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avocado-writing · 2 months

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cutman

turns out I’m gonna keep being horny for hugh jackman. had a crush on him when I was 10 and I guess that hasn’t changed almost 20 years later. anyway here’s a fic where he’s in a cage fight and you’re his cutman xoxo

pairing: wolverine x reader

rating: explicit

cws: blood, injury details, smut (dirty talk, semi-public sex, rough sex)

The bell rings and Logan staggers back to you, the roar of the crowd meaning you have to get close in order to be heard. You grab ahold of his biceps and manoeuvre him into a chair. He goes without complaint, any effort to resist having to be reserved for the actual fight itself. Opposite him, the other guy goes to grab a glass of water and you are once again reminded of his sheer mass; he’s twice Logan’s size and built like a fucking freight train. He catches you watching and hits you with a greasy smile, and you turn in disgust back to your lover.

“How you holding up, honey?” you ask Logan, quickly glancing him over, getting a grunt in reply as he tries to refocus. He looks pretty bad. Bruising is flowering on his face and there’s a nasty gash on his forehead which is bleeding freely. You know he’ll heal up quick on his own, but you still get to work - pressing the ice-cold enswell to the worst of the spreading purple and dabbing at the blood with an epinephrine-soaked cotton swab.

You’ve been called the best cutman in the business. This is true, but the fact your primary patient can heal himself up is probably a bit of a bonus too. For Logan, you’re mostly here to soothe; soothe and observe.

“Okay, you’ve fucking got him, Logan. He’s weak on his left. He keeps trying to lead with his right hand which isn’t his dominant, I think he’s holding back because you’ve fucked his shoulder. If you don’t let him distract you, you can finish him off. You hear me?”

He focuses up at the smell of chemicals, eyes hazily locking in on you. Silhouetted by the grimy lights of this place, his vision not quite sharp yet, you have the hazy glow of a halo around you. An angel sent for him. The closest to heaven he’ll ever be.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a bloodied hand coming up to caress your face. You smile despite the smear of red he leaves on your cheek with his fingertips, clasping him close. You press a kiss into his palm.

“What did I say, handsome? Stay with me.”

“Don’t let him distract me. Go for his left.”

“Atta boy,” you say with a grin, one which Logan manages to mirror despite still feeling slightly concussed, your praise like a shot of adrenaline. You surge forward to kiss him and he meets you with enthusiasm. He’s drunk on the moment, on the fight, on you. You can taste the copper as your tongue slides against his, the roughness of his beard scraping your cheeks. The crowd cheers leerily but you both ignore it. You and him, that’s all there is, the pinprick of your existence in this vast world.

“I fucking love you,” he growls against your mouth. You nip at his lower lip, catching it for a second between your teeth in a promise of what’s to come later.

“Finish this guy off and take me home, Logan. I’ll fucking die if you’re not inside me tonight.”

When you pull back you will be wearing his blood as lipstick, warpaint; a reminder that you belong to each other.

He snarls, half-feral, and you think he might just take you there in the cage, in front of everyone who’s come to watch him fight. But the bell goes again to signal the start of the final round, and Logan staggers back to his feet instead.

He doesn’t even get you home.

When the fight is won and you’re hoarse from cheering his victory, he drags you into one of the dingy little bathrooms. It’s dark and definitely not soundproofed but the two of you don’t care. You run your tongue along that delicious vein in his bicep, tasting the salt off of his hot skin, and he grips your thighs so hard you know that he will leave bruises in the shape of his fingerprints.

“Mark me up, Logan. Let everyone see who I belong to, baby.”

“Fuck, such a dirty little mouth,” he growls, but you can hear the gruff chuckle in there too. He lifts you onto the sink like you weigh nothing, tearing at your belt and jeans so that he can get proper access to you. He’s rock hard, cock straining in his hand as he pulls himself out, and you wonder if he’s been this turned on since before the last round.

Usually you’d sink to your knees and encourage him to fuck your throat, let him bring you to tears before he made it up to you, but he has no such patience now. He needs to sheathe himself in you, find your tight heat and bury himself there again and again. He’s about to push inside when you grab his forearm.

He looks up with a glint of worry in his eye. You know, just for a second, that he thinks he’s hurt you. He’d stop if you asked him to, sweet little puppy. Instead you give him another ferocious kiss.

“I wanna turn around. Wanna watch you fuck me.” You nod to the dirty mirror over the sink and he makes a deep noise of agreement in the back of his throat, manhandling you so you can brace yourself on the porcelain.

You moan as he fucks inside of you with one vicious push, throwing your head back to reflect the long line of your neck. You see mirrored the dual look of feral desire and total adoration in his face as he fucks you like he’s been challenged to make your legs stop working. Holding on the best you can, you watch his injuries from the fight heal slowly, wounds stitching closed by themselves, bruises receding from purple to brown to nothing at all. It’s that sort of regeneration that makes him beg for you to draw blood when you bite him as you fuck, just to leave the proof on his body a little longer that you’ve been there. That you’ve loved him.

“Fucking love you, Logan,” you cry out as he slams so hard into you he threatens to break the fucking sink. He leans over and grabs you by the hair, moving your face so that he can kiss you with more teeth and tongue than lips. You love it.

“Mine,” he chokes. You wrap your little hands round one of his, bloodied and rough.

“Mine,” you echo back, sinking your teeth in.

#my writing #james logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x reader #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #x men x reader #logan howlett imagine #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #mcu imagine #mcu x-men #logan #wolverine fanfiction #mcu fandom

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bunnyreaper · 9 months

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captain mactavish's reputation precedes him, and yet standing before you as he does now, you can't help but wonder if something got lost in translation.

soap is a riot once you get him going! he used to be even wilder, if you can believe it. always was up for a laugh as a sergeant!

the man before you looks a little grizzled with age--stubble growing out to a beard, face smeared with black warpaint, and yet beneath thick brows, his blue eyes still sparkle despite his glower. handsome though, still incredibly handsome--which in your mind, is a problematic trait for a captain to have, especially one commanding you.

he chats away to one of his sergeants, seemingly unaware of your presence on the periphery. assignment to this task force is only temporary, you reassure yourself. facing the captain's offensive good looks and intimidating demeanour will last a couple of weeks at most.

taking a breath, you step forward, just outside of the circle of captain mactavish and his sergeants. all eyes fall to you, but his are the ones you can't tear your gaze from. he seems to scrutinise you for a moment, cerulean eyes flickering up and down your form.

"you on ma team?" his voice isn't what you expected, and his accent is delicious--you know you're capable of remaining professional despite it all.

"yes sir." you chirp back instantly, obediently--hoping to not get on the wrong side of your newfound crush.

he nods once at each of his soldiers, dismissing them before turning and heading in the direction of the nearby truck. it takes a moment for you to process before your legs catch up to your thoughts and you start following the captain.

"keep up then lass, let's go." he calls over his shoulder, before stopping at the passenger side door.

it's strange how he opens it for you, watching with intense eyes as you pull your gun into your lap and sink into the seat. captain mactavish takes the driver's seat, and quickly gets the car going down the dirt track.

your thoughts start to flood back to you now you're settled in the truck and have a few moments to think before you really need to get your head in the game.

was the captain not expecting your assignment? it was rather rushed, even taking you by surprise. you'd only just had the chance to ask around about the captain before you were on the next flight over. perhaps you should introduce yourself properly.

"i'm--"

your words are cut off before you can even get out your name. "i ken who ye are." he says, voice a little deadpan and jaw a little tight--it makes your heart fall in a way it certainly shouldn't.

the whole situation just left you perplexed. it seemed captain john mactavish definitely contained multitudes, and the gruff man you saw before you was what you would get while you were out on the field.

"then why did you ask if I was the one on your team?" you ask, determined to not fall silent lest the atmosphere suffocate you.

the captain throws his hand over the back of your seat, eyes meeting yours only briefly before he checks the view out of the back of the truck and starts reversing at speed.

"jus' wanted to hear ye say 'yes sir.'"

he glances back to you as he jerks the car around. a smirk tugs at his lips, and then he throws you a wink as you finally get to see that playful side you were promised. "sounds so pretty coming from yer mouth, doll."

#soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap mw2 #call of duty x reader #call of duty fanfiction #bunny writes

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justyn1 · 5 months

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The Spycrab. Why does it exist?

What is a Spycrab?

A Spycrab is an iconic animation bug for the Spy from Team Fortress 2. This bug was introduced since the game’s launch in 2007 and still exists today!

youtube

This post will cover on what causes this bug happen, how to fix it, and why it SHOULDN’T be fixed.

Debugging the Spycrab

First we need to know how do you become a Spycrab in TF2. To become a Spycrab the player have to pull out the disguise kit, crouch, look up, then start moving in any direction.

This give us a clue on what’s going on. The issue is related to looking around while crouching with the Spy’s disguise kit. We can take a look at how Valve setup the Spy’s animations since they provided the model sources in the Source SDK. Let’s take a look at spy_movement.qci since that’s where they handle all of the animations related to moving around. From this point I will refer the disguise kit as PDA since that’s what it called in the sources. Looking at the entry for Crouch_PDA and Crouch_Walk_PDA everything seems to be written correctly. Theres nothing wrong with the code itself

Line 15: $sequence Crouch_PDA PDA_crouch_idle loop alignto a_reference addlayer PDA_aimmatrix_crouch_idle activity ACT_MP_CROUCH_PDA 1

Line 424: $MPCrouchWalkWithWeapon Crouch_Walk_PDA 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 PDA_crouch_walkN PDA_crouch_walkCenter PDA_aimmatrix_crouch_idle ACT_MP_CROUCHWALK_PDA $infoNode$

This means that the issue is coming from one of the animations itself. Lets load up the PDA crouch animations in SFM and compare with the normal stand up animations.

Everything looks fine however there’s something odd with the pda_aimmatrix_crouch_idle animation. It’s in a different pose entirely! To summarize what a aim matrix do, the animator put the character in various poses mimicking that the character is looking around. The game will take those poses and blend between them depending on what direction the player is looking. Generally you don’t want to stray way from the idle pose too much since it can cause potential problems when blending between various poses at once.

With closer inspection, it seems the pda_aimmatrix_crouch_idle animation is actually an early version of the spy’s knife aim matrix animation. Here’s both aim matrices side by side.

The Fix

Now knowing that the bug is created by accidentally exporting another aim matrix animation for the wrong weapon. The fix is actually very simple! Without touching the animation files itself. We can go into the spy_movement.qci and replace any mention of pda_aimmatrix_crouch_idle with pda_aimmatrix_idle and that’s it! Compiling spy_animations.qc and loading up TF2 we will see the Spycrab no longer works.

But should this bug really be fixed?

This is the part where I tell you that the Spycrab bug should never be fixed in TF2. Even though this bug was stemmed from a mistake and it’s pretty simple to fix. This bug should never be fixed purely because it’s very important for the game’s history and community. After this bug was discovered and popularized back in 2008. It spawns plenty of memes within the community and in-game references from community cosmetics and unusuals, an official rare taunt for the disguise kit, warpaints, and a poster from the map Carnival of Carnage a Halloween reskin of Doomsday.

Hopefully this post provide some interesting insight on how this iconic bug was created and the process of debugging animations in Source Engine!

#tf2 #tf2 spy #source engine #Youtube

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deathbecomesthem · 2 months

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Basement Apartment - Part 1 of 2

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader - 4.8K

+18 ONLY - Minors DNI

Summary - It's 2001, and you've just moved into this new basement apartment. It's not so bad, except for the neighbor directly above your bedroom.

Contains a mean reader (kinda). Both parts have their smutty stuff, but part 2 will go a lot harder. Reader is bisexual. This is kind of an enemies to lovers deal. Sorta. Alcohol. Use of derogatory language against Eddie.

A/N: Thank you @jo-harrington for loving this story, and thank you for editing this at a moment's notice. Love you forever.

---

No. No. No. Not again. It’s 2:07 on Wednesday morning, and it’s happening again. You know it’s going to be at least an hour, probably longer, before it’s quiet enough for you to sleep. You know the routine at this point. Different partners, but the play-by-play appears to be the same. You could set your clock by it at this point. You don’t begrudge your neighbor his fun, lord knows you like having a good time, but fucking hell - can he remember he’s in a building with thin walls and neighbors that have to wake up early for work in the morning?

The anger’s been building inside since that first night. Tonight, you’re pushed over the limit. His stamina is impressive. The knock, knock, knocking of the headboard against the outer wall of both of your bedrooms is a familiar sound that alone wouldn’t keep you up. It’s the moaning, the occasional *SLAP* that makes your eyes pop open. An unpleasant surprise scream of, “Daddy!” sets your teeth on edge. You can hear his rhythm falter at the word, and it makes you huff a laugh under your breath. She won’t be coming back tomorrow night. Must not be his thing - you try hard not to think about why you care, and still make the mental note. It’s not your thing either.

Your current thing is getting at least 6 consecutive hours of sleep when you have to wake up at 7:00 am and be able to function in the office. You’re absolutely done and ready to make a scene. It’s been almost a month in your new place, and it’s clear that Mr. Upstairs is not slowing down. Mary, your roomie, has been begging you to be cool, begging you to let it go, but her room isn’t directly beneath a fucking brothel. See, Mary has already met one of the guys in the apartment upstairs, and she’s smitten. “He’s tall, gorgeous green eyes, and his hair. Oh my god, his hair.” Oh, his hair, oh my god. Vomit. If you hear any more about this guy’s hair, you’re going to light it on fire. Plus, what if he’s the one that’s been fucking the entire city’s worth of girls right above your own bed? Mary refuses to believe it.

Your clock reads 3:30 when the noises stop, and you’re able to sleep. Your alarm is set for 6:30, giving you plenty of time to get ready for work and still have time to hike up the stairs and meet the dickhead of a neighbor. You have no idea what you expect him to do about his noise issue, but you’re sure as hell going to give him a piece of your mind. He can get his rocks off in his living room as long as you don’t have to listen to him saying, “oh, fuck. Your pussy is so good, I’m gonna cum,” one more time. It’s the same script with every person he brings home. As you drift off, your brain scrolls through ideas - things you could do to make this man lose enough brain function to be able to form speech.

*BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP*

You shower. You brush your teeth. You fix your hair. You put on your (warpaint) makeup. You pour your coffee into a travel mug. You pack your briefcase. You feed the cat. You do all of your morning things while seething with anger. You make sure to keep it at the forefront of your mind. The fucking noises. You’re so tired, and your day hasn’t even started yet. You march your ass up the stairs in your heels and wool pencil skirt and knock. Loudly. You kept knocking. You aren’t leaving until you have some satisfaction. You check your watch. Shit. You start pounding.

You hear noises behind the door marked 2A, a grumbling. “Hold on!” An angry shout directed at the person pounding on the door. You. The door jerks open. Grey sweats, bare feet, bare chest, oh god the tattoos, long curly hair, and brown eyes. Not green. Not Mary’s guy. Mr. Brown Eyes is smiling at you, annoyance forgotten. “Good morning, Sweetheart. What can I help you with.”

Oh, no. It’s him. You scoff and frown. Your eyebrows are drawn together while you take in the sight of him in the new context. The grin spread across his full lips infuriates you, his charms are lost on you. Maybe it would work better if you weren’t currently surviving on less than 4 hours of sleep. You can feel heat creeping up your neck and down the line of your jaw.

“Hi, yeah. So, I live downstairs. You can absolutely do me a favor.” You smile at him with teeth, and he thinks his charms are working on you. He’s so wrong. That cocky bullshit never works with you. He returns your wide grin with one of his own. “I’m hoping that in the future you could take a moment to remember the fact that you have a neighbor downstairs that can hear you fucking the night away and keep it down.” His smile fathers - you go in for the kill, “Or at least maybe up your game. I’m getting really fucking tired of hearing the same shit with every girl you bring home.” You drop your voice to imitate his, “Oh, fuck. Your pussy’s so good, I’m gonna cum.”

You take a quick look at your watch while the half naked man in front of you flounders. His chest and neck are flushed red by the time you turn on your heel and stomp towards the back door of the building. You’re going to be late, you add it to the list of reasons to hate that fucking guy. Selfish dick.

You turn back to push open the door and call back, “Thanks so much, Daddy.”

–

The office is quiet when you let yourself in, but it doesn’t fool you. The stack of papers you left Friday afternoon are still waiting for you after you drop your lunch in the fridge and sit down. On cue, the phone rings, and you’re still pulling out a pen and legal pad when you answer it. Fucking Mondays. Everyone needs something from you, and you provide. It’s what you do. You think some day you’ll wake up empty, but it hasn’t happened yet.

You bite back a yawn and take a scalding gulp of the coffee from your Garfield mug. You hiss a little and wonder if there are scars on your esophagus from the acid and burning liquid. The taste of the weak Maxwell House brew is a reminder to get to work. No time to worry about the possible deterioration of your body, you put a rubber thimble on your thumb and get to the stack of mail sitting expectantly on the edge of your desk.

“Morning, Sunshine.” Mr. Misny comes through the door like a hurricane force wind, just like every morning. Even the smile he wears is meant to intimidate, but you know that and let it feed the anger inside. “What’s my morning look like?”

“Carrington and Hodges at 9:15,” you put your hand up to stop the protest you can see rising up your boss’s throat, “it was the only time they could both make it. You’ll have to eat your pastry while you talk about their case. I saved a couple of hours for brief writing before your early afternoon meetings.”

“Well, aren’t you a peach?” Mr. Misny’s comically expressive eyebrows shoot up and his lips curl with a smile that has an edge. “What would I do without you, hm?”

You’d hire someone else for less than they’re worth and condescendingly thank them while never actually respecting the hard work they perform.

“You’d probably be late for every meeting.” You answer coolly. You can’t help but add, “Checks speak louder than words, Tim.”

He laughs at your “joke” and heads into his office, shaking his head all the way. He won’t be laughing when you finally turn in your resignation letter, but that won’t be today. Today you need to do this job that pays measly wages so you can afford your shitty little apartment. Your shitty little apartment where you can only sleep a couple of nights a week because of the son of a bitch that lives upstairs.

But he’s gorgeous. You slam the stapler down on the stack of papers in front of you at the thought. He’s gorgeous, and it only makes you angrier to have that visual frame of reference when you hear his headboard knocking on your shared wall.

—

The day passes in front of you, and it’s not until your wristwatch chirps to remind you that it’s 4:30 that you realize you forgot to eat your lunch. Again. The alarm seems to have awoken your stomach, it growls angrily while you shove half finished work items into the drawers at your side and power down your word processing machine. When you leave your desk, it’s in perfect order, all the clutter is hidden away. Your inbox is empty, your outbox is half full, and your pens are all put away. You were able to spend several hours transcribing today, and your head was pounding from having to listen to your boss’s voice over the headset for so long. Your mood is, as it was this morning, on the very edge of quiet rage. Your car coughs to life, and you think it’s as annoyed as you are today. That seems appropriate.

The drive is easy and quiet, a small blessing, the icy patches on the road are covered with fresh salt that crunches under your tires. You can’t find it in yourself to be grateful for it, your mind too fogged over with hunger and exhaustion. You’re sleeping tonight, and it doesn’t matter if you have to knock your neighbor unconscious to achieve a quiet night.

Your luck runs out when you find the lock to the front of your apartment building frozen, and you lose your balance. You curse your impractical footwear and march angrily, and cautiously, to the back entrance and let yourself in. FInally. You scowl at apartment 1 and make your way down to the darker hallway where the laundry room, and your apartment, are located. There’s a brown paper bag taped to the door just under the number 2. There’s a note attached. You pull it down to read while you fiddle with your keys to unlock the last door between you and your refrigerator.

Pretty Neighbor Lady,

I’m so sorry we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe these will help with our little problem. Consider it a gift. Stop by any time, I’d love to see you again.

-Eddie in apartment 2

You don’t even wait until you get inside the apartment before you tear open the bag to see what could possibly be hiding inside. A small cardboard box that contains - are you fucking kidding me - foam earplugs. The same kind your father used to wear when he worked at the warehouse. You write the name “Eddie” at the top of your mental scorecard. “Eddie”, a real piece of work.

—

Merciful silence. That’s the only way to describe the way the rest of the week goes. You don’t hear a sound from the man that lives above you. You almost wonder if he’s unwell, but you’ve caught sight of him in the parking lot a couple of times and he seems perfectly fine. You hadn’t expected it to work, but you’re glad you confronted him when you did.

By the time Friday afternoon rolls around, you’re full of happy thoughts of napping with Henry, your orange tabby, before getting properly wasted and finding someone to pass the time with. It’s been too long, and you deserve this.

Your apartment is dark when you get home, no Mary to be found. Henry has already assumed his nap position in your bed. You scratch behind his ear, and he chirps in response. Sweet boy. The shirt you want to wear out tonight, a red deep v-neck sweater, is on the top of your dirty laundry pile. It’s a sign, so you grab the basket and make your way across the hall to the laundry room. You can sleep once you start a load, you’ll thank yourself later. Last minute, you decide to throw in the outfit you’re wearing, and slip into a tank top and shorts. Ridiculous choice for this time of year, but the basement stays nice and warm - actually uncomfortably warm most of the time - laundry room included.

You’re relieved to find the washer and dryer silent. You count it as a small win until you open the washer and find it full of wet clothes. You’re tempted to throw the clothes onto the counter beside you, but decide against it. No need to make enemies, or any more enemies, in the building. Fine, asshole. I’ll dry your clothes. You’re lucky you have 2 rolls of quarters on you. 50 cents is worth keeping the peace.

What you find in the washer are - 2 pairs of black jeans, several black button ups, a couple of band t-shirts, black boxers, and grey sweatpants. You should have known that this is the kind person he is - leaving his wet boxers in a communal washing machine with no thought about the person that would have to stick their hands in to fish them out. With delicate fingers, you pull out each article of clothing with the tips of your fingers, and you fling them into the open dryer. You’re not aware of the audible grumbling coming from your mouth while you do the unpleasant task.

“Well, howdy neighbor! You’re an absolute sweetheart for switching my laundry for me.” The voice from the entryway makes you jump. You immediately straighten your back and ignore him. You ignore the steps you hear moving, sauntering, towards you, and keep focused on the job at hand. “You should stop by tonight,” he’s much closer now, his low voice and heavy presence at your back, “your roommate’s upstairs with Stevie right now. We could all get to know each other, all friendly neighbors.”

You slam the top of the washing down and spin to face him. He’s directly behind you, close enough to smell him. Cologne - Brut maybe? - cigarette smoke, and faintly of weed. He stands over you like a tower, but you don’t step back. You hold his gaze and wait. You, in your too short shorts and paint speckled tank top wearing an armor of barely suppressed rage. He breaks eye contact to look at you. You watch his eyes widen at the sight of the tattoos. His lips twitch when he sees the barbells poking through the thin fabric of your shirt. All of these things are so well hidden under the blazers and dress pants Monday through Friday.

“I would really like to take you out for a drink,” Eddie’s eyes are locked on yours again, only this time he seems to have shrunk down a little. He seems smaller than he did just a moment ago. It stirs a strange feeling in your stomach that you ignore.

“Thanks so much for the offer, neighbor, but I have plans tonight. Please, get your shit out of the dryer when it’s done. I’d hate for you to find it all over the concrete if you forget.” You push past him, heading towards your apartment door and hear him groan behind you.

“Come on, Sweetheart. You need to loosen up, get that stick out of your ass. I bet I could help with that.”

You turn around and press your back against the metal door of your apartment and crook a finger at him. He’s so cocky, you’re thinking while the smile spreads across his lips and he makes his way closer to you, I’d love to bend him over my knee right here in this hallway.

“Come here.” You crook your finger at him. Eddie’s giving you a dopey smile as he sashays close, bringing his ear down closer to your mouth. He smells like shampoo and Irish Spring, clean with a hint of something - probably his skin - that makes you want to stick your tongue out and taste him. Instead, you rest your fingers at the base of his neck. You keep your tone soft, and put on the best sultry voice you can muster outside of a bedroom, “Don’t you worry about what’s up my ass, Sweetheart. I don’t let cocky little whores anywhere near it.”

Eddie is a statue. You’d think him made of stone if not for the quickening pulse you feel under your fingertips. You stand up on the balls of your feet to give yourself a couple extra inches, angling your mouth even closer to his ear, and whisper, “What about your ass, Baby?”

You give Eddie an exaggerated frown and push him away from you, moving the hand from his neck down to his chest. You leave him there, mouth open but no words coming from it, and slam your apartment door behind you. There’s a fire in your gut, and you need to remove yourself from the presence of that menace of a man before it begins to spread from under your skin and into the open.

You make a beeline straight for your bedroom. That fire continues to grow through your anger and irritation. How dare he? It’s not a thing you can control, the way your body reacts to the sight of him with those low slung grey sweatpants. The pretty curve of his lips. Those brown eyes. In your mind you can envision him here with you. His arms are stretched up high, wrists strung up to your headboard. He’s moaning at the sight of you with your little bullet vibrator placed firmly to ease your ache.

Except, the noises you’re hearing are not in your mind at this moment, they’re drifting down that open vent. You bite your lip and press the vibrator harder at the realization. The taste of coppery blood hits your tongue, you can’t let him hear you. He doesn’t deserve it. You listen to him cry out in pleasure, pretty noises that push you right to the edge of your own cliff. A soft whimper is what causes you to stumble. Your release is a flood, and you have to turn your face to let your own cries die in the safety of your pillow.

He’s loud, even when he’s fucking his own fist, and you’re done for. You’re biting your lip so hard, not wanting him to hear you. He doesn’t deserve it. He needs to earn it. Your teeth clamped so hard you taste blood by the time the pleasure is done rippling through your body. He’s still moaning like a bitch, and you fall asleep to the sound, only waking when your watch alerts you that it’s time to switch your laundry.

The washroom light is on, and your laundry is already tumbling in the dryer. Your sweaters, bras, and underwear are spread along the table in the corner to air dry. There’s a note sitting on the dryer 1A written on the outside.

I hope this makes your life easier,

Your cocky little whore,

Eddie

You close your eyes and imagine him holding your delicates in his hands, gently placing them flat to dry. This is bad, very bad.

—

Makeup first. Black eyeliner thick around your eyes, Mary always says it’s too much. She once introduced you as “her roommate that wears too much black eyeliner”, but it makes you feel so sexy. A red lip. You fish around your jewelry box to find your favorite choker and the cute bat earrings that were a gift from an ex-boyfriend. It’s been too long since you were able to dress this way - the way you like. Sheer black pantyhose, black boots, black mini skirt, and a red deep v sweater.

You’re going out, even if Mary stays in with Mr. Green Eyes and Mr. Grey Sweatpants - Eddie.

You’ll find someone tonight, maybe you’ll even bring them back here. It’s fun to imagine Eddie in his bed listening to the sounds of you and someone else. You imagine him reaching a hand under the waistband of his sweats. You think of him with his mouth hanging open while trying to hold back the sounds that you know like to escape while he’s touching himself. You clear your throat and shake the image out of your mind.

It was yesterday evening that you realized the heating vent in your room must lead directly up to his own room. It’s the only explanation for how clearly you can hear him. You could make him jealous if you really wanted. Jealous of you or your hypothetical partner. Man, woman…it doesn’t matter, and he wasn’t the only one that knew how to make a woman scream, although you prefer when they listen and keep quiet. It’s rude to be too loud when you live in an apartment building. You dick.

You make a detour to 2A to give Mary a chance to come with you before you head downtown. The guy that answers the door is a little taller than Eddie and very pretty. He’s wearing a polo shirt and tight jeans, his hair is so stupidly gorgeous. His eyes bug out a bit when he sees you at his door but recovers with a friendly smile. “Hey, I’m your neighbor in 1A, I was looking for- oh there she is.”

Mary is sitting on the couch with a beer in her hand, and she gives you a wave. “I’m so sorry, I lost track of time. Don’t be mad!” You shake your head and point your finger at your roommate. “You owe me. I take it I’m flying solo tonight?” Her eyes are squinting and she’s giving you a pained smile.

“I would say you could stay and hang out with us, but you look like you’re ready for more of a party than I can offer.” The guy, Stevie, you remember Eddie calling him that, is giving you a genuine smile. You’re returning it with ease, because he really does seem like a nice guy. “Yeah, next time? Have fun you two.” You’re wearing your best smile so they know there’s no hard feelings and head out into the night.

The walk is chilly, but your building is only a half a mile from the bars downtown. It was one of the reasons you were willing to move into the shitty basement apartment. That and the easy access to the laundry room. Your purse has the essentials. Wallet, mace, lipstick, condoms, collapsible baton, and camels. Your keys sit on your hip attached to your wallet chain. You know there would be at least a couple of bars that had bands playing tonight. Musicians are reliably horny, even though most of the time you end up regretting letting them into your bed.

The bright lights in the first bar, along with the house music, are an absolute no for you. You walk in, look around the room, and immediately head back out. The next bar has pool tables lined up in the back room. Lots of dudes turn to look at you when you enter, and you grip the handle of your purse. Leers sweeping from your hair to your boots. You smoothly turn and leave before anyone can talk to you. Bar number 3, however, is smokey and you can hear someone performing a mic check. A mix of leather clad men, women, and everything in between. The bartender has a flannel tied around her waist and an undercut. Winner.

“Hey sweetie, what can I get for you.” The bartender is very pretty up close, and openly scanning your chest. You’re giving her a wolfish grin and looking up to the ceiling with a finger on your lips, as if thinking hard.

“Oh, I think I’d like a double Jameson straight up.” You blink your eyes at her and she’s laughing at your antics while she gets your drink. “What can you tell me about the band tonight?”

“Metal. The guys play here pretty often. Corroded Coffin. The crowd is pretty fun, even if you’re not into the music.” Definitely not your typical scene, but you like this place, and you’re willing to let the music work magic on the crowd.

You’re reaching into your wallet for a card to hand over to start a tab. You’re thinking about suggesting the bartender keep you in mind at the end of the night, you’re sure she’d be up for passing some time with you, when you feel a familiar presence at your side.

“Jeannie, how are you tonight?” A hand is on your own, halting its movement. You know this voice. Are you kidding me? “Whatever this pretty lady wants is on our tab tonight, ok?” Jeannie’s eyebrows are high enough that they’re almost lost in her microbangs. She looks to you for confirmation, and you shake your head.

“She’s saying no, Ed.” Jeannie shrugs a little and accepts your card. “Shocking, I know.” She’s laughing at him a little, and you’re loving it. His eyes finally find your own, and he’s frowning. Sad puppy eyes. They sparkle. An effective weapon.

“Come on, you gotta give me something here. You’re killing me.” Eddie sounds genuinely pained. Butterflies beat their wings in your gut at the thought of disappointing him.

“Oh, Baby, I’m so sorry. I’m paying for myself tonight.” You place your hand on his neck and pull him close to your face while his eyes stay on your cherry red lips. “Think I might have a shot with Jeannie tonight?”

His mouth lets out a little noise that you’d swear was a whimper. It’s then that the music changes from the metal that’s been blaring over the speakers to Peaches. Fuck the Pain Away. Jeannie is laughing behind the counter, she must have put the song on while you and Eddie were sparring.

Eddie is glaring at you with eyes that are not shiny and sweet - they’re black pools. The grin creeping on his lips is sinister. He leans into your ear to make sure you can hear what he’s got to say over the thumping music. “Do me a favor, yeah? Bring Jeannie out on the dance floor when she’s on her break. I want to see you move.”

He’s gone now, and you knock back your drink. Of course, he’s heading to the stage just as Peaches is chanting for the crowd to fuck the pain away, and Jeannie is refilling your glass. “This one’s on me, Sugar. I like watching someone put Eddie in his place.” Yeah, well he just did a good job of keeping me sitting firmly on this stool, you don’t say. You can feel heat in your chest that’s creeping up your neck, a mix of embarrassment and lust hot on your skin.

And it’s no surprise to you that he is sex on fire on the stage. You fully understand it now. You see the fuller picture of him while he’s at center stage, everything else fades to black. All of the girls that he brings into his bed. His leather jacket is tossed to the side and he’s wearing a crop top sleeveless shirt. His fingers move on his guitar, a fucking Warlock, and your eyes are glued to him. When he starts to sing, you feel like you can’t breathe. You’re warm all over, and it’s not because of the crowd. No, it’s because he’s watching you watch him. You can’t stop yourself. It’s like you two are the only ones in this crowded bar, and he’s hypnotizing you.

You have no idea how long it’s been when Jeannie is coming around the bar to tell you her break is starting. You grab her hand and drag her to the floor. It’s in between songs, and you see Eddie yell back to the rest of the band. The next song is a major departure from the rest of the band’s set, and you know it’s for you, so you make it count. The guitar riff starts, and you circle around Jeannie eyes on Eddie. The drums start and you’re moving your hips to the rhythm. The crowd is moving as one and the energy is palpable. Jeannie is laughing, you made sure to whisper to her about the show you’re putting on for Eddie. You both dance together, your hands never leaving the bartender once during Thunderstruck. When the song ends, you see Eddie adjust his (very tight) jeans, and you leave the floor, dragging Jeannie out the back door and into the alley.

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you

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popcat69 · 1 year

Text

Incorrect Tmnt quotes

Mikey: What does 'take out' mean? Donnie: Food. Leo: Dating Raph: Murder Y/n: IT CAN MEAN ALL THREE IF YOU'RE NOT A COWARD.

Donnie: Favourite horror movie?

Mikey: It

Raph: Saw

Leo: Annabelle

Y/n: High School Musical. after watching it I spent all my middle school years terrified that the entire school would start singing something and I’d be the only one who didn’t know the lyrics

Leo: Croissants: dropped

Raph: Road: works ahead

Y/n: BBQ sauce: on my titties

April: Shavacado: fre

Mikey: Miss Keisha: fuckin dead

Donnie:

Donnie: I didn’t understand a single word of that and I hate every single one of you.

Y/n: Change is inedible.

Donnie: Don't you mean inevitable?

Y/n, spitting out coins: No, I did not.

Mikey: Hey Donnie,

Donnie: Yes?

Mikey: Can a person breathe inside a washing machine while it’s on?

Donnie:

Donnie: Where’s Y/n?

Donnie: April isn’t answering their phone

Y/n: I’ll call

Donnie: Casey and I have both tried six times each, what makes you thi-

April: Hello?

Y/n: Top 30 reasons why y/n is sorry... Number 5 will surprise you!

Raph: Top 30 anime deaths. Number One: YOUR FUCKING ASS RIGHT NOW!!!

Mikey: I'm incredibly fast at maths.

Y/n: Alright, what's 30x17?

Mikey: 47

Y/n: That's not even close.

Mikey: But it was fast.

Donnie: Would you guys be there for me if I was going through something?

Raph: Nope, absolutely not.

Leo: I hope it sucks, whatever you're going through.

Mikey: I hope it emotionally scars you for the rest of your life.

Casey: I hope you reach out to me so I can ignore you.

Y/n: I can't wait to go to your funeral, knowing I could've changed that outcome.

*Everyone is standing around the broken coffee maker*

Splinter: So. Who broke it? I'm not mad, I just wanna know.

Everyone:

Leo: ...I did. I broke it.

Splinter: No. No you didn't. Mikey?

Mikey: Don't look at me. Look at Y/n.

Y/n: What?! I didn't break it.

Mikey: Huh, that's weird. How'd you even know it was broken?

Y/n: Because it's sitting right in front of us and it's broken.

Mikey: Suspicious.

Y/n: No, it's not!

Raph: If it matters, probably not, but April was the last one to use it.

April: Liar! I don't even drink that crap!

Raph: Oh really? Then what were you doing by the coffee cart earlier?

April: I use the wooden stirrers to push back my cuticles. Everyone knows that, Raph!

Leo: Okay let's not fight. I broke it. Let me pay for it, person A.

Splinter: No! Who broke it!?

Everyone:

Raph: Splinter... Donnie’s been awfully quiet.

Donnie: rEALLY?!

*Everyone starts arguing*

Splinter, being interviewed: I broke it. I burned my hand so I punched it.

Splinter: I predict 10 minutes from now they'll be at each other's throats with warpaint on their faces and a pig head on a stick.

Splinter:

Splinter: Good. It was getting a little chummy around here.

'Can I copy the homework?'

Donnie: I can help you with it!

April: Yeah, sure.

Y/n: Bold of you to assume I did the homework.

Raph: lol nope.

Mikey: Wait, we had homework?!?!?!

Leo: *Read 5:55pm*

Leo: bitches b like “im baby” but have childhood trauma and neglect like wtf do u know about being baby u were forced to grow up from an early age anyways I’m bitches

Leo, driving y/n and April: So how was your day?

Y/n: We almost got surprise adopted!

Leo: What?

April: We almost got kidnapped.

Leo: Oh, okay.

Leo: *slams on the breaks* WAIT WHAT?!

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simp4konig · 2 months

Text

I'm undecided as to whether or not Nikto would ever show his lover (you) his face willingly — and if so, how he would go about it... 😟❤️‍🩹

I'm torn between him putting it off as long as he can put it off for, so paranoid by the prospect that the sight of his mangled face will repulse you, that it becomes a phobia that his traumatised mind justifies.

Nikto valued you over anything, and should the sight of his face — irreversibly disfigured and ugly — look utterly repulsive and nauseating to you, it would devastate him.

So, with that said, perhaps Nikto would wear the mask always, parting with it never, ever, and refuse to be seen without the reinforced plastic mask strapped tight to his thick skill — with a black balaclava beneath just for safe measure. Only when you'd be soundly asleep would he brush his teeth and wash his face, cursing silently in Russian at the hideous face that stared back at him in the mirror. A stranger who he couldn't recognise.

I doubt he'd be able to raise this with you, and I headcanon that you would feel sheepish to ask. At this rate, he would never, ever take off the mask, for as long as he could help it. And any glimpse of his profile would have been on accident, and a secret that you'd keep to yourself. Out of respect for his privacy, you'd never sneak a peek behind the rare door left ajar, closing it quietly for Nikto before he realised his mishap.

Or, Nikto, considered the nobody, no one worthy of your love, thinks that if his stoic personality and traumatised self haven't done enough to drive you away from him, surely the fact that he is an ugly brute ought to do so? Surely you'd come to terms with how he doesn't deserve you, and that you deserve better? Deserve better than a shell of the man that he once was?

Because you were too good to be true. There was no reality in which a sweet little one like you would love this repugnant, disfigured face, even if his dick — miraculously in one piece — satisfied you and the scarred tissue after chemical burns and scars on his body alone weren't a sore sight to begin with. He didn't deserve someone so lovely, so loving, the epitome of beauty. The complete contrast of him.

So, thinking, “Fuck it”, having convinced himself that you'll inevitably leave when you see the face he keeps hidden from view anyways, he rationalises his impulsive action as not prolonging the inevitable. As not getting his hopes up and letting himself be disappointed later when he won't be able to imagine his life without you.

Maybe Nikto would impulsively discard the mask on the ceramic sink after a shower, and exit the bathroom nonchalantly, his expression emotionless and unreadable to conceal the inner turmoil and hurricane of emotions like a whirlwind in his mind, silently awaiting your approval. Maybe Nikto would surprise you by having you in his arms after a long deployment, and catch you off-guard by his face, laid bare for you to see and criticise. Maybe Nikto would ask you to help him paint his eyes with black warpaint, pretending to need help, when in reality it was simply an excuse and a test. To see if his face would shock you.

In any case, whatever the case, Nikto would feign indifference, appearing uncaring, when he was internally in turmoil, a violent storm of emotions like a whirlwind in his mind.

Were you repulsed? Did the scar tissue from chemical burns on one side of his face disgust you? Did that lifted lip — cut when he was tortured — resembling an animal’s snarl make you visibly cringe? Was the hooked nose that had been broken so many times that it was permanently off-center and deformed, the root of his snoring and inability to breathe, make you grimace? What about his crooked teeth? His thin, cracked lips? Those stained, out-of-shape teeth really that bad to look at? The bald patches of closely-cropped, prematurely grey hair on his scalp that would never regrow a full head of hair? The sunken cheeks? The hollow eyes? The slight concave to his jawline?

He noticed the initial wince, the reaction that came instinctively, which hurt regardless, even after having had braced himself for that grimace.

Bozhe. Stop looking at him with sympathy with those earnest eyes. Don't pity him. Don't pity him. Don't pity him.

Yet, when your eyes wouldn't linger on any specific aspect of his face, and you would offer him a smile that reached your eyes, the stormclouds would calm, and the intrusive thoughts slowly dissipate.

TL:DR, either Nikto will never show his face to his lover, or will do so impulsively.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N

Couldn't sleep, so I decided to brainstorm Nikto drabbles 😍😍❣️❣️❣️

My neighbour wouldn't stfu. GOD I hate my street!!!!! 😡😡😡👊👊✊👊👊✊💥💥💥💥💥🥊🥊🥊🥊 (and Linda!!!!!! )

The description of Nikto's face is a compilation of my own headcanons. 🥹 (I want to kiss him SO BAD 😣💔💔💔)

This was going to go in another direction, but I have another Nikto work coming after I realised that I could write a separate ficlet 🤭✨✨

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healpimp · 4 months

Text

#FixTF2 Masterpost: Important Information Regarding the Movement

As promised, here is a comprehensive post about the #FixTF2 movement, the issues it tries to bring up and where to find more information and follow developments.

It is now day 7 of the protest with no response form Valve. Either this is them trying to wait for this to blow over or waiting for the signatures of the petition to be printed out and brought to their office, or they are still preparing a proper response to the movement. Regardless, this protest is still ongoing.

❓What's going on with TF2?❓

I'm sure everyone and their grandma knows by now, but TF2's most popular game mode, Casual, has been plagued by bots for several years by now. This is in fact not the first attempted protest and you may have heard of the one conducted two years ago named #SaveTF2. The movement wrested a response from Valve, which since the first protest has earned infamy and a status as a blatant lie among the game's players.

However, this task has seemingly been abandoned entirely. The last time in recent memory with no bots was when the game upgraded from 32-bit to 64-bit, which seemed to break the bots for a while. This was something the bothosters remedied a few days later, and no steps to remove them from the game has been made ever since.

It is worth mentioning that TF2 has had updates to battle the bot issue many times after #SaveTF2. They did indeed move to make TF2 a bot-free game for a while.

❓Why is this even bad?❓

Now, this might seem like a non-problem; TF2 is a video game and no more than that. People could simply move on and play similar games, like Overwatch, Paladins, Splatoon, etc. This would certainly be an easy solution but this has roots much deeper than simply playing a game.

For one, this game has been around for about 17 years by now. Ancient by FPS standards, but that the game is still played and talked about to this day stands as a testament to the love and passion the playerbase and general fandom has for it. The playerbase is loyal, the potential for content is seemingly endless and many are willing to pay money for the game. And therein lies some issues.

TF2 has millions of dollars invested in it by the playerbase. Loot boxes, MvM tickets and any sale made in the community market all gives Valve a steady and reliable revenue stream. This is significant, because you will have to make the assumption that this money will come back to sustain the game from imploding in on itself and remain functional. In the case with MvM, the PvE mode (that has not been updated in QUITE a while), the chances of receiving valuable loot from the missions is actually so small that there is no way to feasibly make any of your money back.

Additionally, any content updates added to the game every event (Summer Update, Scream Fortress and Smissmass) is community made. This means Valve picks and chooses cosmetics, emotes, unusual effects, warpaints and maps made by fans in the workshop.

While the creators of these items are compensated for their work, Valve naturally profits from these content updates.

In shorter terms: Valve profits off a game that has been in a near-unplayable state for more than 5 years by doing next to nothing.

And that isn't even the end of it. This is just the general negligence of Valve. It gets a lot uglier when delving into the punishable crimes conducted by the bothosters.

This video by TheWhat Show talks about this in depth, focusing on a particularly important case that involves MegaScatterBomb, who was harassed, doxxed, impersonated and swatted for trying to develop a working anti-cheat for casual.

youtube

This video is also in a document form for those who would rather read.

A more recent development with the bots has been their blatant advertising and promotion of CSAM, which you may better know as CP.

After #FixTF2 started, bots have been found spamming links in text chat that they claim is CSAM, while micspamming disturbing audio into the voice chat that is either edited to sound like or is legitimately CSAM. Valve has yet to respond to these reports, but good amount of players on Twitter/X have already started notifying FBI about this situation.

Another thing worth noting is that the bothosters have actively attempted to take down the petition website by DDoSing it and by filing a fake DMCA claim, both which are punishable crimes.

So to summarize:

It is wholly unsafe to play the game due to the bothosters and their willingness to commit crimes in the name of ruining the game experience.

Valve is profiting from keeping this broken product running, yet refuses to put any meaningful effort into fixing the bot problem.

The community actively contributes to the game by designing cosmetics and maps, and while they are compensated for their work, Valve are the ones who profit the most from their contributions.

Real people have been and are being harmed by the bot problem, and as far as we are aware, no one has been held accountable.

This is wholly unacceptable, both from a professional and unprofessional standpoint. If Valve fancies themselves a corporation worth using money on, their choice to simply ignore the problem speaks volumes of their priorities.

As Valve is releasing their new game Deadlock, there are serious concerns about the security of this game. TF2 is far from the only game that has bot/cheater problems. CS2 has had a similar problem for a long while as well and there is a clip of a Chinese bot farm that has been going around and which has even breached into the #FixTF2 movement.

❓What should we do?❓

Sign the petition while it is still up. At the time of this post, the petition has reached 270k+ signatures. The website has more general information as well.

Add to the #FixTF2 tag on mainly Twitter/X. Tag your posts with it, retweet and like posts in the tag and put the focus on the bots and ONLY the bots. One of the issues of the last movement, #SaveTF2, was that it wasn't focused enough on any particular problem and Valve could get away with making no promises. So, post clips, fanart and rants to your heart's content, so long it is specifically about the bots.

Watch youtube videos with #FixTF2 as the subject. Here are some good places to start:

youtube

4. Boycott any transactions in TF2. While Weezy was against this method in his video above, he has since changed his opinion. It has been established that Valve is very unlikely to shut down TF2, since the TF2 community market has millions of dollars invested in it and shutting down TF2 would render all items useless, thereby fully taking away any and all investments any players have put into the game. This would not just be devastating to the general economy of Valve's marketplaces, but a huge blow to their reputation if they want to remain reliable in the eyes of consumers.

5. Don't interact directly with bothosters. This includes harassment and any attempts at doxxing/swatting. These individuals are bigoted and some are even criminals. They have no remorse for their actions and talking to them would be a fruitless endeavor. Refrain from mentioning their names/aliases, as they are fond of attention and are getting just about enough of it since #FixTF2 started.

6. Don't give up.

❓Where can I keep up with any news?❓

Here are accounts to start with if you want to follow any important proceedings regarding #FixTF2:

Weezy (One of the biggest voices for #FixTF2 and spearhead of the protest):

Weezy's Youtube Channel

Weezy's Twitter

TheWhat Show (Similar to Weezy, outspoken supporter and spearhead):

TheWhat's Youtube Channel

TheWhat's Twitter

Shork (Outspoken supporter and generally active in the fandom)

Shork's Twitter

MegaScatterBomb (Creator of the TF2 cheater database and attempting to make a working anti-cheat for casual)

Mega's Youtube

If you discover new information, inconsistencies, broken/repeated/wrong links, etc., please speak up! Use the comments section, reblog with a comment or DM me!

#fixtf2 #savetf2 #tf2 #team fortress 2 #valve #Youtube

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patrollingboston · 7 months

Note

Hiya! Could you write a fic where we have to share a bed with Price?

Much love ❤️

An awkward conversation // Price x reader fluff

guilty pleasure one bed trope, this is not meant to be realistic!

After completing gruelling week on a mission, You, Gaz, Soap and Price were headed back to the pickup location to take you all back to base. The conversations being shared were short and snappy due to everyone’s exhaustion. Gaz was fast asleep snoring like bear and it was driving you insane. Soap had earphones in as Captain Price drove along the long stretch of road ahead whilst you were directing him from the passenger seat.

A loud crackle buzzed through everyone’s radio; Gaz snapped awake as everyone focussed on the voice on the other end of the radio.

“Bravo 0-6?”

“Price, you there?”

“What is it Laswell?”

Price held down the button on his radio whilst his eyes remained focused on the road ahead. He drove with one hand on the steering wheel occasionally looking over at you. Everyone’s curiosity was peaked as the mission was over, why would Laswell need to contact them now?

“Nikolai has a problem with exfil, his helicopter has needed some uh, um emergency maintenance. We can’t fly you back to base until tomorrow morning, can you all find a motel nearby just to rest up for a night?”

“Oh, fucking hell- “

Gaz groaned, Soap joining him. You flopped your head back against the headrest in protest. Everyone just wanted to go home, sleep in their own beds, eat normal warm food and be alone.

“Is there no other option? I think we all just want to be back ASAP Laswell.”

“Fraid’ not, earliest we can get to you is 8am tomorrow.”

“Alright, we will sort something out.”

Price said taking his hand off the steering wheel for a second to rub his temples, you glanced over noticing how tired his eyes looked. Everyone’s did.

With that statement the radio cut off. Everyone’s eyes were on Price as he was magically going be able to solve the issue.

“Well, what’s the plan?”

Soap chimed in, peeking his head round from the back of the car.

“There’s a cheap motel not too far, look we aren’t going to be there long. It’s already late, it’s just to clean up and get some rest. I know it’s not ideal.”

“I’m sure we can survive one more night, at least it will be warm?”

You spoke, trying to lift the mood of your fellow soldiers only to be met by awkward silence.

Price tapped on his phone to get directions to the motel. He was right about needing to clean up. Everyone was in their gear, dirt and mud were splashed over everyone’s clothes and face.

“I miss real food.”

Gaz said, Soap nodded in agreement as he began bumbling on about a restaurant near his house.

10 minutes later the car pulled up into the carpark for the motel. There wasn’t much to say about it, it didn’t look too bad from the outside but in your current state of tiredness you would sleep in a bed made of cardboard.

“Gaz, Soap go get us rooms, we will unload the car.”

Price ordered, Gaz and Soap split off entering the reception as you and him began lugging in everyone’s duffel bags. It was quite sparse, a few potted plants and a strikingly red carpet that frankly was hurting your weary eyes.

“Cap? They only have 2 rooms.”

You placed the bag down you were carrying and peered over to soap who was stood speaking to the receptionist.

Price sighed so loudly you could hear it from across the room.

“Well, we can go two and two, or we can take a chance on the other motel, think it was about 20 minutes away.”

You stepped over the pile of bags to join the conversation.

“I don’t mind sharing, please I just want to shower and lie down.”

You said rubbing your eyes, smearing the warpaint from earlier.

“Who goes with who?”

You suddenly felt everyone’s gaze on you.

“You pick F/N you’re the only woman here.”

“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

You teased as you watched Gaz’s face drop.

“No that’s not what I meant, c’mon.”

You weighed the pros and cons of each person in your head, quickly ruling out soap for how often he liked to flirt with people, that could never end well. Gaz was an option? But you recently discovered he snores and you needed sleep. That only left Price, your captain. You didn’t mind him, in fact over time you had grown quite fond of him despite his grumpy attitude and hat collection.

“I’ll go with Price.”

Price’s eyes widened ever so subtly; it seemed like he was taken back you chose him. His face quickly returned back to normal but you still managed to see the change in it.

A few moments later you stood outside in the hallway shoulder to shoulder with price as he wrestled with the dodgy room key.

“Sonofa- got it.”

He said before cracking a little smile and barging the door open.

You stepped inside looking at the (one again bright red) carpet laden with cigarette burns, you shrugged the bags onto the floor before going into the rest of the room and standing beside price who looked to be in deep in thought. You followed his gaze to find it.

One bed.

One bed that looks like it was made of concrete, with white ruffled sheets and 2 sad pillows.

Your stomach sunk, you had read about this in books and seen it in films and now it was happening to you.

You gulped loudly, praying Price didn’t sense your hesitation.

“I’ll sleep on the floor- “

He said sharply, it caught you off guard. What do you do now? Do you object? Do you share the bed? Do you let him stay on the floor?

“No, I know you’re just as tired as me, I don’t care, please.”

You said gesturing to the bed. He turned around and gave you a kind smile before he sat on the end and started removing his boots.

“I’m going to hop in the shower.”

He nodded as you stepped into the backroom locking the door behind you. That shower might have been the most heavenly experience of your life. Washing away weeks build-up of dirt on yourself. The warm water flowed down your back; you could have stayed in there forever. You stepped out wrapping the white towel around yourself as you reached for your bag. You searched through it trying to find something you could comfortably sleep in. Most stuff in there needed a wash as it was covered in dirt or sweat. You cursed under your breathe as you unlocked the bathroom door and peeked your head out.

“Hey Price?”

He was sat on the bed with his arms folded across his chest, intently watching the little crappy tv.

“Mhm?”

He said his gaze finding you, you could have sworn his eyes faltered and fell up and down you. Pushing back down the blush creeping up your cheeks you responded.

“Do you have anything I could sleep in? My stuff is all uh in need of a wash.”

“Oh, um let me look.”

He hopped off the bed and bent over to rummage around in his backpack before throwing you a khaki green shirt.

“That work?”

“Cheers.”

You closed the bathroom door again before changing into the shirt. It hung below your knees like a nightgown. It was so comfy compared to the mountains of gear you had been wearing for the previous week. It smelt like him too, it was comforting.

You walked into the room; Price had changed now. He was wearing a tight-fitting grey shirt and some baggy shorts. You had never seen him this casual, it was weird but you also liked it however you couldn’t deny how good he looked in his gear too but you would never let anyone know you thought this.

You peered over at the clock.

1:23

Price was just beginning to pull back the duvet on the left side of the bed. Would it be awkward if you did the same? God, it felt like watching an awkwardly married couple get into bed. You both climbed into the bed, the space between you was almost amusing, it was clear you were both trying to avoid one another.

“Night F/N.”

He grumbled, shuffling around to get comfy.

“Night!”

You chirped back, your voice slightly breaking in doing so.

The both of you were so tired you fell straight asleep.

You woke up to some movement beside you in the early hours of the morning. Your eyes fluttered trying to gather your surroundings only to find yourself wrapped in someone’s arms. Realizing whose arms, it was you were torn on what to do. You decided to stay still, letting yourself take in the warmth. You lay there comfortably, his breathe tickling the top of your head as you fell asleep trying not to think about the awkward conversation this would lead to next morning.

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rowanhoney · 1 year

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Wait wait wait I’m thinking about the warpaint web again

#the professional links warpaint had link back to people like tricky and martina #and although they’re totally diff scenes they’re all faves #that being said I found out about martina at a warpaint gig so yeh #but otherwise you wouldn’t THINK to link the

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fanaticsnail · 8 months

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My Favorite

(Image Source: Artist: Inpolariis)

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 5,114

Summary: Sir Crocodile has founded a league of highly trained assassins named "The Choirs" - all coded after the nine choirs of angelic influences. You are his favorite: his prized "Seraphim" who's ferocious brutality is only outmatched by your incredible beauty. Not truly knowing if your affection is all an act to continue being paid a wage in berry, he has not made a move of his own aside from calling upon you to sit on his knee of an evening, and have you utter praises into his ear. It is only when the two other members of the Cross-Guild begin flirting does he find his limit being tested. Will he bend, or will he break?

Themes: Boss!Crocodile x Assassin!Reader, lap princess, Croc is in love with you, begrudgingly in love, mutual pining, “I don’t want to fix him, I want to make him worse”, wealth, Cross-Guild dynamics, partial Buggy x Reader, partial Mihawk x Reader, sign language, afab!reader.

Notes: This fic is dedicated to the wonderful @discordantwritings who wrote a beautiful Benn Beckman fic recently. I had to return the favor with some Cross-Guild content, although it became quickly a Sir Crocodile fic. Based on this prompt, because it has a hold over my very soul.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @carrotsunshine @cinnbar-bun @writingmysanity @gingernut1314

The broad right hand of the brutish Sir Crocodile massaged his temples beneath his thumb and index finger. He began rotating them in an attempt to rid the swelling migraine caused by the crackled whines pouring from the lips of his clown companion. Barely paying attention to the whinging words strung into messy sentences, his ears pricked and spine tingled at the knowledge there was another presence within the hollow chambers of the Cross-Guild meeting space.

Bringing his hand away from his temple, his smirk broke the displeased position of his lips, as his eyes rose to meet with the yellow hue of the gaze of the swordsman. Mihawk narrowed his eyes, no longer processing Buggy’s words as he attempted to locate the source responsible for the expression change of the larger gentleman in front of him.

“-And I wasn’t the one responsible for that screw up, so I shouldn’t be the one paying for it. Really it should go to the one with the most berry. Who was it again? Between the reptile and the hawk, who has the most-.” Buggy’s voice halted as the shadows split to reveal your presence, stalking closer to the largest man in the room with an aura of silent danger.

Mihawk reached for the hilt of Yoru, ready to strike your approaching silhouette: armored and cloaked in the darkest black to blend within smoke and shadow. Your hood concealed your face, your facial mask shieling all but the intensity of your eyes smeared in darkened war paint. You made no sound; no tap, no whisper as you wordlessly approached Sir Crocodile.

“Returned so soon, my Seraphim,” his voice purred, leaning back in his chair while placing a thick cigar between his teeth, “Did all go according to plan?” You wordlessly bent your knee, bowing your head to the large gentleman to whom you entrusted your implicit loyalty. His smile drew further up his scarred face, the purple hue of his eyes dancing with a dangerous twinkle at your wordless confirmation.

“Good,” his voice praised you, reaching for his lighter lying atop the table. You rose to your feet, quickly reaching for the golden object, flicking open the lid and igniting the flint to spark its flame. Sir Crocodile leant forward, holding his eyes firmly on yours as your concentration was fixed on the task of lighting the tip of his cigar.

He narrowed his eyes, noticing a small smear of red atop the darkened warpaint and streaking down your face mask and onto your leather breastplate. He sighed, reaching into his left hand breast pocket and fishing out a silver handkerchief and passed it to you within his index and middle fingers.

“Is it yours?” he asked, gesturing to the blood congealed and spattered against your uniform.

“No, sir,” you whispered with no vocal tone depicted within your silence. He hummed in response, narrowing his eyes as he scanned your body further.

“Are you unharmed and unmarked?” he asked, his left brow raising in question. You stiffened your shoulders, arching your chin within the air and confirmed with a simple utterance of: “Yes, sir.”

“Very good, my Seraphim,” he complimented further, inhaling a deep lungful of the nicotine laden cigar smoke, exhaling through his nose. Buggy did not know what to make of this interaction, feeling completely and utterly ignored as Mihawk and Sir Crocodile’s eyes and attention remained fixed on your statuesque figure clad in cloak, leather and dark plated armor.

Leaning forward, Sir Crocodile ushered you to stoop forward to receive the next whisper of a command parting from his lips for your ears alone.

“I have laid out a new uniform for you to wear,” he uttered intimately, reaching up his left hand with his golden hook threatening to touch your shoulder. “See to it you are bathed, perfumed and clad in the ensemble within the hour,” the tip of his hook brushed with the rivets of your shoulder plate, dragging down your bicep to the inner crevice of your elbow, “And I will have you sat as my trophy upon my knee for the evening, my Seraphim.”

At that final utterance, he withdrew his hook from your arm and focussed once more on your eyes now depicting a darkness within usually withheld for victims beneath your concealed daggers.

Bowing to your boss, eyes now closed, you rose from your deep and respectful stoop and paid no mind to glance at the other two members of the meeting space. If Sir Crocodile found no reason to introduce you to these men, you did not deem them important enough to care who they were. Silence followed you as you trailed outside of the room, resubmerging yourself within the shadows and hastily making your way to the suite gifted to you by your boss.

“Baroque Works employee, Crocodile?” Mihawk uttered, his eyes fixed on the exit you withdrew from.

“A thing of the past, Hawk,” His smirk not leaving his face for each deep inhale of his cigar, “I no longer put my faith in an amassment of bounty hunters to get their hands dirty for my berry.” He took the butt of his cigar from his teeth and pushed the ignited end against the glass tray with his thumb. “No, my faith is no longer spread to the many, but to the few.”

“How many o’ them you got?” Buggy’s nasally voice chimed in, his brow furrowing and lips curling back in an uneasy smile, “Like twenty or thirty?”

“I have nine,” he confessed, eyes now bored with the conversation and lip curling down into an arrogant snarl, “And that one,” he gestured to the door with his chin, “Is my favorite.”

“Why?” Buggy asked, his voice cracking in a small apprehensive whine at the end of his question, “What does that one do that the others don’t?” Sir Crocodile’s lips curled into a darkened grin, his teeth revealed in the light.

“You will see.”

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After bathing and cleaning yourself of the debris and carnage of the last assignment, you glanced at yourself in your large, ornate mirror. Looking over the new uniform set aside by your boss as it clung to your body, you couldn’t help the pull of a shy smile at the corner of your lips.

Of all of “The Choirs” founded and financed by Sir Crocodile, it was no illusion that you were absolutely and without a doubt his favorite. Your titles held your specialist skills as covert assassins within your roles; each skilled with a unique ability to complete your tasks to the utmost quality.

Principalitie, Archangel, and Angel were charged with gathering information and relaying it from a great distance. They were to look like civilians; innocent and coy with the ability to blend into a crowd seamlessly.

The Devil-Fruit users; Dominion, Virtue, and Power, were charged with carrying out tyrannical punishment and wrath without care for the casualties they caused under the utterance of a single command from your hook-handed leader.

Cherubim and Ophanim, the two of the higher in the chain of command, followed your explicit instruction in covert operations taken either together or separately. They were your trusted confidants, you could even call them your friends if it were not too bold to say so.

You, his ‘Seraphim’, were silent and embraced by shadows with such flawless success that it was rumored you were born in them. You were lethal with your daggers, your skill with a blade a sight to behold before life was drained from your intended target. The last thing they saw as their breath was claimed by your hand, was the ferocity in your blown pupils and lengthy eyelashes beneath the dark warpaint smeared atop your eyelids.

Glancing over your features once more, the pale white of the dress held stark contrast to the dark armor you adorned almost an hour prior. While your armor kept all of your features hidden to the world around you, the anonymity shielding you from emphasis on your features; this dress left little to the imagination.

The deep hook of the backless dress clung low to your hips in an ovular shape, bodice dipping down to above your navel with a thin band of fabric dancing above your cleavage to suture the bust shut with barely any support. The length of the dress halted little below your hip bone on the left-hand side, the right hand side down to the ball of your ankle to allow for the straps of your gold heels to be revealed with each step you took against the floor.

Your mind begins to wander the longer you stare at yourself in the mirror. This was the most provocative and scandalous item your boss had ever asked you to don. You almost allowed yourself to rush to the conclusion that your boss harbored more than simple favoritism for you, you assumed you were wearing this ensemble to impress a guest with your presence on his lap.

Silence was nearly impossible with the gold-dipped base of your heeled shoes. Each step you took after exiting your suite echoed in a foreign clack that you were unaccustomed to creating with your foot-falls.

Immediately upon entering the large celebratory area of Sir Crocodiles casino, you scanned the perimeter of the room for your boss to begin your new role for the night: the princess sitting upon his knee and doting on him with small caresses and whispers of praise within his ear. This was not a role you were exposed to often, but one you did well enough for him to continue asking for you after the first night you played it.

You would be lying to yourself if you said you did not harbor affection for your boss. Nothing ever transpired between you after you had finished this role for the nights he asked you to fulfill. No brush of lips meeting yours, no writhing while sprawled out beneath him against the green fuzz of the gamblers table. He would bow his head in gratitude to you, his eyes blinking shut out of respect, and dismissing you without a further word.

Adoration, respect, loyalty, and your wage is what bound you to that man. At each moment he spent with you on his lap, or performing a deadly task for him, your desire grew. You knew, without a semblance of a doubt, that you would cast aside your wage with an instant for the luxury of remaining by his side. You loved him, and it was the only thing that truly frightened you.

After concluding your brief scan of the room, you noticed Sir Crocodile was yet to make an appearance to darken the tables with his brutish figure. However, you smiled upon meeting the eyes of ‘Ophanim’ dressed in a simple waiter's uniform, with her sleeves rolled to her elbows and shaking a steel container filled with ice, syrups and hard liquor. She shot you a wink, gesturing with her chin to wait with her at the bar.

An honest smile sprung to your lips as you grasped the barstool within your hands, taking a seat atop it and hooking your left knee over your right; the slit of your dress revealing the entirety of your left leg to your thigh.

Immediately as you began to open your mouth to converse with your fellow “Choir” about her latest mission, your eyes were thrust into an amassment of lengthy cerulean hair. The person seemed to ignore you as their voice informed your friend of his order of a fruit-forward and harsh liquor cocktail with an insane amount of complex ingredients. The products he asked for sounded as if it would split and separate, with the immediate souring of creamy liquid with the acidic elements.

Grimacing with your lips curled in disgust, the individual turned to meet your disapproving gaze: his eyes widening and breath hitching in his throat. A large, rotund red nose lay central to his features, his dark vest cinching his waist beneath a white shirt and dark trousers. He looked as if he was not comfortable wearing the assortment, as if it was a mask he was given to wear akin to your arrangement set aside by your boss.

“You are fucking gorgeous,” he stumbled over his words, the syllables falling from his lips quicker than he could silence them within. Immediately your grimace upturned into a smile, forcing a laugh to flee from you at his unbridled compliment. You arched your left brow up, leaning in close to the individual in front of you and tightening his dark tie with your right hand.

“You are very easy to look at, yourself,” you purred in return, assuming your flirtatious role with ease. You darted your gaze between his two teal eyes, a coy smile now pursing your lips together innocently, “And who might you be, bright eyes?” Your question had his heart swelling, his cheeks filling with a boyish fluster.

“B-Buggy,” he wheezed, gulping back his words and grunting out a small cough to mask his uneasiness. “Captain Buggy D Clown,” he attempted to meet his elbow atop the bar, missing the polished wood entirely and instead stumbling under the uneven distribution of his weight. As air met his elbow with the heel of his palm capturing his chin, he flew his head down and met it against the wood with a harsh thump.

Wincing in empathy, you immediately reached forward and claimed his cheeks within your palms and raised him back up to his former stature. You brushed his shoulders, readjusted his collar and checked over the rising swell atop his left temple.

“Honey, can we get some ice please?” you asked your colleague who attempted to halt her laugh behind her palm, nodding as she retrieved the frosty cubes and placed them within a checkered tea towel. She passed it to you and shook her head, you nodding your thanks at her for the object and immediately reaching for the blunt-force trauma the blue-haired clown brought upon himself.

“Are you alright Captain Buggy?” You asked him, holding your hand against the towel and pressing it firmly against the rising bruise. He clasped his left hand around your right, leaning into the touch you were providing him and closing his eyes.

“I like the way your tongue makes my name sound,” he confessed in a breathy gasp. You again found yourself laughing at his words, the melodic ring of your voice stirring something dangerous within the purple hues of Sir Crocodile’s eyes. He continued watching your interaction with Buggy from his place darkening the threshold of the entrance to his casino.

“What happened, Clown?” A voice called behind him, the curve of a pale shirt clinging to the back of a dark-haired individual you could barely see. Buggy apprehensively turned away from you and lulled his head towards the man with a snarling expression.

“It’s her fault,” he gestured to you with his thumb, “She was sittin’ on that chair all innocent-like, as if she doesn’t look like walking sex.”

“Hardly walking if she’s sitting,” the man called over in a bored and disinterested tone, without sparing so much as a glance in your direction. You found him intriguing, but you decided to match his energy and remain aloof to his comments yourself.

Turning away from the two men beside you, you began moving your hands in a flurry of wordless gestures to your coworker as discreetly as you could.

‘Where is he?” you asked her, watching her hands flicker in response as she continued to attempt to uphold her own persona as bartender.

“Approaching slowly,” she managed to signal to you, before she placed a glass of wine in front of the broody aloof gentleman beside the clown. The corner of his lips ticked at the corner, a whisper of gratitude depicted on his face as he turned to face you with the crystal glass rising upwards.

The small widening of his honey-coloured eyes told you all you needed to know within his gaze. Your head cocked to the side, your eyes wide and feigning innocence to the best of your abilities.

“My, my,” he commented, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body from your decorated toes to the follicles of your styled hair, “I do see why you would be the cause for such a stumble.” He expertly brushed the blue-haired man away from you, extending his right hand forward to seek out your own and collecting your four fingers within his grip.

He raised your hand to his lips, his mustache tickling the knobbed joints of your knuckles before his lips brushed against your flesh. Your eyes turned sultry, not once either of you breaking your eye contact against one another.

Unable to control the rapidity of the thump within his chest and the dry lump forming in his throat, Sir Crocodile began a stalking approach towards you. How dare they fawn over you. You: his favorite of his Choirs. His angelic muse and harbinger of brutality.

He knew you would make heads turn with the uniform he laid out for you, but he did not anticipate the primal urge swelling beneath him to pull you into himself and shield you away from their eyes. He wanted you all for himself, in any capacity you were willing to give it to him. He didn’t care that you were paid berry to serve him, it felt real enough for him.

“Dracule Mihawk,” he uttered against your flesh, withdrawing from his stoop and arching his back to puff his barely shielded chest to you, “And you are, my darling?” Before you could answer with your name, you felt a warm graze dancing up your spine. His breath tickled against your skin, tingling your spine beneath his lips as they pressed intent and longing to your flesh.

On any other occasion, you may have been alarmed by such attention from an individual without seeing their face. The cologne dancing with the whisper of his last cigar floated with each kiss against your skin, informing you exactly who was giving you such a touch.

He had never offered you this unbridled affection in the past, not allowing himself to give into his craving for you, and you not willing to test your place serving under him. This touch felt natural, his lips continuing to press into you, as you continued to hold your gaze on the eyes of the dark-haired man in front of you.

Sir Crocodile’s lips found your left shoulder, his purple eyes pulling the swordsman’s attention away from you to meet with your boss as he continued to map his lips up your neck to your jaw. His left forearm circled around your front, the golden hook firmly secured against his wrist collecting your chin beneath the smooth surface. He turned your attention away from Mihawk to look into his eyes through lowered eyelashes.

He leant forward, drawing your lips against his by the gentle tilt of his hook against your chin. Darting his tongue out to stroke yours, his nose brushed against your own as he circled his jaw to deepen the embrace. Your hands clutched the base of the stool you were sat atop to anchor yourself down for fear of floating to the roof. The hum of his lips in joy had a small moan pull from your lips the longer he was joined against you.

You felt his right hand brush against your bicep, curling his firm grip around it as he pushed his chest flush with your own with a gentle turn of your body. He pulled away from the kiss, his eyes immediately falling to your rapidly swelling and kiss-bruised lips, slightly smudged paint falling below the perimeter of your bottom lip. Tapping your chin with his hook, your eyes darted from your own gaze against his lips to meet with his purple eyes.

“My Seraphim,” the rumble of his voice and the small smirk of his lips had your attention hyper fixed and hanging on his every word. You held your gaze firmly affixed to his, watching as he turned away from you and greeted the men in front of you with the nod of his head and the small utterance of their names.

“Mihawk,” the rumble of his voice rubbing within his throat had your spine tingle with anticipation, “Buggy.” He turned back to meet your orbs that had not yet broken from his face, but raked your gaze over his face with half-lidded lashes. Your eyes continued to float in a daze against his lips and flittering back up to meet his gaze.

He extended his right hand in a gesture for you to take it, you reacting immediately by placing your hand within his larger palm to encircle his digits around it. You allowed him to pull you away from your former position atop the barstool, your heels clicking against the floor as he escorted you to the desired table for the night. Now in the shroud of seclusion, he leaned down and uttered a small apology in your ear.

“Forgive me,” he began, taking his seat within the plush armchair and patting his left knee with his right. Without hesitation, you gracefully placed yourself atop his thigh with the small flick of your hair, crossing your left knee over your right and arching your back.

“What sins am I forgiving, sir?” you asked him, feeling the dangerous caress of his hook brushing against your spine and collecting a small portion of your hair within its curvature. Your boss took in a deep breath through his nose, expanding his broad chest beneath his suit jacket. His exhale had a small quake to it, his eyes closing as he basked under your attention.

You reached your hands and began to dance your fingertips against the hem of his collar. Although this was a routine you had practiced with him over man a night on his lap, this touch felt almost forbidden as his brows furrowed.

“I should not have kissed you like that,” he uttered in a voice below a hushed whisper, “You deserve better than something so public. I desire you-... -for you to be treated as a seraphim I know you to be.” His vocal catch had your attention completely focussed on every word, your body leaning itself further as your hands halted their movement.

“I am not a seraphim, sir,” your lips were now almost brushing with the shell of his ear, your hypnotic perfume, intoxicating and mesmerizing the larger gentleman the longer your presence remained atop his lap. He angled his head away from you, exposing the side of his neck to reveal the rapidity of his heartbeat displayed against his pulse.

“And what are you, if not a seraphim,” he whispered darkly, allowing to be disarmed by your presence as he leant into your touch, yet away from the descent of your lips upon his ear.

“I am your seraphim,” you confessed as your lips grazed against the sensitive flesh of his cheek, his dark hair tickling against your eyes.

Sir Crocodile was glad he had withdrawn you to a secluded portion of his casino at this moment. He truly did not desire for the other two members of the Cross-Guild to notice how much of a grip you truly had around his heart, but refused to break away from your display of unrestrained physical affection. He knit his brows together, furthering their descent down his face as he processed your words.

“Because I pay you to be,” he uttered, leaning away from your touch and forcing the mask of his arrogance back onto his features. He dropped the hook from your hair, reaching his right hand into his left breast pocket to locate a thick cigar and his golden lighter. Placing the bitten end between his teeth and clamping down on it, he drew the flame up to his lips and attempted to ignite the end.

“I will return my wage to you,” you uttered quietly after swiping the golden lighter from his hand and reigniting the flame, “I have no need for it when you take care of me so well.” His eyes held an aloof boredom to his expression, refusing to meet with your face as you lit his cigar for him.

“And if my wealth was taken from me?” He questioned before inhaling the smoke from his cigar, exhaling it away from your face, “If I was to go to prison once more, what then?” Your eyes narrowed, your lip curling up to reveal your displeasure at the question.

“I would claw tooth and nail to free you from your confinement, sir,” you confessed, reaching your left hand forward and collecting his chin beneath your thumb and index finger, turning his jaw for his eyes to meet with yours once more, “And although living in luxury is a welcome experience, I would stand by you regardless.” His eyes depicted his craving for your words to be true, although not believing it yourself.

He began to open his mouth to speak, silenced by your words cutting through the air like your daggers meeting with the jugular of your foe.

“You have my loyalty, my blades, and my body at your disposal,” you leant forward further, darting your eyes between focusing on each of his. “Should you order me to jump, I will ask how high. Should you ask me to kneel, I will fall to my knees,” you continued, your grip holding more firmly against his chin, “Should you wordlessly aim your finger at an enemy, I would be a channel of your wrath as I claim their lives for you.”

Allowing a few moments of thick silence to swell between you, you felt the scrape of his hook trailing itself against your spine, hovering over the soft point of your rib and pressing his point firmly into your flesh.

“While your words are as beautiful as you are,” he whispered, looking down at the plunging neck of your dress and back up into your eyes, “They are as decorated by the impact of my wealth as your body is in that dress.” You narrowed your eyes at his comment, taking the expression as a challenge.

Shrugging away from the point of his hook, you rose to your feet between his legs and slowly drew your hands up to the thin straps on your shoulders. You hooked your thumbs beneath the material and began to slowly slip the material over your shoulders and down your biceps. Sir Crocodile’s eyes widened, immediately reaching his right hand and left forearm to halt your hands from revealing more of your flesh to him.

“What are you doing?” His growl should’ve had your actions stuttering in any other setting, but his rasp had your heart beating in desire in place of fear.

“I have already informed you that I will be returning my wage to you,” you cocked your head to the side, arching your back towards him and looking down at him under your lustful expression, “Why not start with the dress you claim to despise so much.” The rise of his fluster depicted in his eyes at your words had a smirk drawing up to decorate your lips.

“What has someone like me done to deserve such devotion from you, my seraphim?” he whispered, his right hand elevating the strap of your left shoulder and securing it firmly in its prior place. You followed suit with your right strap, securing it firmly against your shoulder and leaning further into his welcome embrace.

He leant his torso closer to you, his broad forearms circling over your own with his fingertips brushing against your skin. You began to open your mouth, confessing your adoration for your boss further upon the tip of your tongue before crudely interrupted by the presence of the blue-haired clown followed behind by the broody gentleman from earlier.

“Are we playin’ cards yet, Croco?” Buggy’s voice hitched as he met with an intimate moment shared between you and Sir Crocodile. Your boss’ hands caressed your skin, pulling you against his torso as he aimed his disapproving gaze over your right shoulder.

He growled at the interruption, his voice holding more feral animosity than he felt he should. You drew your hand up to claim his cheek in the palm of your right hand, looking down at him with your eyes holding your unspoken answer of lustful adoration at him. His breath hitched as his gaze met with yours, prompting his right hand to grasp the flesh of your back firmer within his spread fingertips.

“I recall you having barely enough berry to survive the last time we played, Clown,” Mihawk’s aloof tone called from beside him. Neither you nor Sir Crocodile paid either man any mind, too wrapped up in the intimate moment you were sharing holding one another.

You removed the cigar from Crocodile’s teeth in your left hand, stooping forward and claiming his lips beneath your own. Your nose brushed against his, the kiss as hastily departing in severance of the connection as it did in its descent. He arched his chin up, chasing your retreat with his eyes closed.

“Shall I get the table ready, sir?” You asked him in a subtle whisper, relishing in the small hum of pleasure falling from the lips of your boss. His eyes split slowly open, remaining half-lidded as he lulled his head on his neck to glance at you. The silver mark splitting his face danced in the illuminance of the soft bar light, his striking features appearing more chiseled under its glow.

“Please,” he spoke slowly, his tongue darting out and danced as the ‘L’ passed his lips. You raked his hair back over his scalp, replacing the fallen strands in their rightful place, while leaning down once more with a smirk.

“Right away, sir,” you purred at him while returning his cigar to his teeth, watching as he bit the tip with a small snarl. Turning and walking away to collect several items to place atop the green felt for your boss to engage in a game of cards with his two unlikely colleagues, eyes fixed on your back as you exited the secluded area.

“Who is she?” Buggy’s shocked voice cracked out the stuttered question also plaguing Mihawk’s mind. Sir Crocodile relaxed in his chair, inhaling the cigar smoke deeply into his lungs and holding it. Upon it exiting from his lungs, he confessed the place you held within his heart with the utterance of two words.

“My favorite.”

#one piece #x reader #opla fic #opla #one piece live action #buggy #mihawk #captain buggy #dracule mihawk #sir crocodile #op sir crocodile x reader #op sir crocodile #sir crocodile x reader #cross guild #cross guild x reader #sir crocodile wins #boss x employee

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