, eyes brimming with want; a palpable sense of desperation that shouldn't frisson over his rigid lines.

Price won't repeat his words—not when his voice is thicker than tar, and stripped bare—and you arch against the cool porcelain pressing into your back, the duality of his unrelenting heat, and the chill of ceramic making every synapse in your head misfire.

Trembling, shaking, and desperately trying to hold on to some sense of cognisance amid this turbulent reality, you force a nod. A jerk of your chin.

He breathes through his nose, the breath wisping over the bridge of your nose. Frustration, you think, and—

Impatience. Uncertainty.

"Do you—"

Your facsimile of consent isn't enough for him. He's not a man known to repeat himself, and this—the words that are ripped from the smouldering depths of his chest should be a warning, if not a bare-faced testament to just how much he wants this—makes your heart flutter. A thrumming beat that seems to echo in the scant space between your bodies, the crevasse pitched at an intentional distance by his stalwart sense of control, propriety.

He won't touch you unless he's absolutely sure you want this, him—

Frustrating.

Verbalising your assent, your eagerness, makes something churn inside of you. As if uttering the words aloud will somehow break the spell you cast over him by your pithy voice ringing his name in the shades of your pleasure, the sight of your delicate fingers threading between your swollen, drenched folds.

You want him—haven't wanted anything nearly as much in your life than to feel his damp, naked chest flush against yours, his hips prying your thighs apart, his massive hands grasping your flesh like each pound was owed to him, and he was collecting his dues.

But—

That leap, the precipice you balance yourself on, is daunting. A touch won't be enough. A taste would just be a tease. A morsel.

You don't want a crumb—you want it all.

"Price," you whine instead, biting back the words he wants to hear. "Just—give it to me—"

It makes him groan. His head tips forward, eyes burning pits of sapphire-stained coal.

"Need to hear you say it."

It borders that illicit equinox of being both too much and not enough: that dangerous precipice where you either climb to higher, deadlier altitudes or fall down to certain death.

You wonder if there is a win somewhere in that. A choice when you come out unscathed, whole.

Price leans in, hair wet, matted to his forehead, beard slick with droplets of water that bead against the auburn, and immediately you think: no.

There is no victory in this.

And yet—

"Fuck me, captain—"

—you just can't help yourself sometimes.

. . .

It's wicked. Intense.

The clothes he wore were shed from his body like a second skin under your quiet, hungry acquiescence. They sit in a sopping pile that keeps drawing your eye.

He's naked—just like you—but there is something marginally more intimate, vulnerable, in seeing your stolid leader in such a state of disarray. His hair is clumped from the humidity and moisture—matted on the top, but moussed on his side when he stepped away from you, and peeled the drenched shirt from his body. It sticks up in pieces near his ears, and your fingers ache with a longing to smooth them down.

Make him presentable, somehow.

Or maybe it's a distraction. A way to skirt around the tangibility of him standing before you, touchable and real, and—

And wanting.

The same shades of your desire are echoed in the rucked crevasses of cenote blue when he gazes down at you, head bowed, and catching the spray like your own personal protector. The water hits the nape of his neck, and glides down his broad shoulders, his chest.

You want to sink your teeth into the puddles caught by the jut of his clavicles. Want to taste the briny water running in rivulets across his skin.

Want, you think, and want, want, want—

Price's hand knots in the fine hair at curve of your neck, a perfect fistful in the thick of his palm, and he uses it as an anchoring point, a steer, to bend your chin in whichever way suits him best to slant his rapacious mouth over yours, and devour.

His kisses are blistering—contained: controlled, powerful, and measured; and desperate: soft gasps, gentle hums, and needy noises spill from the parted seam of his teeth, muffled by his nicotine-soaked tongue that dips in each crevasse it can find.

It's addicting—just like you knew he would be.

His touch is better than anything your nimble fingers could ever conceive; broad strokes of his rough hands run down the inches of skin available to him. Calloused thumbs catch the mooned curve of your nipple, grazing the soft tissue until your mouth drops in a gasp of his name. He rolls the blunt pad of his finger over them until they tingle from his touch, until each brush sends a shock of pleasure to your core.

Price's hand slides down, fingers ghosting over the wet skin of your side, your hip, your thigh. Each whisper of a touch drags out a whimper from your throat. It's too much. Your skin prickles with goosebumps in his wake, and leaves you feeling feverish and chilled at the same time. A war, then, starts as your body tries to oscillate between stemming the ache inside of you, the emptiness in your cunt, and the delicious drag of his flesh over yours. A droplet of intimacy and tenderness in a sea that collects the ashes of Gomorrah when it rains.

It is a shade softer than what you've come to expect from your captain, and far more delicate than you deserve.

The unexpected tenderness of this moment is a stab to your chest. Blunt, brutal—it's a sharp juxtaposition to the ginger way he touches you; the soft reverence in his gaze when he looks down at you.

Just sex, you think. Lust, want. Greed, hunger.

It isn't supposed to mean anything outside of unexpected happenstance; the melding of two willing bodies in a sign of ritualistic devotion to Hēdonē.

And yet—

You want. Full stop.

Everything. All of what he has to offer, and more, because you're never satisfied with just one. Never content until you've consumed, devoured, everything. Every iota of whatever it is that ensnared your attention.

And it's terrifying.

It's not a jump, but a leap. A careening descent down an embankment that has no ledges for you to sink your fingers in, and cling to. It's a treacherous fall to the bottom.

And still. Still. You won't regret the plunge. The drop.

How can you when you know what his skin feels like under your palm—warmer, softer, than you could have ever imagined. What he smells like when he leans in close, head dropping to suckle on your pulse point—vetiver and smoke; thick and musky—and the scent of his damp hair, cigar and malt, that darkens when it's wet, and curls slightly at the ends.

He's hairier than you'd imagined he would be—a thick bed of black curls on his chest that taper off into a line down his stomach, his navel, before thickening around his pelvis. A bed of curls, untrimmed and wry, that frame the jut of his thick, uncut cock. It curves a little to the left, and what he lacks in length—though you'd hardly call nearly six inches lacking—he makes up for in sheer girth. He's fatter than anything you'd ever felt in the palm of your hand, than you'd ever taken before. Your mouth waters at the sight, and you wonder if his cock would taste the same as the skin of his neck, his red nipples that peak through the coarse curls.

Wonder, then, if you'd even be able to take him all the way down to the base or if he'd stuff you full, and make your jaws ache just around the head of his fat cock.

When you gasp it out—wanna choke on your cock—Price shudders. The hitch in his breath, humid on your neck where he buried his face, nipping the skin around your jugular, is punched out of his chest, and accompanies a low snarling noise that sounds more animalistic than it does human.

"Fuckin' hell, love," he heaves through clenched teeth. His gaze flickers up, staring at you through the dusting of brown lashes cut over blue ashlar. His mouth is red from the trail of peppered bites, nips, he laved against your wet sternum. It's sin, you think, when he shivers. When his nostrils flare. "You can't just say shite like that—"

"Played with your pretty little cunt earlier, thinkin' of me, mmhm? Made yourself cum, didn't you?" Price stands to his full height, head bowing over yours. His hand wraps around the thick of his cock, eyes cresting in pleasure at the touch. There is a moment, then, when his gaze flickers to you, catching the burning anticipation that greets him like a kiss. "Gonna fuck you now, yeah?"

The look on his face, the hunger lingering in the cut of cerulean that gleams through the thin mist that clouds around you, is magnetic. Captivating. You can't tear your gaze away from the almost primal way he stares down at you. Wanting. Needy.

You taste heme in the back of your throat, and feel something knot inside your chest—something animalistic, possessive—when his eyes drop like an anchor to the smooth curve of your throat when you swallow the ichor down.

There's is the faintest flash of teeth from beneath his wet beard. A gnarled grimace. A botched grin. He bares the whites of his canines and moves closer to you. The blunt press of his throbbing cock steals the last vestiges of air from your quivering lungs.

"Teasin' me, eh?" He rasps, eyes dropping further to catch the sight of him dragging the silky head over your wet flesh until it's notched at the apex of your sex, kissing the divot above your aching clit.

With your lungs collapsing, you can't find the words to refute him, and settle instead for a meek nod.

"Use your words, love." It's a snarl punched through the clench of his teeth. "I want to hear you, yeah?"

"Yes," you gasp, back arching, aching for him. "Yes, captain—"

His broad shoulders tremble, lashes fluttering when the head of cock meets your cunt. The slide of him, iron-hard and velvet soft, has you mewling out some broken whisper of his name. Price responds with a groan. A wet, rasping noise spills out from his heaving chest.

"Fuck—," the curse is sawed out from between clenched teeth, the brush of his cock parting your slick folds, pressing taut to your leaking hole, has something wanting and possessive simmering in those cerulean pools. A gnarled hunger.

It makes you wonder, then, how often he'd leaned back against the same tile, his hand wrapped around himself just like this, and whispered your name into the steam.

"Look so pretty like this," he rumbles, fingers leaving indents in the thick of your thigh when he grasps you tighter. "All desperate for my fuckin' cock. Want it, don't you?"

The whimpered yes is ripped from your throat and shredded between the small gap of your jaws before his words take any tangible shape in your mind.

Your captain asks you a question—want my cock, don't you? So fuckin' desperate for it, ain't you?—and you respond immediately. No questions asked.

Pavlov's dog, you think, mouth watering when his cock slips against your cunt.

Price stops with just the head of his cock kissing your entrance, movements halting abruptly.

The protesting whine is cut off when he leans down, lips slanting over yours in a soft kiss, a brush. His beard scraps over the sensitive skin of your cheeks and chin, but the wet drag of his coarse hair feels good.

"Price—"

"Are you ready for me?"

No. It's immediate. Quick and decisive. A firm, assured thing that echoes in the scant spaces of your ribs.

You should say no. No, because then you'll want more. No, because once will not be enough to satiate the hunger inside of your chest. The growing chasm that growls out its need with each soft utterance of your name, each touch of his hand.

You're greedy.

You don't, though.

The hunger is stifled under the waves of desire that roll through you when his cock notches against your clit.

Instead, you nod. Whispering, I want it.

His gaze is blistering when he levels it on you. Gyre blue; arsenic white. His mouth knots into an even line, thick with anticipation. Determination. He echoes your nod once, and then presses his forehead against yours, holding it there.

His eyes bore into you when he steadies his hand on your thigh, trapped in his firm hold, and pushes himself against you once more.

"Breathe for me," he rasps, the word a low command, and then he rocks forward.

His cock stretches you with each inch that slides into your cunt. It's a white-hot heat that licks up your spine—the edges of too much and not enough, and how could there possibly be another inch when he's already so fucking deep?

The doesn't stop until his hips are flesh with yours, filling you to the brim. When his cock presses against the plug of your womb, you expect him to stop. He's bottomed out, filling you so deeply that you can almost taste his bitter tang on your tongue, but he doesn't. He doesn't.

His cock notches into your womb: a pulsing grind into the very end of you. The slide of it makes you hiss, makes your nails rake over his flesh, leaving rivers of red when you claw at him, struggling to keep yourself from being swallowed by the waves of pleasure, pain, that roll over you.

He pauses his slow rolls for a moment, just long enough to catch your lips in a searing kiss, and lift his hand up, pressing his palm flat against the wet tile. Distracting you, maybe, from the drag of his cock pulling out of your pulsing, gripping him tight as if to keep him locked inside of you forever. With his mouth on yours, fingers threading through the wet, clumped locks of his hair, you barely have time to brace yourself when he plants his feet on the floor, and rocks into you.

The air is forced from your lungs with the even cant of his hips, the slide of his cock back into you. It burrows deep, hitting something behind your naval that makes you keen, head reeling from the phosphenes that blink, coruscating in front of your eyes. An illicit lure in bioluminescence.

The blunt, bludgeoning thrust rattles through you, hard enough to make your bones tremble, and your head spin—dizzy and heavy with the blow of his hips fucking into the tight clench of you around him.

His hand drops from the wall, falling to your thigh.

He doesn't give you a moment to ready yourself before slips his fingers around your flesh, and hefts you up. Your back slides against the slick wall, thighs pushed tight around his marrow waist, held tight in the grip of his hands.

"C–captain—!"

Price shushes you with a searing kiss full of teeth, tongue. It tastes of charcoal and Sycamore bark when his tongue rolls over yours; a heady, smoky tang that makes you dizzy off the pure nicotine nestled between his teeth.

Comfortably situated in his grasp, legs wrapped around his waist, he starts a new rhythm. The stretch of his cock sawing into your pussy stings, edging sharply against your mettle as he fills you deeper, wrenching you open wider, than you'd ever experienced before.

But it's a good pain.

The kind you don't think you could ever live without now that you had a taste. No substitute for the real thing.

It's a scorching heat that ebbs, notching higher and higher as Price holds you tighter against the slick wall, fucking into you like a man starved.

His pace is hard, fast. Unrelenting.

Pleasure blooms inside of you and feels like a bruise when it brims in your nerves. Sparks of pain, ones that edge into that dangerous precipice of feeling somehow good despite the ache, weave together with the bliss. A quit of too much knotted into an overwhelming sense of euphoria.

Maybe it's the taste of success, of victory, when Price drops his head to your temple, mouthing across your damp skin. His tongue is scorching when it laves over your flesh, chasing the droplets that leak from your hairline to your cheekbone.

The graze of his beard running over your skin feels like everything you wanted, and more.

Your fingers curl over his broad shoulders, holding him close to your trembling chest. He's an anchor, a beacon—a buoy in the middle of the ocean. You can't help yourself from thinking six degrees when his chin lifts, and his mouth swallows the gospel of his name as it's choked out between your bruised lips.

The noises he makes, deep, rasping growls of your name; grunts of pleasure; hisses when you clench tight around the thick of him, desperate to keep him locked inside of you, are better than any fantasy you could have conjured up. The weight of his body on yours, the tight grasp of his hands, the rasp of his tongue, the whisper of your name—it piles and piles; the heavy weight falling on you like an anvil.

Velvet softness, and heat. Each drag of him over your sensitive walls makes you keen, toes curling, back arching in pleasure.

You're already sensitive from earlier, from when you played with yourself thinking of him, and the fullness, the slight sting of taking him into you, make a knot form behind your navel. A spooling thread of bliss pulling taut with each deep plunge of him seating deep behind your belly button.

"Touch yourself," he demands, words rucked through the clench of his teeth, bared in pleasure as he syphons bliss from your willing body. "C'mon, love—want you cum around my cock. Wanna feel you—"

You had expected blunt brutality—it had circled your fantasies the moment you pressed your back against the tile, and slipped your fingers through your folds. It's a staple of him, you think; who he is. Ferocity in flesh and bone. He'd touch you with the same rough hands, and regard you with rougher words.

"Mm, spread your legs for me, dove."

"You want it bad, don't you?"

Words reeking of the same smoke on his breath. Heavy commands fell from his blistering lips. It brought you to the brink, to the ledge of that white-hot pleasure until the thought of his hands branding your skin shoved you over.

Hearing it uttered aloud now nearly has you weeping. Frenzied with desire, and that unignorable sense of victory when he leans down, hands roughly hiking your thighs higher up his waist as he fucks into the molten centre of you. Accomplishment when your skin smarts long after his hand drifts away, knowing there will be a mark left behind—blood pooling under your bruised flesh when he gripped too hard.

It's enough to make you delirious.

"Come on," he husks, pressing the flat of his teeth against the underside of your jaw. "You made your pretty cunt cum on those fingers earlier, mmh? Do it again. Make yourself cum around my cock. You wanted this, didn't you? Moaned my fuckin' name with your fingers buried inside your sweet pussy. Well, now you have it, love. So, fuckin' cum—"

His words make you moan loud, your belly quivering at the heat in his voice when hisses the command into your skin.

Your hand slips from the vice grip around his shoulders, dropping to the apex of your spread thigh. Your cunt is burning to the touch, and hotter than the steam billowing around you like a thick cloud. Condensed sin. The lips of your pussy are slick, and swollen from the brutal way he fucks into you. The tips of your fingers ghost over the chafed, raw skin of your pussy, feeling the thick slide of his wet cock, sticky and drenched in the mess of your arousal, as it pounds into you.

Everything feels somehow heightened, real, when you feel the stretch of your flesh around the molten heat of him.

It makes you moan—a noise you'd never heard yourself make before: low, needy. A desperate whine, broken at the first vowel of his name. Jo—John—!

"That's it, love," he gasps, low and desperate, lashes tickling the skin of your jaw. "Cum for me—uhhh, fuck—gonna—gonna fuckin' cum—"

Your fingers pass over your throbbing clit, circling in tandem with each blunt piston of his cock kissing the seal of your womb. Oversensitive from your earliest orgasm, it doesn't take much for you to march toward that precipice once more, dusting over your nerves where it stings like a bruise, and rips through you like a gale.

The building crescendo of your pleasure ends when Price snaps his hips against yours, hitting deep, and finding a spot inside of you that seems to be a direct link to Nirvana, to bliss. He throws you over the ledge until you're once again falling down with nothing but him (him, him, always him) on your mind, and his name slipping off your tongue.

"C–captain—!"

Your cunt throbs around him, fluttering like the rapid pulse beating against the thin skin he nips with his teeth. It floods your veins with liquid bliss, and the euphoric haze that congeals in your head, a mushy slurry of chemicals and victory, is soporific, heavy. It falls on you like an anvil, an anchor around your neck, and you cling to him, murmuring his name into his crown as his thrusts grow sloppy, clumsy.

Price lifts his head, hands holding you tight to him as he fucks the tight clench of your cunt. His lips slant against yours in a messy, wet kiss, broken by gasps of your name spilling from his mouth. His tongue lashes across your teeth, rhythm stuttering into a desperate series of thrusts.

He groans in your ear, a hushed noise cudgelled in the background of everything else—the slap of his balls slapping against your sopping cunt as he plunges into you, pushing in as deep as he can go, and then deeper still, the heavy pants that tumble from your lips.

"Yeah, fuck, love—," another brutal snap has your mind whiting out in pleasure. "Jus' like that. Takin' it so good. So fuckin' good, ain't you?"

He batters against the seal of your womb like he was trying to bludgeon his way inside.

"Fuck—gonna cum—gonna—"

You spasm around him, tied tight at the base of his cock like a pretty little knot, a bow, and he groans low and dazed when he pulses deep inside of you, filling you up with his cum.

"Fuck—!"

He snarls your name, mouth sliding across your skin; wet and messy. His hands are hot on your skin, heavy and branding as he clings to you, riding out the last smouldering vestiges of his release that paints insides pearlescent with the stain of him.

Branded, you think, inside and out.

Your lips sting when he rubs the coarse hair of his chin over them, mouth trailing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses up the bridge of your nose.

He comes to himself in increments, and you catalogue each notch as they unfold before you. Heaving gasps against your neck; messy, wet kisses; murmurs of devotion into your hairline, your temple (fuck, love, fuck, feels so good, so good, good for me, perfect little thing, aren't you? So fuckin' perfect, can't get enough of your little cunt around me, gonna taste you after, gonna bury my face between these pretty thighs and make you ride my face, kitten, gonna make you cum on my tongue—); and finally, finally—his head lifts.

The sight of him, cheeks stained roseate from the heat of the still running shower, from the exertion of spreading you open, and fucking you against the wall—

It's breathtaking.

His eyes are dark, cindered ash and crushed basalt around the edge of a liquid blue cenote. A lunar mare—Oceanus Procellarum dusted with fine azure.

Thunderclouds of blue.

Something intense brims in the arsenic gyre when he stares down at you, lidded eyes heavy with the weight of his lingering pleasure; subdued and far more docile than you'd ever imagined he was capable of.

He blinks slowly and languidly; liquid strokes of a pale curtain suffering over the glacial canyons cut into ashlar—the motion is almost hypnotic when the thinning fog from the cooling shower sweeps across the scant space between your bodies. A veil of diaphanous white.

The haze makes him seem almost ethereal. Incorporeal. It almost feels like a dream—a manifestation of your wants taking shape in your subconsciousness. An illicit tease from the depths of your endless desire.

But the thud of his heart under your palm, the feeling of his cooling flesh glued to your skin like gauze, and harsh breaths ghosting across your flesh are too good to ever be a dream.

You're not imaginative enough to conjure the phantom feeling of his softening cock seated deep within your aching, tender cunt.

Or the sting of your flesh.

Your body feels like one massive contusion. The throbbing sting of strummed rubber bands snapping across the places he touched, gripped tight between his fingers.

It feels like the aftermath of a battle, and the comparison makes your mouth split, unfurling into a satisfied grin as the quiver in your muscles begins to remind you of that time you sprinted through the bustling streets of Cairo together. The heat blooming in your chest, your core, as hot as the sun that scorched your exposed skin.

The burn in your thighs is the same throbbing pain you felt when you slid on loose sand, and skinned your bare knees on the cobblestone of a hidden alleyway, tucked behind an alcove.

Price is a firm mountain holding you steady—just like then, when he picked you up off the ground despite your protests (just a scratch, cap, I can walk—), and carried you through the maze of winding tunnels on the outskirts of the city centre. Solid. Stalwart. Your dependable leader.

You've looked at him the same way for the last four years. Respect, want. Admiration, desire. Greed. You crave him in ways that always, always, felt unattainable. One-sided.

Silly.

And that was it, you think, staring into the naked blue of his eyes. Bare. Raw. Vulnerable.

You've been so busy running from your own feelings, your own ways, convinced without any proof that they were one-sided. A one-way path without any parallels, any concurrents. All this time, with your head buried in your chest to avoid getting caught staring at him so wantingly, you've missed the look in his eye, bent by refraction—your own avoidance.

The way Price looks at you is rapacious—a twin flame to your own covetous desires.

There's something so unfathomably fragile about how he stares at you, now. Head bowed, catching the brunt of the chilled spray as it rains down on him, shielding you from the cold. He keeps you warm, and tucked safely in the fold of his arms. Unwilling, you think, to let go just yet. To slip back into the same impasse as before. The same forced stalemate forged by hesitation.

It drags something out of your chest—a laugh, maybe: broken and frayed at the edges, a vocal fry of derision, and disbelief.

His chin lifts at the sound, brow furrowing together in a knot of confusion between his nautical blue eyes. Six degrees. You feel every notch when he slowly lowers the two of you to the ground, falling in a clumsy heap to his knees, and still buried within you.

"What?"

The word is drenched in the thick tang of the bloom of his dormant hesitation shucking the tendrils of sleep away as the spell around you splinters at the broken laughter that tumbled from your lips. It makes you coo—a soft, soothing noise to placate the dent between his brow, and the knot of his mouth souring into an even line.

"Just thinking," you hum, legs tightening around his waist, knees now hiked up the sides of his ribcage.

He hisses teeth gritted teeth when you wriggle on his lap. "About what?"

Your palm sides down his slick chest until the thud of his heart sits in the cup of your hand. "About this."

Your words draw a low hum from his throat, and you feel it reverberate through your joints. "That so?"

That cold night in Cairo rears again. No substitute for the real thing.

The thing is: with your head buried in the proverbial sand, you missed the way his eyes never wavered from your face when he said it. How the corners tightened with something that felt like irritation, but now feels like restraint.

Why you had to hunt for Cleopatra's, anyway.

(—losin' some bloody cigars' is hardly the same as losin' you, love. Don't you ever do that to me—to us—again—)

In some ways, you think you lost the battle—many of them, in fact—but when he winds his arms around your waist, keeping locked in his embrace, you know you somehow won the war. The unwinnable victory thudding steadily against the palm of your hand.

You glue your forehead to his, and murmur: "been waiting a long time for this."

"Well," he rasps, voice ghosting over the shell of your ear. "Hell of a way to get my attention."

#captain price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #this was edited in a feverish daze so if you find any mistakes #don't @ me about it #i did my best #ahhhh #it feels like it's been forever since i wrote for Price??#but it really hasn't???#anyway #captain john price #captain price #john price #cod mw2 #cod fanfic #john price x you #captain john price x you

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promptsbytaurie · 8 months

Text

dialogue prompts: ~six words edition~

!!please credit/tag me if you use any!!

"That definitely wasn't supposed to happen."

"Can you shut up for once?"

"If you're a princess, then I'm...?"

"Woah, look at this pretty necklace!"

"I think we... used to be."

"That's not how this works, sweetheart."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Hi, yeah, sorry about the wings."

"C'mere, love, we have work still."

"No god can save us now."

"I expected you to be taller."

"Holy shit, your feet are freezing."

"Maybe we could try going there."

"You are a hot mess, darling."

"It's always one or the other."

"Do I mean nothing to you?"

"Shh, I know, love, I know."

"Hey, come back, that's my stuff!"

"Can't you just magic it away?"

"Life is pain, god is dead."

"Oh, I did not make that."

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Red Dancer."

"Look, meet back here after, okay?"

"We're gonna die here, aren't we."

"Why do you hide your eyes?"

"I'm a witch, dear, nothing more."

"There has to be some way."

"Don't put him down, that's littering."

"Did you just call me sweetheart?"

"Be careful, this is gonna sting."

"Fuck's sake, move your goddamn shit."

extra challenges:

use all 31 in one work.

write one prompt every day for a month.

use a random number generator and write 500 (or any set number of) words, and only that amount of words.

to add some spice to #3, set a timer!

for improv games, write these prompts on slips of paper and have participants choose one or two. they have to work it into the skit somehow!

#writing prompts #dialogue prompts #prompt list #six words #six word prompts #31 prompts #31 #improv games #improv #improv prompts

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jamiesfootball · 2 months

Note

weird: wing, cat, teach, fight

Wooh these are long. Thanks for the words!

Weird

Jamie did something weird with his mouth. Roy belated realised that Jamie probably had no idea what he was talking about. “They were these plastic green soldiers that he handed out like tokens when he first got here,” Roy explained. “No, I remember. I was there for that,” Jamie mumbled. He scraped his baked chicken around with his fork. “D’you have yours then?” “I never got one.” Jamie looked up curiously. “You didn’t?” “No. Why would he give me one?” Jamie frowned, the expression caught halfway between confused and prick. “Because he likes you.”

Wing

Roy can feel the words carving into his heart. He doesn't fight it. He lets them tuck inside, right next to all the other shit that haunts him. 'I had a poster of you on my wall.' 'I don't remember.' 'It's like I lost my wings.' They're like messages carved into an old, withering tree. Nothing's ever going to grow there again. Decades later, he'll come back and it'll still be there: 'He fucking hurt me, Roy.'

Teach

"Get the cutting board out," he instructed, steadily avoiding eye contact. "Not that one; the one for meat." Jamie swerved away from the decorative wooden one to grab the small plastic one by his fruit bowl. "And a paring knife - the tiny, sharp one. We're going to filet the fish, check it for bones, and set it to marinate." "Yes, coach!" Jamie sing-songed, grabbing the tools as instructed. Keeley's eye burned a hole in the side his head. He summoned every bit of willpower he has to keep his face neutral. When he turned to face her, she leaned forward against the counter, studying Roy like a bug under a microscope. "Roy," she dragged syllable out, "Did you come over just to make Jamie dinner?" "He's teaching me to cook!" Jamie interjected without a hint of shame or self-preservation.

Fight

“Did you give him the elevator speech?” “It didn’t take an elevator to convince me.” Keeley put her hand on his arm. “No, an elevator speech is like a business pitch. It’s supposed to be short and snappy. just long enough to give it on an elevator, memorable. So that they’ll hire you, yeah? Watch.” Keeley folded her hands together. Smiling wide, she said, “Do you hate your fucking brand?” Jame snorted into his water. Keeley burst into giggles. The smile fighting for real estate on Roy’s face took over like a landlord. Keeley corralled her composure. Sitting with her back straight as a queen's, she said seriously, “No, really. For real- do you hate your fucking brand? Because a lot of people these days, they have a brand that they think works — or they think it works for their industry—but it’s got no love behind it. Your well-meaning public relations department found all the safest investors, and your marketing team mirrored the same thing back at them- but what about you? "I'm Keeley Jones, and with KJPR, we bring a couture experience to finding you the best connections and expertise to elevate your brand into something you love. Because your image? Should be about you."

Cat -

Edit: cat moved to separate post

#word game wednesday #writing snippet #roy kent #keeley jones #jamie tartt #fic: oh god you're gonna get it (you have not been given love)

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leighsartworks216 · 2 years

Text

I Missed You

Head Engineer Mark x transmasc!reader

I'm tired sleepy but I had this thought and wanted to get it out so yeah

Wrote this in my notes app and stuff so formatting might suck (Edit: Fixed it so it’s formatted the same as my other fics now)

Warnings: being (unintentionally) misgendered, uhhh yeah that's it I guess

Word Count: 519

Masterlist

Nearly every day since you stepped onto the Invincible II, your head engineer would give you an odd look. Even when you first arrived, he paused in his greeting, tilted his head, and seemed to shake himself back to his senses.

And yet, after weeks of being aboard, he couldn't figure out where he'd seen you before.

You knew, of course. When you two would hang out and play as kids, he was always taking things apart and putting them back together. His hands never stilled; he built wonderful (if useless) gadgets. As you grew up, and your families took you further away from each other, you changed.

Your chest was flat now, without aid from an uncomfortable binder. Your voice was deeper, your hair was different. You looked like a strapping young lad, not a girl.

But as Mark looked at you from across the Bridge, coffee not quite to his lips, he couldn't place your face on any male friends he'd once had. And that knowing grin you gave him certainly didn't help.

"Something on your mind, Mark?"

He nearly sloshed his coffee as he pulled it away from his face. "Huh, what? No." He cleared his throat and stood up straighter. "No, I was, uh, just thinking about the... coolant."

You tilted your head at him. "The coolant?"

This was the lie he was digging his grave with. "Mhm, yeah, it's uh... cold." And not his area of expertise. He wished he was better at coming up with bullshit on the spot.

"I think it's supposed to be." Your eyes shined with mirth and mischief.

He sighed, shoulders slumping. "I just- You look like someone I was friends with a long time ago."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. She was cool." His eyes focused on nothing as he reminisced on those old, hot summer days. "We used to ride our bikes up and down the neighborhood. She had cardboard wings attached to hers. She, uh, always wanted to be a pilot. And we'd go to my dad's garage and find some spare parts and tools and mess around until they kicked us out. It was... I miss her, Captain, that's all."

You smiled at the fond memories. "Mrs. T used to yell at us all the time," you added.

Mark laughed. "Yeah, she did. And for what? Riding over the very edge of her lawn? We put instant mash-" His eyes suddenly came back to focus. "Wait a minute. How did you know about Mrs. T?"

Your grin got wider. He was so clueless, really. He stared at you, wide eyed, waiting for an answer.

"I got my pilot's license," you told him. Your voice was soft, quiet, as if you were telling him a secret.

"You're...?"

His coffee was forgotten, mug shattering on the ground as he bodied you with a strong hug. If anybody had questions about what the hell was going on, they didn't say anything.

"I missed you, Airhead," he murmured into your jumpsuit's shoulder.

You held him tighter, fingers unconsciously curling into the back of his own uniform. "I missed you, too, Bolt Brain."

#fanfic #fanfiction #markiplier #markiplier egos #trans reader #x trans reader #transmasc reader #x transmasc reader #engineer mark #head engineer mark #engineer mark x reader #head engineer mark x reader #engineer mark x captain #head engineer mark x captain #iswm #fluff

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lillylvjy · 4 months

Text

Won’t pretend to know (the challenges your facing)

notes; long title yes.. if you know where it’s from I love you /p. But this is very much a fic I came up with on the spot and I like it so! Take it and enjoy!

warnings; reader has a little sister, little sister is trying to be perfect for her mother, Wilma shares her wisdom, Wilma and Rory content, so much fluff!!!! If I missed anything please tell me!

edited: nope

wc: 1.8k

who: softball!wilma x reader (au by @phxntomsdusk )

“Hey y/n- oh! Hi Wilma!” You turned around to see your sister standing in your doorway to your bedroom where you and Wilma were. You both were supposed to be studying for your pre calc test but… let’s just say you both were gonna wing it tomorrow.

“Hey Rory! What’s up?” Wilma smiled at your sister, standing up from your bed as she went over to hug the younger girl who was once looking for you.

Aurora adored Wilma. Always came with you and your mom to games, sat next to you and watched the game with wide eyes as Wilma pitched or was up to bat. She was fascinated with everything Wilma did on the field. How fast the pitch was, the way her arm and wrist worked together to get that perfect air behind it. How her form was effortless when she was up to bat and how it looked so easy for her. She wrote a paper on Wilma once, saying that she was what inspired her to work harder at softball.

She was as already the pitcher for her club team and she was damn good at it, but she always complained how she wasn’t “Wilma good” yet. You and Wilma both told her that she doesn’t have to be “Wilma good”, she has to be… well Rory good! Yet that didn’t ease her mind. Especially with batting.

She always got mad at you and your mom whenever you were out practicing with her, you pitching and mom behind Aurora, helping her stance on batting and her technique on swinging. Yet, whenever she couldn’t get it right after so long, she would throw the bat down and huff off to the dugout. She wanted to be good, really good, and you all knew that.

That’s why Wilma took up the job of helping her train.

“Nothing much, I was just about to ask y/n help me with pitching again but-“

“Hey! Don’t think about it, she’s my girlfriend and I want her with me.” You said as you made grabby hands at the tall brunette, wanting her back in your area.

She laughed as she watched you, eyes full of love as she came over to you and pulled you up so you were sitting up.

“Love, let’s hear her out yeah?” Wilma proposed as she ran her hand through your hair and kissed your forehead. Slowly nodding your head, you leant into the touch as she sat next to you, wrapping arm around you as she nodded to your sister to continue.

“Can you help me with batting? Maybe pitching too?“ she asked, making it obvious there’s more to her ask than she wanted to say, but you and Wilma both knew what it was.

Wilma smiled, a hint of sadness behind it as she nodded. It broke Wilma to say the least. As much as it should inspire her and make her feel giddy, it just makes her feel wrong. No one should aspire to be as good as someone else, they should aspire to be as good as they possibly can and desire to be and have that inspiration to motivate them. Not drive them crazy like it did with Rory.

But Wilma didn’t let that bother her too much in the moment.

“Yeah of course, but only for a bit ok? Kind of have a koala stuck to me.” Wilma joked as the image of your arms wrapped around her waist and head on her chest was set in front of the younger, her giggling with Wilma.

“Oh, ok! I can just let go of you and hang out with Wil-“

“You wouldn’t dare leave me for my brother!” Wilma said in a matter-of-factly tone.

“That’s true, you’re right on that one. But please be quick, I want to take a nap…” you said as you got up and stretched, Wilma following behind you.

“Super quick! I’m gonna grab my stuff!” The girl said as she ran down stairs. Shaking your head you smiled at the spot she once was as Wilma sighed in content as she wrapped her arms around your waist and placed her head in the crook of your neck.

“I’ll make it quick, I promise.” Wilma whispered to you as she kissed your cheek and grabbed your hand, dragging you down stairs with her. As you both reached the kitchen, you saw Aurora waiting for you both by the back door, throwing the ball up in the air and catching it in her glove. Once she saw you two, she immediately perked up and took her glove off.

“Can we do batting first? I’m not good at it…” Rory said quietly as if the girl would make fun of her. Instead Wilma gave her a soft smile and crouched down to look up at her.

“Hey, that’s ok. You don’t have to be good at it right now, it takes time. In order to be good, you have to find that desire in you. Not in others you aspire to be like. This is your talent, not mine or any one else’s. If anything you should aspire to be better than me! You’re already looking like it!” Rory giggled at that with a big smile. “I don’t want you to be “Wilma good”, no one does. People want you to be “Rory good”. They want to see your talent. Not mine.” Auroras eyes lit up at that statement.

No one’s told her that before, that people wish to see her talent. Her mom always harped on her about how she needs to be good enough to even think about playing in highschool, let alone college. So she chose to focus on Wilma. Moms favorite player. She never really thought she had a talent in her, that’s why she was so insistent on being “Wilma good”. Wanting to make her mom proud with how she was just as good as her favorite player. But now.. she wants to play for her, not her mom.

“Be me good?”

“She’s right. Don’t listen to what mom says, you are as good as it gets. Show mom you don’t have to be like other players. Show her you can play like you, the best damned softball player I know!” You said as you brought her into your side and rubbed her head with your knuckles.

“Hey! Ok ok! I’ll show mom! But I’m still stealing your girlfriend away….” Rory says with a slight grin as you roll your eyes and nod. Both of them cheer as they run outside, leaving you behind to lean against the door frame and watch with loving eyes.

Wilma was so careful and gentle with her, always is and always has been. Treated her like her own sister and that was more than enough for you to fall deeper in love with her.

As you watched them play, Wilma pitching lightly and Aurora batting, Wilma continued to point out things and correct her stance and the way she held and swung the item. After a good 20 minutes all of you immediately saw a difference, Rory hitting the ball farther and Wilma’s pitches getting faster.

On the last one, the pitch was fast yet not Wilma’s full power, but Rory was ready. Stance as perfect as she could get it in the moment and eyes on the ball.

Wilma nodded as she pitched the ball while Rory pulled the bat back and used all the knowledge Wilma taught her in the short amount of time and-

the sound of the ball hitting the bat rang through the yard as Wilma looked at the ball fly through the air and land somewhere in the woods that surrounded your house. Aurora looked at Wilma with wide eyes as the tall women smiled and started laughing at her.

“Now that, that was home run!” Wilma mailed brightly at the girl as Rory jumped up and down and ran towards Wilma.

Hugging her, Wilma crouched down and wrapped her arms around the smaller girl as she praised her and told her how good she did. Smiling, you clapped as you saw the whole thing, being proud and grateful of both girls in the backyard.

“Y/n! Y/n! Did you see that?! Did you see it?!” Rory exclaimed as she ran over to you, pointing to the woods at where the ball currently sat.

“I did, love! You did so good! I’m so proud of you!” You exclaimed back with just as much excitement as you hugged her and squeezed her. “Why don’t you go find it yeah? Don’t stray too far tho! If I can’t see you anymore and I don’t hear a response from you, I’m coming to get you!” You yelled at the girl as she started to jog to the edge of the forest.

“I know! I won’t!” She yelled back at you as Wilma came up behind you and rested her arms around your waist.

“She definitely will.”

“Oh yeah I know!” You replied back as you looked back at Wilma for a quick second and gave her a kiss on the cheek before looking at the girl who ran further into the forest. “Thank you. Genuinely.”

“Anytime love. She’s like family, and I’d do anything for family.” She replied as she rest her head on your shoulder and pecked your neck.

Giggling, you laced your hands with hers as you pulled her arms away from your waist and dragged her with you. “You better consider her family, considering we will be married soon.”

“Oh? Who said that?”

“Me! Do you not want to?!”

“No I do! More than anything, darling.” Wilma said, squeezing your hand and swinging it as you walked to the forest.

“Well good.. or I would’ve cried.”

“Ooo I should’ve said no then-“ You bumped her hip with your own as she laughed. “I’m joking! I promise. Wanna marry you and get a house with you and start a family-“

“I will start crying.”

“Hmm shows you care so please do!”

You shook your head and laughed, “that’s for later love. But right now, we have to find my sister…”

“That’s probably a good idea considering I don’t hear her or see her…” once Wilma said that your eyes widened and fear filled your body.

“AURORA!”

“I’m here!” She said as she came out behind a tree and ran towards you both with the ball. “Sorry, couldn’t find it so I went further.”

“It’s ok, let’s get you inside ok? I’ll make some lemonade!”

“Yay!” “Yes!” Wilma and Rory both exclaimed as they ran back towards the house.

Shaking your head, you smiled at the two girls in front on you. And god did you love them both.

taglist; @mysticalsoot @phxntomsdusk @ivvees-blog (wanna be added? Send an ask or dm!)

#lilly writes #wilma soot x reader #wilma soot #wilma #softball!wilma #softball!wilma au #x reader #nothing else I can really tag!#I will not put wilma fics in the Wilbur soot tag for reasons

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alexandra-emerson · 1 year

Text

‘One Day at a Time’ Missing Scene 1

I’ve been writing missing scenes for ODAAT as I edit the original novel version of the story, just for something to break up the monotony of editing and formatting. Here’s the moment when Harry first blurted out that he loved Hermione.

Harry was supposed to be watching the telly. What if she wanted to discuss the movie at the end? He would have nothing to say. He hadn’t been paying attention. Instead, he’d been sneaking glances at her. He hadn’t even been listening—his head was too crowded with thoughts of her to properly focus.

Had she always been this pretty? Her smooth, tawny skin mixed with dark curls, full lips—which were currently curved into a smile, causing his own lips to quirk up—and those large, knowing eyes of hers … damn, she was perfect. And he’d missed it for nearly a decade.

Well, perhaps the Hogwarts years didn’t count. No one was particularly good looking at those ages. Then there was the war. He was probably allowed a pass for that year. But then … a whole year had passed and he hadn’t noticed how perfect she was. Until one day, he saw it, and he couldn’t stop noticing.

She laughed softly and turned to him. “Funny, yeah?”

He nodded dumbly, realized his mouth was hanging open, like a troll’s, and promptly closed it. “Erm, yeah.” He smiled, and she returned it, causing his heart to flutter.

She focused back on the screen, and so did he, trying to calm his heart before he did something embarrassing, like have a heart attack. Something funny happened, or he supposed it did—he still wasn’t paying attention—because she laughed again. His eyes found her face again.

Then, before he realized what he was doing, he blurted, “I’m in love with you.”

Holy shit. He’d been thinking about telling her for weeks now but not like this. Not on a Tuesday. (As if there was some ideal day to blurt out that you loved your best friend.) Fuck, he was an idiot.

And yet … it was bound to come out sooner or later. The weight of his feelings had become so large and was just getting heavier the longer they spent together, he’d reached the point where he could no longer hold onto them. And now she knew. Or did she?

She hadn’t moved since his confession. She was just watching the screen, the lights flashing across her perfect face, as if nothing had happened.

Had he told her? Or had he just imagined that? Should he say it again? Should he ask her if she’d heard him?

Or was this her answer? “I don’t feel the same. Let’s just pretend this never happened.”

Something sharp lodged itself in his chest, messing with his breathing. He’d pictured this scene so many times, but his brain had never taken him farther than the “telling her how he felt” part. Shit. Why hadn’t he imagined the next part? He was woefully unprepared for this and for some reason, the “just wing it and do what feels right” strategy that had always served him well was completely failing him.

He was still sitting there, opening and closing his mouth like an idiotic fish, when she turned to him, wound a hand around his neck, and kissed him.

For a few seconds, he just sat there, as if stunned, while she moved her lips against his frozen ones. She began to pull away, and he finally got a hold of his senses and kissed her back, holding her shoulder to keep her in place.

Merlin, her lips were softer than he imagined, her taste more perfect, her tongue deliciously insistent as it moved against his. Bloody fucking hell he was kissing her, Hermione, his best friend, the woman he loved, and it was more brilliant than he ever expected it could be.

“I love you too,” she breathed. His whole body screamed with triumph as he continued kissing her fiercely, struggling to decide which was better: the sound of her words or the taste of them.

“I know it might be— be hard to believe me”—her words were muddled since he couldn’t seem to make himself stop kissing her—“but I know it’s true.”

“I believe you,” he murmured against her lips.

She leaned back and smiled at him. “Yeah?”

He responded by capturing her mouth into another kiss. As she climbed into his lap and tugged his hair, and pressed her warm body against him while her words echoed pleasantly through him—I love you, I love you, I love you—he began to believe in the phenomena of manifesting dreams into reality.

It had never worked for him in the past. How many hours had he spent dreaming that some long lost relative would come take him away from the Dursleys? Or that Dumbledore would call him to his office and explain that they’d got the prophecy wrong and it referred to Neville after all? Neither of those had ever happened, but maybe he was getting what he wanted now as some special recompense for killing Voldemort.

Who the fuck knew? Hermione was sucking on his bottom lip now, and if it was because chance dictated that his deepest desires would overlap with reality at least once, or because the universe had decided it owed him something, it didn’t bloody matter. It was probably best not to question it and just enjoy the moment before it was gone.

They stopped to catch their breath, but Hermione didn’t move off of his lap. She rested her forehead on his as she continued to twist her fingers into his hair.

“I like kissing you,” she said, breathless. “It’s … familiar.”

He knew what she meant. Even though they’d never kissed before, it felt like they’d been doing this for ages. Well, they had been, in his head. Or maybe it was just their bodies telling them that they should have been doing this for ages. “This is actually our first kiss,” he said. “But I agree. It does feel familiar.”

“Our first kiss?” She leaned back. He kept a firm grip on her hips, so she couldn’t go far. “We’ve never…? Have you ever…? We don’t…?” She smiled and tried again. “I’m … this is a lot.”

“Yeah.” He pushed a curl behind her ear. “It is, and it isn’t. It’s just us. And—and we love each other.”

He half-expected the moment to dissolve once he said those words. When it didn’t, he felt immediately lighter. If she weren’t sitting on him, he might have floated away.

“But … how is this going to work, Harry?”

“No idea,” he said honestly. He’d never made it past this part in his daydream. “But we’ll figure it out,” he added, and he was sure they would. They could do anything together. Hadn’t they proven that time and time again?

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“Even if I forget?”

“You can write it down. And then you’ll know when you wake up. And I’ll fill in the rest.”

“But—”

“Don’t overthink it,” he pleaded. “You can make anything awful if you overthink it. But this … us … this is good. We can do this. I—I want to do this. To try. Can we … can we try?”

She lifted her hand and rested it on the side of his face. “Is this real?” she asked, rubbing her thumb along his cheek. “You really love me?”

“Yes,” he said immediately—nearly shouted it.

She laughed.

“I love you a lot,” he continued. “I have for, er, a long time. Longer than I realized.”

The people on the screen laughed at something, but neither of them were paying attention. They were just watching each other while Harry held his breath in anticipation of her next words.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s try.”

Harry released the breath he’d been holding and pulled her into a long, languid kiss, while the movie continued playing in the background, completely forgotten.

#Harry and Hermione #HarryxHermione #Harmony #harmione #one day at a time #harry potter fanfiction #harmony fanfic

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rosewould · 5 months

Text

siren ii

genre; a touch of humor, angst is viewed under a microscope

warnings; poorly edited, mc is insinuated to have noticeable plastic surgery, mc is insecure and anxious (insert this into every part), smut in the future

preface; whoever ends up with mc at the end is a mystery at the moment, I'm just going with the flow. In saying that, please don't try to force me to go with who you want mc to pick, and don't bitch at me when the ending comes and it's not who you want. this is supposed to be fun and simple.

siren masterlist

The door to your left opens as soon as Chaeyeon is off screen. You’re escorted into yet another cramped room in front of a camera, staring into it blankly until you realize that the other contestants must be watching you right now. You stutter into the introduction you’ve been practicing, standing there awkwardly afterward as you replay it in your brain over and over.

A different door opens and as has become a routine by now, the staff escort you and give instructions as quietly as possible. They lead you to yet another door. The room is much brighter than the others judging by the light seeping through the gaps. When you turn back the staff member is no longer there. Catching the hint, you hurry and open the door. Once you step through you double back, startled as the four women you just saw through a screen are all staring at you.

You stop breathing unintentionally, finally getting that feeling of being observed. Judged.

“Wah, you’re so pretty!” Yizhuo gushes after everyone stands to greet you. Roseanne confirms your name as the girls settle back down into their seats.

“Yeah, that’s right.” You answer, thankful that you’re the last person as you make your way to your seat. Sure, you had the most eyes on you, but at least you didn’t have to choose where you sat. You’d overthink it for sure.

“Are we going to see the men introduce themselves next?” Chaeyeon leans over cooly to ask. The women all agree that that must be what happens next. It may be all in your head, but you already feel like they have their own bubble you’re peering in on from the outside.

A tone is played over the speakers that makes everyone look up in curiosity, as if they’ll see the person giving the incoming instructions.

“Ladies, please exit out the double doors to your right.”

Everyone reacts in audible confusion before voicing their disappointment. Notably Somi, who seems the most disappointed. The five of you are escorted to a limo. Amazement echoes in the parking garage, including you. It’s very cheesy, but you still think limos are cool. As instructed before shooting, the five of you sit in the order you gave your introductions. Light conversation flows naturally, and you feel yourself already having fun and forgetting the cameras are there. You feel that way so strongly that it makes it from your brain to your mouth. The girls agree, making you feel giddier than you should. The five of you clink glasses of champagne set out for you.

The conversation switches to filling in blanks the introductions left about each other. You learn that Yizhuo isn’t very experienced in the dating scene, that Somi’s type is someone tall with a chiseled physique, that Roseanne cares more about character, and that Chaeyeon doesn’t care about looks at all. You get ready to explain your motives for the show and your ideal type when Somi gears up to ask you a question.

“I was really curious about this.” Your heart fluttering catches you off guard. People perceiving you is usually what makes you anxious but this has to be a positive thing right?

“Did you get surgery?”

It feels like the wings wilt off your heart. The cameras and their eyes on you are suddenly very apparent. You already feel shame and lying will only make you feel more ashamed. Not like you’re a convincing liar anyway.

“Yeah, when I was twenty.” The girls let out a drawn out “oh”, nodding in response. Not tossing their drinks on you and yelling “Shame!” like your brain convinced you they would.

“By the way, that was such an unexpected question.” says Roseanne, keeping a light tone while expressing her confusion.

“Yeah it caught me off guard…” Yizhuo says quietly before sipping her champagne.

“What? There’s nothing wrong with surgery. I got surgery too.” Somi defends.

“Well… yeah. I had surgery too.” Roseanne shrugs.

“We all did.” Yizhuo pauses to laugh, “Most people with the money to do so and large followings on social media get it, right?”

Everyone nods and agrees except for one person.

“I didn’t have plastic surgery.” Chaeyeon looks between all of you, puzzled. The car is silent for an excruciating amount of time. Chaeyeon either hasn’t noticed the atmosphere she created or is pretending not to.

“Oh! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.” Yizhuo breaks the silence after gathering her bearings.

“That makes sense. You have a very natural beauty to you.” Roseanne explains, squinting her eyes to make the words come to her. “Your visuals are very graceful.”

Everyone agrees.

“Yeah that’s the first thing I thought when I saw you, she’s all natural.” Somi adds.

No one says anything, but you can feel the attention cut back to you in that moment. You’re sitting right next to Chaeyeon, but you feel miles away from her.

The tinted windows make it harder to see, but you can somewhat make out the large mansion you’re being pulled into. You were the last to get in and now the first to leave the limo. You stumble forward, looking at the beachside mansion dumbly as the air is snatched from your lungs. The girls “ooh” and “ahh” as they stand around you. The interior is somehow even more amazing. The white walls are complemented by rugged stone accent walls. All the wood sprinkled throughout the living room is a warm, deep brown that pairs well with the cream-colored floors. Pops of orange and red really boost the lively tone set by the sound of crashing waves, swaying palm trees, and seagulls screeching. And the smell. There are no candles or incense in sight, but the air is filled with the scent of fresh linens and… maybe suede.

You’re officially in heaven.

You’re locked in your own world, blocking out their conversations until you get to the bedrooms. The walls are paneled wood, that same warm brown as the wooden furniture downstairs. There are five single beds; three against one wall and two against the other; all with a cyan comforter and two pillows of a similar shade.

“I call dibs on this bed!” Yizhuo squeals as she jogs to one of the identical beds, leaping onto it.

“I call this one!” Somi hurries to one in the row of three closest to the large window. The rest of you calmly examine the room and its coastal decoration. You all relax on your chosen beds, very minimal conversation as you all practically melt into the mattresses.

A sound coming from downstairs startles you and Yizhuo. It’s not the tone indicating instruction from earlier, it sounds like a doorbell. Roseanne is the first to get up and investigate, leading you all to follow suit. She opens the door to reveal the first man you’ve seen today without a uniform or headset. He’s not tall or short and has a warm, inviting aura. He stutters as he greets Roseanne, and almost poetically, matches her accent.

“Oh! H-hi! I’m Jake Shim, nice to meet you.” He presents her his hand which she shakes firmly.

“Roseanne.” She grins, her entire demeanor eons more confident and controlled compared to the puppy before her. She looks him in his eyes because of good conversation etiquette, he does the same because he physically can’t take them off of her.

You feel your anxiety ramping up, your realization as to why delayed until you’re all sat on the couch. His eyes are still glued to Roseanne. It’s okay, there are still four other men, but this one has most likely already made up his mind. And judging by how everyone has already given up displaying their charms, they see it too. Roseanne takes the honors of introducing all of you, each of you replying with a wave and short greeting. You can’t help thinking Roseanne is a bit cool, especially how she’d already memorized all your names and ages. Jake had just given his age, twenty-one, and occupation, photographer, when the doorbell rang again.

“I’ll get it!” Somi shoots up and races to the door before anyone could think of doing so. She swings the door open, not having to look up very high to see the man in front of her. You can’t see her face but the way her shoulders slump indicates her disappointment very plainly. She steps aside, displaying her poorly concealed frown to the rest of the room. When your eyes move from her face to the new guy, you instantly note his striking features. His eyes are large like Jake’s but they ensnare you, especially when he makes eye contact.

You greet him at the same time you hear the others do so and finally look away. You wonder if the producers are doing this on purpose. First a cute person and then a cold and sexy person. Polar opposites to give the contestants and viewers whiplash. His greetings and answers to questions are all short. You can’t say he’s being a dick because you can’t read him all that well.

“Kang Taehyun.” He answers Roseanne who has taken the liberty of initiating icebreakers from now on. “Twenty-one, personal trainer.” The man doesn’t try to wow anyone according to his tone but the room is sufficiently impressed. Even you find yourself raising your eyebrows. He is built well but he’s so young, you’ve never seen a personal trainer that young before.

Looking around the room, no one seems to have genuine interest in a romantic sense, just curiosity. You do catch Yizhuo’s longing stares at Jake every time he talks, though.

You had a long talk with yourself before coming here. You need to be observant, you need to not be clingy, and you need to not get your hopes up. Chances are you’re not gonna be the first pick, so staking your claim on just one guy and hopelessly chasing after him is not the way to go. It’ll annoy the viewers and will haunt you for the rest of your life. Your great grandkids are going to see this one day.

The doorbell rings multiple times, halting the conversation. Somi waves it off, letting someone else go and answer it. Yizhuo offers to do so, skittering over the door and peering from behind it as she opens it.

“Welcome!” she exclaims, opening it wide enough for everyone to observe the new guy. Without stating anything about himself, the room is utterly amazed. Especially Somi, who stands up from the couch with her jaw on the floor.

The newcomer is tall with a perfectly chiseled body, his chest threatening to burst out of his black button-up. Prominent veins run up and down his tanned arms. And despite all of this he still has a welcoming aura. He’s sexy without intimidation which isn’t easy or common. His smile and laugh he gives out before introducing himself brightens up the room. Somi approaches him and immediately extends her hand for him to shake. She doesn’t attempt to heighten her voice and doesn’t tone down the suggestive look in her eyes. Kim Mingyu raises his eyebrows but doesn’t knock her approach.

With eight people now on the couch, it’s getting too cramped to just use one, so Roseanne suggests the women move to the next couch over. The curiosity and attention is snatched away from Taehyun and focused onto Mingyu. All eyes are on him. Somi repeatedly takes control from Roseanne who was conducting the conversation productively to pour over Mingyu. However, Mingyu doesn’t seem too interested in Somi, not returning any of her attention. He doesn’t seem too interested in any of the women except for one. His eyes are trained on Chaeyeon. Not in a lovestruck way like Jake or an attentive way like Roseanne. He has intent and is sending a clear message. Chaeyeon covers her mouth daintily as she giggles, lowering her gaze shyly. She’s all of a sudden much more interactive.

Somi’s ears don’t even perk up this time when the doorbell rings, she keeps speaking to Mingyu even as the new man is invited in. Another tall man, not quite as statuesque as Mingyu but still quite endearingly handsome. He has the warmness of Jake with a more authoritative flair. He’s very friendly and well spoken, but the way straightens his overcoat gives an air of efficiency.

Mingyu is a twenty-six year old fitness model and Jung Yunho a twenty-four year old entrepreneur. There’s still one person to go but the threads are already messy. If your intuition is correct there are four people with one sided infatuation. Somi, Jake, Yizhuo, and Roseanne who’s been a lot less articulate since Yunho walked in. Mingyu and Chaeyeon seem to be a sure bet, they fit each other. Yunho will take a bit more time to read, but you have noticed the way his eyes flit over in Chaeyeon’s direction a lot.

As for Taehyun, it’s hard to tell. His gaze doesn’t seem to linger, and you immediately break eye contact when he looks at you. You wait a bit after he catches you staring before trying to read him again, but he’s still staring, resting his head in his palm. When the doorbell rings for the last time you rush to get it.

In the doorway is a man with very expressive features, his eyebrows already exposing his surprise and curiosity. A smirk slowly forms, morphing into a toothy grin as he holds his hand out. You find yourself smiling back unintentionally.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Jaemin.”

siren masterlist

#txt #nct #kang taehyun #taehyun #na jaemin #jaemin #smut #fluff #humor #angst #siren

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definitelynotshouting · 5 months

Note

WOULD YOU STILL LOVE ME IF I WAS A WORM 😭😭😭😭 WHAT A THING TO WAKE UP TO!

-☀️

Oh my god thw wings being a physical manifestation of how Mumbo doesnt know Grian anymore. He is an entirely new person, definitely mentally, technically physically-- even if he looks the same. Mumbo honing in on the wings ("his wings ruffle...behind him" "it's a foreign motion...that escapes translation") that are the thing that's different and needs a "map" drawn of it, because it's the only thing that's actually different. Sure, Mumbo can tell grian doesnt even act the same anymore, but that's much harder to put a finger on. He didnt have those wings before.

^I like to think there's some form of uncanny valley effect that people who knew Grian before feel looking at him now, ignoring the wings.

-☀️

"Then he smiles, porcelain teeth flashing in the glistering sun.

The cold, open pit of his depthless eyes fails to catch it."

Really fucking love this description ough

-☀️

"“You’re not supposed to change me back!” Grian shrills, bristling."

IT'S TOO EARLY IN THE MORNING FOR THIS TEM WTF (it is past 10am)

-☀️

"with the exquisite delicacy of a Player"

I SEE YOU YOURE NOT SNEAKY

-☀️

The wings again!! *is in distress* (side note i love seeing the world building youve been telling us about finally in the fic!!) Ok this actually makes the way Mumbo focused on the wings mean so much more. Wings are dangerous to code in, thats why Players use spotters. Grian vanished from Evo and showed up on Hermitcraft YEARS(?) later, without a word to anyone, and reappeared with those wings. Imagine going on a trail with a friend whose never hiked before and then they stop responding to your messages only to show up again after a couple of months like "Hey I just climbed Everest". You would most definitely be distressed to say the least. (although, question: how proficient was grian's coding?)

-☀️

Man this one-shot. Too many feels this early in the morning 😭 The way you've managed to capture that sense of unease around Grian. His actions are unpredictable- you dont know if he's going to laugh or get upset- really nicely encapsulates Mumbo's internal feeling that he doesn't know grian anymore. Those moments where he laughs or stares with those blank eyes, those are normal-- but linger a second too long, or catch a glimpse of the worlds that have passed since Evo started-- and he can't shake the feeling that something is wrong with Grian

-☀️

AAAAAAAAA HI SUN ANON!!! omg im so glad you enjoyed the oneshot!!! :D

Omg YES im so so glad what i was aiming for with the wings came through, thats exactly what i was going for!! This is the only physical indication that Grian has changed, and therefore the most distinct!!! Ofc Mumbo is gonna hone in on that-- its the clearest aspect he can see. And yeah, i think the first few times people saw him with the wings, it was definitely a little uncanny valley, until they got used to it

OKAY I'LL BE REAL THE EXQUISITE DELICACY BIT WAS NOT INTENTIONAL BUT IS A VERY HAPPY ACCIDENT ALDJWKDNEKNDKDE altho i did really enjoy messing with some wordplay in other areas. My particular favorite is the "inner machinations of a dropper" line-- it was such a fun way to refer to mechanical parts while simultaneously making it sound like the dropper is up to no good 😂😂😂😂😂😂

It was super nice to really put this aspect of the worldbuilding into the fic-- one of these days i'll probably rewrite chapters 1 and 2, and maybe do a little editing on 3, just so i can sorta bake those concepts in there with a little more deliberation than i did when i was first posting :] BUT YES altho its not so much dangerous (for a Player, at least) as it is difficult, and very finicky. Grian's coding is super proficient as a Player (he's still working on melding the instinctive coding of the Watchers with his Player brain tho), so he was always very capable of it, but like you pointed out, under normal circumstances he would have 100% asked someone to be his spotter while he coded them in, just in case he bugged out

And yep, we're talking a timespan of years here!!! This is a bit loose, so its subject to some minor changes, but my general timeline is that Grian, once Watcher-ified, was trapped with the Watchers for about 2-3 years before he made his escape. After that he bounced between hubs and servers for a few months, before ending up on Hermitcraft to stay. The fic itself takes place somewhere around early mid-season, i think-- since i headcanon each season to take place over a few years rather than a few months, i'd say this means Grian has been with Hermitcraft for, oh.... a little under a year now by the time this fic takes place, if that makes sense. Again these are not concrete but thats the general timeframe we're talking here. I'll probably make a separate post about this later, but in Player culture its not SUPER weird to go gallivanting on your own for a few years-- but the complete radio silence and abrupt exit from Evo are what make this notable from the norm to Mumbo and everyone else who knew Grian before

Im so deeply and genuinely happy that the sense of unease came across so well-- i was admittedly worried that the pacing was a bit fast for how Grian's reactions kept turning on a dime, but this reassures me that it works :] i wanted it to really feel like this is a familiar stranger we're looking at through Mumbo's eyes, and also i wanted to give Grian some room to display those uglier trauma symptoms that nobody talks about much in fiction. I like to think that first year back on Hermitcraft was a difficult one for him, mood-wise, because behind that rough facade his brain is about as scorched-earth as it fuckin gets

Sun anon i always ADORE your analysis thank you so so much for sending them 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 it makes my day every time, truly. Im so glad you liked the fic!!! :D

#shouting speaks #asks #compliments #hunger au #txt

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shares-a-vest · 2 years

Text

Fruity Four Advent Calendar, Day 10: Special Theme - Steddie Edition

Prompt List (join in, this is fun!)

Just a short ficlet today that I've had half-written in my phone since like Halloween lmao. I just think the first time Eddie sees Steve with a baby is like a found family/extended family situation. He'd play it cool, loathing to admit fawning. And of course, he gets a little jealous too.

'Eddie Munson vs. A Little Munchkin Elf'

Eddie Munson didn't think he'd be spending his first Christmas with his boyfriend competing for his attention with a goddamn baby.

The Munsons, the Mayfields, Steve and Robin (just for a while before heading back to her house to host dinner for her grandparents) all head over to Dustin’s house on Christmas Day for lunch. It's a small gathering, Claudia's sister, her family and Dustin's Nanna. Steve and Max were familiar with the extended Henderson family already but Eddie was super nervous because he and Wayne had been keeping to themselves since all the Vecna stuff. But Wayne insisted that they get out and celebrate and Steve had promised Eddie could stay at his side all day.

At least, that’s how Eddie thought his Christmas Day would go.

The second they walk in, Steve spots a baby boy, Claudia’s niece Melissa’s son. He goes wide-eyed, letting out a little gasp and makes a beeline for Melissa, shoving his three dessert pies at Dustin on the way past, completely abandoning the mountain of gifts and supplies they were supposed to be bringing in from Wayne’s truck.

"Hi!" he says in a soft, baby-talk voice, immediately directing his whole attention to the child.

"This is Ben," Melissa announces, handing the kid over and Eddie swears Steve’s eyes literally light up. The kid looks up at him, smiling. Steve boops his nose with his pinky and Ben promptly latches onto his hand.

And the tender, warm feeling Eddie has practically bleeding out his eyeballs hits him like a truck. He barely even registers Max elbowing him in the ribs as if to say, look at this. He grumbles at the sickly sweetness of it all.

Yes, Red, I see it too and my heart is actually melting.

That is until he realises that Steve is going to spend their entire Christmas lunch with the kid attached to him. Melissa tries to take Ben back, probably not wanting to subject a twenty-year-old to being lumbered with a kid. But Ben squirms around, practically climbing up onto Steve's shoulder and readying himself for one of those dramatic high-pitched squeals little gremlins make when they really don't want to do something. And Steve just laughs.

"It's okay," he insists, hugging Ben tight and Eddie's sure he's more comforting the kid than talking to Melissa.

The Party jokes about Steve being a mother hen, but it's nothing compared to this, fussing about over Christmas lunch with a one-year-old propped on his hip. He talks to Ben quietly, explaining everything he is doing in a soft voice and quickly starts calling him 'Benny'. He walks around the Henderson's dining room table, following Claudia with napkins for the place settings. He counts each seat a loud, even though Benny is just curiously looking around the room, a tiny paw clenched around a fistful of Steve's blue sweater. Eddie still has no clue how Steve found a Christmas sweater equivalent of his beloved navy blue and white striped polo.

Melissa and her husband Greg make several courteous attempts to separate the two to no avail. Benny winges and Steve gives a rather panicked, "It's okay". Again, Eddie isn't sure who he's directing it at. The kid even protests when Steve hands him over to Nanna Henderson. The poor old broad only got to hold the kid for a little while before he began making grabby hands in Steve's direction.

Eddie grumbles over his beer when he catches his uncle looking at him fondly as the others fuss over lunch and Max and Dustin argue about who got cooler presents. And yeah, Eddie might have been making sappy goo-goo eyes at his boyfriend making vrooming noises as he races a toy car on the shag carpet with a giggling Benny. Just for a second.

"This is the worst Christmas ever!" Eddie says and dramatically folds his arms.

"Not it isn't," Wayne counters as he looks over at Steve with a smile. Eddie's pretty sure his uncle is just happy that the trio was together and actually celebrating Christmas after everything that had happened.

"Eds, take him for a second, would ya?" Steve asks, handing Ben over and rushing into the kitchen when Claudia calls everyone to the dinner table.

Blast Steve and his need to provide everyone with food overriding his fawning over a baby!

"Nonononono," Eddie protests, even though Steve is long gone and Benny is looking up at him, wide-eyed and unbothered with a vice-like grip on a lock of his hair. Eddie scrunches his nose up.

You're lucky my boyfriend is so adorable.

Ben just giggles and kicks at his ribs with excitement.

"Say cheese!" says Robin, materialising out of nowhere and armed with a camera.

And of course, she captures Eddie Munson begrudgingly wearing a not-jet black Christmas sweater and holding a little munchkin in an elf onesie. And like an idiot, he instinctively smiles at the instruction, thoroughly brainwashed from the day's festivities.

He holds the child out in her direction.

She waves a hand. "Absolutely not! I'm not taking care of the little squirt just because I'm the only chick in the room."

She walks away, scoffing and gesticulating widely (although, Eddie could have sworn there was a snicker in there somewhere).

Melissa and Greg eventually leave with Ben to travel back home late in the afternoon after basically prying him away from Steve. He gives one last, "It's okay", this time clearly soothing the kid as he reluctantly goes to his mother to get bundled up into the car.

Steve slumps down on the couch when he returns from driving Robin home as the Henderson family festivities wind down into the night. Max tries to distract Dustin away from the weird looks he is giving Wayne and Claudia as they clean up and innocently flirt by loudly commentating what's on TV as she flips through the channels.

Steve lolls his head to the side and smiles. Eddie rolls his eyes despite a grin creeping across his face.

"I was sure you were going to keep that little twerp," he teases, leaning over to bump shoulders.

"Babies are just really cute," Steve mumbles with a shrug, blushing.

Eddie grabs his hand. "... I guess they are."

#steddie #steddie ficlet #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie headcanon #StrangerThingsFestiveFun

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raichett · 2 years

Text

Deal

Have some Scarian flash fic for the soul.

EDIT: this flash fic can now be found on AO3 here.

---

DEAL

“When I made a deal with you, that wasn’t an invitation to move in,” Grian grits out, staring at his bathroom mirror and the man inside of it. His own reflection is no longer visible, and the mirror’s half steamed up anyway, but at least he managed to get a towel around his hips before Scar appeared there. Small mercies. His damp hair drips water down his forehead and he blinks it out of his eyes, annoyed and getting more so.

“Ah, but I need to stay close to you to fulfil your commands,” the man – he’s not a man, not really, he’s taking the form of a man – says, grinning with too-sharp teeth. Blue-white wings, not dissimilar to a bat’s, only tattered in a very stereotypical horror game monster design way, flutter behind him, seemingly too small to ever carry his weight. Not that this being follows such mundane things as the laws of physics, but still. “Isn’t that right, master?”

Grian rolls his eyes, fully aware that he’s playing with fire. “Uh-huh,” he says, sceptically. He’s no more this being’s master than he is Maui’s. Everyone knows that cats own you. Not that Grian’s owned by this being, but they’re contracted together, so they owe each other. (And no, Grian was not fool enough to offer his soul. Six hundred and sixty-six weeks is just over twelve and a half years, and that’s… an acceptable amount of time to agree to being this being’s companion after the deed is done, right?) “And how about you listen to this command, then? Leave me to get dressed in peace.”

Scar – that’s what the being told Grian to call him – laughs and vanishes, leaving only the echo behind, bouncing off the bathroom walls. Good. Grian was half-convinced he’d reply with Peace was never an option and stay as Grian tried to dry his hair and brush his teeth, but thankfully it seems that Hell doesn’t have a good enough internet connection for Scar to be aware of memes. He supposes that it might just be a matter of time, however.

Grian finishes up his morning routine, unsurprised when Scar returns just as he’s finished pulling on his second sock. The man doesn’t seem to have much of an awareness of personal space, but he goes when Grian snaps at him to, so it’s probably just ignorance.

“So,” Scar beams at him, the light overhead flickering and the air in the room becoming cold, “murder?”

Grian reaches for his shoes. “Yes,” he says, shortly, feeling anger rise in his chest and beat against the insides of his ribs just at the thought of what he has contracted Scar to help him with. “Murder.” Bloodlust wells like venom on his tongue, and Grian swallows it down. Not yet, not yet, he can’t go in recklessly and expect to make it out alive. There’s a reason he dipped into the dark magic arts instead of going it alone.

“Good,” Scar smiles, his hand brushing Grian’s back, between his shoulder blades. “I am excited. We’re going to have so much fun together.”

“Before or after we kill Ren and Martyn?” Grian asks, thinking about twelve and a half years of being haunted by this man, practically roommates. It’s not – a bad thought, he supposes. Scar hasn’t yet been poor company, despite his… less than human origins. And he’d liked Maui, cooing over the cat, so – yeah, Grian can live with someone that loves cats.

“Oh, both,” Scar says, his green eyes glowing brightly as his fingers press against Grian’s back, warm and possessive. “Definitely both.”

#my writing #flash fic #scarian #trafficshipping #fanfic #grian #goodtimeswithscar #mcyt #it's not super shippy but it's intended to be pre-ship

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inukag-archive · 1 year

Note

hello there, hope you are doing well, can you recommend an inukag story where inuyasha is human, AU please, like soul therapy, thank you in advance

Hello @fmrinukag !

Thank you so much for reaching out to the Archive, we absolutely can get a list of Human Inuyasha stories together for you. However, in the course of making this list the team noticed an interesting quirk: Inuyasha is not always explicitly stated as being human or not in all AUs. He is sometimes given his hanyou coloring but with no mention of his ears, claws, or demonic heritage are featured in the plot. For organizational purposes, we chose to split this list into STATED HUMAN and IMPLIED HUMAN.

Happy reading!

STATED HUMAN

Oh, But You're Good To Me @witchygirl99 (M)

It’s a terrible photo, really. The action figure takes up the entire bottom of the screen and part of both of their faces. Shippo’s giggling though, eyes shut and crinkled in his mirth while Inuyasha looks at him. His expression is clearly fond. It’s the softest Inuyasha has ever, ever seen himself.

This is fatherhood, he thinks a little wildly.

He sends the photo to Kagome.

Inuyasha is a single father. Shippo is his adopted son. Kagome isn't supposed to be in the picture, but somehow, she returns anyways. A story about family, love, and all of its obstacles.

Shot Week IV: Lovey Dovey Edition (Chapter 7: You May Be Right) by TheMondayChild (E)

Kagome has been pining for Hojo who no longer pays her attention and brings her gifts as he once did. To try and get him to notice her again, she enlists the help of a known bad boy, Inuyasha, and they concoct a plan: bully her and let Hojo white knight his way back into her life. But will she still want him when all is said and done?

One Night Stand by doggieearlover (X)

A chance of fate throws two souls together.

The Jilted Lover by basya88 (T)

“You were very young, marrying you felt like clipping your wings before you took your first dive”, he said, looking at her like he still had the right to do so.

She huffed, her haughtiness apparent, “So you’re saying, you had to make a choice for me? Who gave you the right to do that, huh? Excuses, excuses, but yeah, you made a choice, and you choose to break my heart by leaving me.”

Those we’re the longest spoken sentences he heard from her in years and now she’s walking away from him, and if he didn’t stop her, she’d be gone for good. He can’t have that. He had to do something.

“Please, don’t walk away,” he pleaded.

Without looking back she replied, “You taught me how. You walked out on me once. Now, we’re even.”

Both of them forgot, that hundreds of listeners are witnessing their exchange thru the radiowaves.

A Late Loving by LittleDarkStar (M)

8 years ago Kagome ran away from her cheating husband, Now 8 years on Kagome lives with her Cousin Miroku and her son. But Inuyasha has found her again and wants his revenge.

all night long I feel his presence hover by @doginabirdcage (E)

It is when Kagome turns forty-five, living in a small apartment in Tokyo, with her child and husband long gone, that she inherits a fortune. She’s got a gray streak in her hair that she didn’t fight when it started coming in years ago. There are crows feet by her eyes. But suddenly, she is an heiress.

Skinny Love by emaniem5 (T)

"This was no love letter. This was a threat."

Flunking math, bad hair days, inheriting a family business she doesn't want, falling in love with her sister's boyfriend...If Kagome thought she had problems before, they had just been multiplied a hundredfold. And having to dress up like her sister to confuse a stalking pyromaniac was only one of them.

Slow burn. No pun intended.

I Do by Shirahime Shou95 (M)

A.U. "I hate you." She whispered in a low voice, tears brimming in her brown orbs. But the young boy before her just grinned smugly. "The feeling's mutual." When seven-year-old Kagome Higurashi met Inuyasha Takahashi on the elementary school for the first time, she would've never guess that fifteen years later, she would say those two words to him; "I do."

Hallway Shenanigans by toesalignedarch (T)

AU: When Inuyasha delivers flowers to Sango on Miroku's behalf, he runs into one of Sango's friends and unwillingly develops a little crush. He thinks he's just going to get over it. But when Sango finds out, she decides to play matchmaker. Told in snippets of 250 words or less.

Bad Influence by ji-an (Y)

Meet the bad boy.

9 Months by DeletedAccoutnNotChangingMind (M)

Kagome is given the weirdest offer by top business man Inuyasha Takahashi. With a few simple words he changes her whole life: "Will you bare my child?"

---

IMPLIED HUMAN

Soul Therapy by dolphingirl0113 (T)

{Alternate Universe Plot} Kagome is a young, aspiring physical therapist who receives more than she bargained for with Inuyasha, a victim of a car accident trying to walk again. She soon discovers reasons why you don't fall in love with patients...

Dog Tags by @lemonlushff (E)

On the worst day of his life, an old WWII dog tag washed ashore. Now, being a Navy man himself, he feels like tracking this soldier down is the right thing to do. It's amazing how sometimes random twists of fate can help your heart heal in ways you didn't know were possible. M for language and lemon content. Inu/Kag

Memento Mori by LuxKen27 (E)

She was the embodiment of virtue. He was her forbidden temptation.

Shy by @ninmenkaspeaches (E)

Shy (Alternatively: What Inuyasha Most Certainly Is Not)

Sometimes love is the best thing to break you out of your shy little shell.

The Shogun's Daughter by @shnuggletea (E)

Kagome's father passed away when she was just a child but his Shogun status still makes her a valuable bride to a Lord of lands that border their village. Lord Inuyasha Tashio is pushed by the council into marriage, assured his new bride was an excellent choice. All their fears and anxiety are amplified when they meet.

Feel free to add your own recs in the comments or reblogs!

Check our Masterlist of previous lists to see which topics we've covered.

Send us an ask (here).

#inukag archive #inukag fanfiction #human!inuyasha #human!au #inuyasha fanfiction

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beefromanoff · 9 months

Text

Going Under Ch. 15

summary: a detail Steve chose not to tell Gianna...and Bucky's guilt. Sam and Steve are good friends.

characters: Bucky Barnes x OC

soundtrack: everything I own - bread

warnings: fluff, pop star fantasy x love story, set in an AU where the Avengers reunite after Civil War, pre-infinity war, slight angst, hurt/comfort, lonely reader/OC.

author’s note: this one is super short - I really just wanted to write the conversation between Steve and Tony, but I didn't want to edit it onto the end of Chapter 14 in case some readers already finished it and would miss it. the rest just came together. there will be plenty of fluff in the next chapter - DON'T WORRY!

chapter list

_________________________________________

Steve heard the door slide shut with a whoosh as he stepped out of Gianna’s room in the medical wing.

“I guess you didn’t feel the need to tell her the whole story?” Tony’s voice called out from where he was leaning against the wall.

Steve scowled. “I didn’t think it was necessary.”

“Well, you said Barnes tracked them down and hand-delivered them to the FBI. You didn’t say he beat each and every person involved within an inch of their life.”

“Like I said, I didn’t think it was necessary.”

Tony shrugged. “Hey, I’m not the morality police. I just thought she’d want to know chivalry isn’t dead.”

Giving a half chuckle, Steve ran his hand along his jawline. “Any idea where he went?”

“Aren’t you the guy’s best friend?” Tony joked. “FRIDAY, what’s the 411 on RoboCop?”

“Sergeant Barnes is in the training wing, in Sparring Room 3.”

Steve nodded and made a beeline for the elevators.

Pictured: James "Bucky" Barnes in Madripoor after a solo mission to track down those responsible and avenge the attempt on Gianna Cruz' life.

__________________________________________

The sound of fists hitting the punching bag was the first thing Steve heard when the elevator doors opened. As he stepped through the threshold of the training room, he turned to the corner where the bag hung from the ceiling.

Bucky stood in a defensive posture with his back to Steve, his bare knuckles colliding with the rough material of the punching bag at a speed only possible for a super soldier. Even from the doorway, Steve could see the bloody prints left on the tan material from Bucky’s raw fists.

“Bucky…” Steve called.

He neither reacted nor slowed down.

“Hey, Buck, give it a rest.”

Walking towards him, Steve reached out his hand and rested it on Bucky’s shoulder. Shrugging it off, Bucky swung harder, sweat dripping from his dark hair.

“Hey! Bucky!” In a swift move, Steve slipped in between the super soldier and the training back, ducking a blow from his left and catching Bucky’s flesh right fist in his palm.

Their eyes met, and it was like Bucky came back to reality. He was panting, chest heaving from all the effort. Steve released his fist and felt the warmth of blood in his palm, and he grimaced, knowing it wasn’t his.

Bucky took a step back and sat on the bench to their right, dropping his head into his hands.

“She’s awake.”

“I know.”

“How? Dr. Cho just sent word -”

“I was there. When she started to stir. I…I wasn’t ready.” He took a labored breath. “I couldn’t look at her, look in her eyes, and explain to her that I didn’t - I couldn’t protect her.”

Steve watched him with sad eyes, knowing the feeling of guilt all too well.

Bucky continued. “I heard her start to wake up and I bolted. Let the doc know and came straight here. I don’t know, I just needed to clear my head.”

“You know you’re supposed to wear gloves.”

Giving a half-hearted smile, Bucky looked up and examined the raw knuckles on his right hand. “Yeah. Guess there’s a reason for that.”

“If only they were both metal, right?” Sam joked, walking through the door. “Hope you didn’t pay full price for this half-assed job.”

Both super soldiers rolled their eyes and Bucky chuckled despite himself. Sam dropped down on the bench next to him.

“Listen man, I won’t lie to you. This feeling isn’t gonna go away anytime soon. You’re gonna feel like shit, and you’re gonna feel responsible. I know you. We’ve all got this thing in common, we’re soldiers, protectors. When we don’t win, or we can’t make the save that one time…it feels bigger than every other time when you did your job.” Sam leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees so he and Bucky were on the same level. “I used to work with vets, this guilt you feel, it’s common. Nobody comes home and feels the warm fuzzies about all the people they saved. All you remember is the look on someone’s face the one time you didn’t get there in time.”

There was silence as all three men processed the gravity of his words, each of them able to recall a missed save on their own watch. Steve felt a pang in his chest as he got a decades old flashback of Bucky falling to his ‘death’ out of a train car, and the years’ he spent haunted by guilt afterwards.

“The thing is, you gotta know you did all you could. We’re all human, I mean, some of us more than others.” Sam elbowed Bucky in the ribs. “We can only do the best we can with the information we have. You were set up, you were specifically targeted, and I think you’re overlooking the part where you got blasted to oblivion and hopped right back up like it was nothin’ - that’s hero shit, man.”

Sam put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder reassuringly. Glancing at Steve, he nodded and left the room.

“She was asking for you.”

Bucky looked up at him, eyes hopeful and fearful all at once.

“She doesn't blame you, Buck. No one does. But she’s in a strange place, alone, confused…she needs you. You didn’t let her down, but if you aren’t there for her now…you will.”

Bucky paused, then drew his eyes up to meet Steve’s.

“Thank you. For checking on her.”

Steve nodded reassuringly and turned toward the door.

“Steve, wait,” Bucky called after him. As Steve turned, Bucky grinned. “Sorry I almost got you blown up.”

“Hey, what kind of wingman would I be if I wasn’t willing to risk an explosion to help my best friend get his girl?” Steve winked and stepped into the elevator.

#bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x oc #bucky fluff #winter soldier #avengers #winter soldier fluff #sebastian stan #winter solider x reader

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jkknight98 · 1 year

Text

A Friends in the walls story: A Good Day to Relax

A little late of a Christmas present for you guys, but having mono can really take it out of you it seems. But this is a little story that entails some bonding between Techno and Ranboo while the other boys terrorize poor Phil. I hope you guys enjoy this story and as a hint, look up what a eastern box turtle is for reference~

Edit: I posted at 12:27 am, it's not even Christmas anymore

Warnings: bullying, harassment, false accusations.

Techno could only sigh in annoyance as he watched the chaos erupting around him, trying to drink the tea that Phil had prepared for them as his brothers messed around, flinching only once when a shirt hit him in the back. Turning his head, he got a glimpse of Tommy and Tubbo running around the stairwell laughing their heads off while Wilbur perched on the railing, he almost looked like a panther as he stalked after the younger two. A loud yell from his brother only added to the slowly growing headache that the tea could no longer stave off, maybe he should get out of the house for a little while.

A soft huff drew his eyes downward and Techno couldn't help but smile as Ranboo tried to pull a bit of cheese out of the mini sandwiches Phil had tried to make, but the bread was burned beyond saving. The borrower was slowly getting covered in the cheese that he tried to eat, the yellow making an interesting contrast to the normal black and white of his skin and hair,” I thought you are supposed to eat cheese, not wear it, or is it good for your skin?” Techno huffed in amusement as the borrower sputtered in embarrassment,” be happy that Wilbur is chasing the other two, or else he would be offering to clean you.”

Phil entered the kitchen with a low chuckle and grabbed a small hand towel,” I think he’s pretty well occupied with them, but you never know when he might swing back in here, here you go Ranboo.” The elder stretched his wings slightly as he moved to pour his own cup of tea and sitting down before the two, frowning as he tried to find a less burned sandwich,” I don’t know how I managed to fuck these up, but oh well.” The three at the table jumped as a loud thump echoed from somewhere else in the house, giving the impression that the smaller ones got away from Wilbur once again, especially as the low giggling followed it. Phil only shook his head with a look mixed with amusement and disappointment, “Techno, why don’t you and Ranboo go out for the day, it's not too cool even with the cloud cover, I know you’ve been visiting the park pond recently.”

Techno gave a low huff as he turned away from his father's knowing gaze and looked to see how Ranboo took the idea, smiling fondly as he did. The younger’s tail was wagging with excitement as they turned to look upwards, red and green eyes meeting crimson in a look of clear wanting, and Techno couldn’t deny his weakness towards the borrower. “Yeah.. alright, don’t forget to grab your gear Ranboo, I know you're going to collect things while we’re there.” Techno offered a hand and held back a pleased hum and the borrower climbed into it, it always amazed the man when the tiny things put so much trust into him, even after knowing what all he had done in the past to those that hurt his little brother.

It wasn’t long before Techno was striding out the door with Ranboo tucked into his scarf, the tiny pressed up against his neck as a warm little lump against the nipping first winds of fall, and hiding his scent from any other giants. It wouldn’t be the first time that another giant tried to snatch the younger family members since they were seen as either a pest, pet..or a free snack, It brought a smile to Techno’s face as he remembered when he punched a random cat hybrid that tried to snatch Tommy off his head with the excuse of “Just trying to remove his stowaway”. His attention was brought back down as he felt a little rhythmic tapping on his neck, Ranboo was looking over the edge of the scarf with apparent excitement, meaning that the tapping was his wagging tail (it definitely didn’t make his own tail give a slow wag, you saw nothing nerds).

“You enjoying yourself Ranboo, I thought you traveled a lot?”

The pointed ears tilted downwards as Ranboo sighed,” We did… but there were a few times that it wasn’t for enjoyable reasons... Tubbo’s injury being the most recent, but not the worst..” The throat beside him rumbled in curiosity, making the borrower lean against it for comfort. He and Tubbo had been living with the giants for a long time now that they easily considered them family… way more than the colonies they both came from,” I can't tell Tubbo’s story before we met up, but my life in the colony wasn’t great... My size and coloration made me stand out too much in some people's eyes... But my allergy to water is really what set them off.” He couldn’t help the shudder that ran through his body as he felt the phantom pains of his past,” there was a group of kids that thought it was funny to hide in small spaces and toss water at me before running off. I could never catch them, and if I did I was told that they were just children having harmless fun…” The giant gave a low growl that shook his entire body, it almost made him fall deeper into the scarf if he didn’t have such a good handhold.

“They didn’t punish them at all? Couldn’t they see the marks it was leaving on your skin!!”

Ranboo let out his own small purr of appreciation toward the piglin’s outrage for his situation, but it was too late to change anything,” they never did, but I was able to deal with it since my height let me reach places the others couldn’t without gear, so I had a use on the foraging runs…until it led to me escaping over someone else.” Ranboo couldn’t help the low whine that escaped him as he thought back to the day, he knew it wasn’t his fault, but not in the eyes of the colony. It was supposed to be a safe area away from any giants, but the blackberry bushes were not as safe as they thought.

He was with another borrower on the edge of the bushes as a third acted as a lookout, he actually felt at peace for once since the two were halfway nice to him. He had only just reached out for a rather plump berry when the scream happened, he whipped his head around to see a plastic cup slammed next to the watcher, how had they missed the giant that snuck up on them,” Shit I missed them, guys I found some Tinys in grandmas bushes!!” Ranboo dropped his haul as he ran for the relative safety of the deeper thorns, but had to stop suddenly as a large stick came crashing down near him, and it was followed by four other sticks. The giants were going to either flush them out... Or crush them in the process. His only hope was to make it to the fence they had climbed through and make it to the relative safety of the woods, he just needed to make it to the small hole and climb through it once again. His fellow gatherer had the same idea as he watched them sprint for it, dodging the snagging branches or slipping on fallen fruit, their dark hair flashing as they made it to the lead rope and started the climb. The only sounds that Ranboo could hear at this point were his panicked breathing and the voices of the giants getting closer, and the only thing he saw was the opening getting closer and closer until he lept for it, arms and legs scrambling for all the purchase he could get. He ignored the rope completely as his hands dug into the poorly painted wood and pulled with all the strength he had, not noticing his struggle had pulled the rope higher until he fell panting to the other side.

“Where is Alec, he was just behind you wasn’t he, where is he!!!?” Ranboo could barely focus as the other borrower shook him, turning his head to look back at the fence in mute horror. Through a small gap in the wood, they could see the watcher fighting to grab the rope as a giant closed in on them, they only just made it to the hole, arm reaching out to pull themselves through, when they were snatched away and the rope slithered after them into the sky. “ALEC!!” The borrower next to him collapsed in sorrow, pulling at her hair as the giant voices moved away, and the barely-heard yelling grew fainter…..

“The giants that day took him and none of us knew what happened, and the other borrower blamed me for pulling the rope higher than he could reach when I climbed through, which I know was unfair, but in the eyes of those that wanted me gone…it was just the excuse they needed.” Ranboo looked up from his reminising when Techno stopped moving and gasped at the sight before him, there was one of the most beautiful lakes he had ever seen in his life. There were oak trees that framed the edges while glades of wild grasses and flowers took up the sunny spaces; it looked almost entirely untouched by any civilizations, giant or borrower. The site was beautiful enough to make him forget his past for a moment.

Ranboo couldn’t help but gush in excitement about collecting fresh acorns, which led to the two of them collecting for over an hour and had a sizable pile to sort through. The two of them now sat beneath a large oak tree as they worked, Techno gazing out at the lake with such a calm look that it almost startled Ranboo.

“This is where I go to get away from everyone, I found it a little while before we moved into the house, it's just me and the world around me…and I can indulge the voices a bit.” Techno saw the little borrower look up confused from the pile of acorns the two had collected and were now sorting through. He picked up one acorn and held it in his hands thoughtfully, the surface looked perfectly pristine and like how any normal acorn should, but that perfect image was broken as he cracked it. Instead of the normal yellowed flesh, the inside was a dark gray from improper development, showing how it was utterly imperfect on the inside. “As you could probably tell, I’m not biologically related to Phil or Wilbur, I didn’t get adopted by them until I was about eight…and that was when my problems had already started to show.”

Techno wasn’t even sure how old he was when the voices first entered his head, he would be fine playing with the other piglin children and then a voice only he could hear would speak, and everyone would stare when he responded to them. It was easy to ignore when it was a single voice, talking with the same childish tones as himself, but then they started to multiply and sound much older than he was. There were times they offered useful advice, but they were rather bloodthirsty in other instances, especially when he was bullied in his youth.

Techno was quick to duck the first aimed for his face, feeling the wind of it rustle his tangled hair, but was unable to avoid the foot that kicked his legs out from under him,” stay down you freak, no one wants a freak like you for a kid.” He lifted his head to spit out the gravel that slipped inside, but a larger hand pressed his face back into it,” didn’t you hear them freak, or were the voices in your head too loud?” The three older kids kept laughing as he tried to fight against them, managing to cut his lips on the sharp gravel, and igniting the fury of voices in his head.

Blood. They drew blood. The director can’t be mad. They did it first. Make them eat gravel. Blood. Blood. E. Blood. There’s too many. We can take them. He’s too young. Blood. Blood.

The sounds were getting to be too much for Techno to handle as he brought his hands to his ears, trying to drown out everything he didn’t want to hear, but it was too much when a kid that looked eerily like a zombie kicked him hard in the ribs. That was when he blacked out... He didn’t come out of it until he was being held in the air by the director of the orphanage while the three bullies were holding back tears at the wounds Techno gave them. “Technoblade what did I tell you about fighting with the other kids, you’ll never be adopted at this rate and I’ll be stuck with you until the age I can kick you out!”

“That's pretty much how my life went when I lived in that hell of a place, it's also why I hate orphans so much, they're assholes.” Techno could only sigh as he leaned his head harder against the tree,” I really thought I would be stuck there until I was an adult, but Phil came in and saved me from that, it was hard in the beginning as you might guess, Wilbur and I fought a lot.” Techno couldn’t help but chuckle at the memories, especially when anything golden colored was involved, which included Phil and his blond hair. Techno then reached out a finger to gently rub the borrower on the head, ruffling the black and white tresses,” But things worked out in the end, me and Wilbur are as close as blood brothers and my instincts view all you tiny nerds as my family too, the voices don’t shut up about you being the favorite.”

Boo boy. Sounder. Ours. Ee. favorite. Mini me. Ours. Ranboo!

Ranboo felt his face flush at the admission, Techno was never one to voice their feelings so openly to any of them, but here he is saying that he likes him. It made his tail wag in happiness, an action that Tubbo pointed out that he started doing again, much to his embarrassment. He brought his hands up to try and smoosh his hair back down,” We both came from some sad backgrounds, does that make us the main characters or something?” The giant body let out a rumbling laugh as Techno chuckled, almost making Ranboo fall off the leg he was sitting on, startling the borrower immensely due to the loud noise.

“The main characters huh, maybe on a internet blog, but I see myself as more of a mysterious mentor,” Techno finally got his chuffing under control as he looked down fondly at the borrower, until his eyes were drawn to movement on their left,” well would you look at that.”

Ranboo turned around to see a large turtle waddling its way towards them as fast as its little stout legs could take it, a very determined gleam in its orange eyes as it drew closer. He lightly panicked that the turtle would try to eat him, a snake had tried to eat Tubbo once, so who’s to say that a turtle wouldn’t try with him. He scrambled higher onto Techno’s body as he wanted to be out of the turtles reach as possible, but was stopped by a giant hand pulling him back down to the lap,”It’s alright Ranboo, that's just Carl, He’s a friendly box turtle and he wouldn’t eat you; didn’t Tommy.” Ranboo slowly peered over the pale fingers to find the turtle with its front legs placed on Techno’s as it looked at him with curiosity, but not any maliciousness. The hand slowly lowered enough that Ranboo was level with the turtle's face, a face that was as big as his torso, and looked up at Techno with worry. The giant just nodded with a gentle smile, causing a small bit of tusk to jut out,” he really likes his nose rubbed.” Ranboo gently reached his hand out, ready for the moment the turtle could bite for his fingers, but was amazed when it closed its eyes at his touch. The skin was slightly cool to the touch and almost felt like leather under his fingers, and like nothing he had ever touched before.

Techno watched the whole interaction with a softness at how he didn’t think was possible in his youth, here he was with a turtle leaning against his leg and a borrower sitting in his palm, it sent the voices into a fluttering warmth that left him slightly dizzy. He couldn’t help but chuckle when Carl turned his head away to give him an annoyed glare,” alright you spoiled thing, I got a carrot for you.” He reached with his free hand to pull the carrot he had swiped and offered it, smiling as the borrower took hold of it while the turtle happily munched away. A low rumble of thunder caused his ears to twitch slightly and the smell of incoming rain drifted into the clearing, and that meant this visit was coming to a end,” alright Ranboo it's time we head back, it's going to rain and I don’t want to see you get wet.” The borrower gave a sad sigh but gave Carl one last pet before climbing back up to his scarf, burrowing in to avoid any risk of water reaching them. Techno gave Carl a gentle stroke across his shell before standing, his pockets clicking with all the acorns as he stood with a groan, now wasn’t the time to go slow as another rumble of thunder sounded.

He was just starting a fast stride when a faint voice echoed from his neck, “Thanks for this Techno…Today was a good day”, before he felt the sensation of tiny arms wrapping around him the best they could. The small action sent him into a low rumbling that no doubt shook the borrower completely, but he was right, today was a good day to relax.

Phil could only sigh into his cup as the ceiling thudded above him as Wilbur was still chasing Tommy and Tubbo around the house, it seems like Wilbur is losing his touch. Maybe going on morning runs with Techno instead of sleeping in would do him good, but he would need to be drugged out of bed first. A loud yell of triumph almost made him drop his cup, leaving him to pinch his brow, why couldn’t he relax today.

#mcyt g/t #mcyt gt #mcyt g/t community #friends in the walls #jkknight story #I felt like shared crappy backstories would be nice bonding material

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