#Element Camo | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pricegouge · 6 months ago

Text

the welly boot incident, a silly little meet cute inspired entirely by this post here cause i'm an absolute slut for the swamp thing look.

pricegaz x fem!reader one shot. A little bit of subspace as a treat but nothing explicit. Still mdni please

"Brassard, what the hell am I looking at?"

It's been a shit job from the start. Bad contractor, bad intel, bad campaign all around. John supposes he can only be happy that for once in his life, the quality of intel seems to be off in the 'right' direction - which is to say he'd rather be posted up in a field for hours with too much manpower than not enough. He's got Gaz on his right, deadly still and silent despite being hours past projected time of contact with no sign of the target. Price is spotting, growing more irritable by the minute. There's supposed to be a watch up on the south ridge to announce any incoming traffic - op related or otherwise - but the sudden arrival of one garishly dressed civilian meandering through the meadow toting a Hubble sized macro lens seems to suggest that while eight hours of fruitless vigilance may not test the most seasoned of soldiers, it is enough to beat the handlers hired to assist them.

The silence on the comms grows long enough to get even Gaz squirming, a subtle rotation of his boot the first move he's made in hours. In his ghillie, the movement is swallowed by the shifting of grass in the wind.

"Brassard?" Price growls, inspecting this newcomer through his scope for potential threats. She certainly looks unassuming enough, as he's never known any faction of armed services to issue woven fuschia caps, long purple cardigans, or yellow welly boots. Still, confirmation on anything useful like 'where the fuck she came from,' 'was she driving a civilian car?', or 'should we take the fucking shot?' would be ideal.

"Cap?" Garrick's voice is low, smothered, cheek sealed against his rifle even after all these hours. Still lethal and ready to trust his captain's call.

John waits another beat, hoping for some forthcoming intel. Doesn't get any. "No."

"She's gonna blow our spot."

'Against who?' John wants to ask, but the question of where their overwatch disappeared to is a toss up, and while every hard-won instinct in his body tells him this whole mission is a bust and the man likely fell asleep, the paranoid option must always outweigh the most likely if one wants to see the next sunrise, and it's entirely possible the man was eliminated.

"Well, shooting her won't make her any less hi-vis," Price sighs. Abandoning his lens, John raises his head enough to take in the whole scope of the meadow. They're posted on a small hill, sights trained down into the shallow basin where a derelict road ambles parallel a small brook, currently overflowing with springtime runoff. It's beautiful, really, dotted here and there with early blooms which nod in the gentle breeze. With the low ridge to the south simultaneously blocking most of the sun's glare and offering a great position for extra coverage, the area had presented itself first and foremost to him as a sniper's delight; but faced now with an artsy-type civilian wandering around and looking for all intents and purposes to be in her natural element, he supposes his assessment probably laid outside the norm.

"We could use her like dazzle camo," Gaz suggests instead and John's mustache twitches with a suppressed snort. It's almost tempting, except if the target does ever drive through, John doesn't trust him to simply be confused and gape at the spectacle uselessly.

John drums his fingers off the dirt irritably, returns to his scope to see if he can pick out where their backup is situated. "Shit," he hisses, taking in Brassard's limp form up on the ridge.

"Dead?" Gaz asks, voice returning to the low hum that tells Price he's slipping back into professionalism.

"Looks like," John confirms, disassembling his tripod.

"We retreating?"

"'Course not. We're containing the civilian." Beginning to crawl forward, John spots Gaz break his scope seal for the first time since establishing it out of the corner of his eye.

"How?"

"Physically."

***

You never even see them coming. One minute you're humming to yourself as you stage a close up of a bee and the next you're squawking and thrashing while being pulled to the ground by your ankle. Before you can even make sense of what's happened, a man settles his considerable weight onto you and clamps a hand over your mouth. "Easy," he murmurs into your ear as a mass of twigs and grease paint pulls up next to him. "Not gonna hurt ya, darlin'."

You only realize how hard you're shaking when the man next to you starts setting up a tripod and the kind of gun you've only ever seen in movies and your teeth rattle behind the calloused grip that covers them.

There's a hand on your head, palm flat and heavy as it pulls your hat off. The weight above you shifts, hips digging briefly into your ass as he moves to pocket your cap. It's slow, movements steady and calculated as the voice that continues in your ear. "I'm Captain John Price. This is my sergeant, Kyle Garrick, and unfortunately you've found yourself in a bit of a pickle."

Next to you, the man with the gun - Kyle - spares a small, commiserating smile. It does not calm you.

"If I take my hand off your mouth, you gonna stay quiet?"

You're nodding before you can even think it through, surprising yourself when your new found freedom only draws rapid pants from you instead of screams for help.

"There's a good girl," John rumbles, lips still pressed close to your ear. His voice is low like oncoming thunder, and despite yourself, the next shudder that racks your body isn't entirely fear based. He's got a mustache of some sort, bristles soft where they press against the shell of your ear. You were set up for failure, really.

"Can you get off me?" You mean it to sound pricklier, blame it on all the hyperventilating when your voice comes out breathy.

John huffs, breath warm as it fans down your neck. He's wearing some sort of armored vest from the feel of it, but you can still feel the abs of his lower belly jump with his laughter. "What's your name, darlin'?" You don't answer him at first, still weighing whether or not you believe him. "How 'bout 'flower', hm? Look like one out here in all these colors."

"A buttercup, in those wellies," Kyle agrees and you side eye him, for the first time noticing how upsettingly handsome he is under all that grease paint. Full, pretty lips and the kind of big soft cow eyes that always turn you to putty. If you find out the man on top of you is also handsome, you're toast.

"Right, those bloody boots." John's weight shifts off you a bit and you try to scramble forward. You make it maybe an inch before he plants a wide palm on your back and pushes you back to the ground. "Hold still, flower," he rumbles and you're helpless but to comply as he kicks at your boots with his own. You ask why he's stripping you but he ignores the question, reaching back to snatch up your discarded shoes instead. "Clear?" he asks, and Kyle takes a minute to swing his scope around.

"Far as I can tell."

And then John tosses your boots into the nearby brook with an unceremonious plop.

"Hey!" you gripe, only to be silenced by John's hand clamped over your mouth again.

His voice is sterner now when he speaks, the low murmuring from before replaced with a harsh grumble. "Hush now petal, we have to be quiet. Look at me, yeah?"

You regret it the second you do. Like Kyle, John's covered in leaves and debris and greasepaint. His eyes glint menacingly from the depths of the shadow cast by his low brim, his chops a thatch of hair only distinguishable from the mass of brush that covers him by the fact it's too well-kept. He looks like a swamp thing. He looks like the earth itself come to swallow you whole.

"I'm gonna take my hand away now, but you're going to be a good little flower and stay quiet, yeah?" You nod. His grip is so strong on your jaw that you drag his hand along with you. When he calls you a good girl this time, you can't help but melt into the grass beneath you. John seems to take your laxness for acceptance of your situation and he squeezes the nape of your neck when he pulls his hand away to set about erecting some sort of tiny telescope. He murmurs to you as he works, voice gone back to the quiet, calming rumble from before.

"I can't get off you because you're not wearing appropriately camouflaged clothes. Even if I were to strip you of this fucking cardi, you'd still stand out like a sore thumb. That's why the wellies had to go in the stream. No good place to hide 'em." You frown back toward the brook, watch as one of your shoes goes bobbing along out of sight. The other probably sank already.

"My car's too far away to walk barefoot."

"I'll carry you," John suggests casually. He's got his little scope established now and when he lowers his eye to it, his cheek sits flush against yours. "This position is shite," he grumbles.

Kyle hums in agreement. When he speaks, his voice is teasing. "We could carry petal here back up on the hill."

"Watch it," John warns. Kyle doesn't so much as smirk. Their talk turns mostly technical after that, muttering about degrees and cardinal directions, calculating inclines. You let it wash over you in favor of contemplating your predicament.

You trust they're military, at least. Kinda hard to fake the funk to this extent. That fact doesn't necessarily soothe you, but knowing this about them is at least better than knowing nothing about them. You suppose it doesn't matter either way though, as there's not a whole lot you can do to get yourself out of here if the way John bears down on you every time you try to wriggle out is any indication. Sometimes he breathes soothing words against your cheek. Most times, he just ignores you.

They slip into silence eventually, which makes the long, boring minutes drag even worse. You know enough to figure this is a sniper mission which means it's possible you'll be here a while, but that doesn't make you physically prepared for it. You check the positioning of the sun from time to time, but frown when you find it unchanged. You tell yourself it's only because you don't actually know how to gauge time like this.

You crack after what feels like an hour but is probably only fifteen minutes. "What are you guys supposed to be doing here, anyway?"

"Classified." John's eye is still glued to his scope, barely giving you the time of day.

Should've figured. "Aren't I going to see it unfold anyway?"

"Might not." You're not quite sure what that means, but something about the tone makes you nervous.

"Are we gonna be here all day?"

"Hot date?" Kyle's also still glued to his scope, but something about his tone is less dismissive so you latch on.

"Yes, actually."

Finally, a break from contact as John pulls away from his scope to look at you. There's a spot of paint missing just above the trim line of his beard and your stomach flips in guilty excitement when you realize it might have transferred to your skin. Of course he ruins it, "In a fuschia cap?"

"I'll have you know I made that cap," you squawk and John only needs to twitch his mustache at you to get you to shut up. He may also raise a brow. Hard to tell under the low angle of his brim.

It's Kyle who apologizes. "It's a lovely hat, flower."

John grumbles while you thank his friend, returns to his scope as he mutters about it still not being good date attire.

"I was going to change first." You're not sure why you care what either of them think of your date outfit, but you do what the record to show you're capable of dressing sexy when needed.

"What you're wearing now looks nice." Kyle's cadence is complementary, but it's the same tone he had used to pick on John earlier so you know he's referring to the absence of one cap and a pair of silly wellies.

Well, you can be quippy, too. "Think I'm currently wearing your boss."

Both men laugh. Kyle takes his eye off the scope to take in the spectacle on his left for the first time since setting up. "Like I said, looks good on you," he winks.

"Eyes on the prize, Gaz."

"Were, sir." Kyle - Gaz?- cackles when you have at him, but ducks back to his scope and you huff, already bored again.

John notes your frustration and decides to make it worse. "Might not make your date, flower. At this rate we'll be here all night."

"'Course," you mutter, tucking a bit of bramble more thoroughly into the netting that adorns the sleeve in front of you. "First date I land in months, and then comes you lot."

"Sure he'll understand." John sounds distracted. When you glance at him, he's staring down at the way you're weaving into his equipment.

"He'll understand I got pinned under an army sniper?"

"Could tell him you got laid up with -."

"Shouldn't you be keeping quiet, sergeant?"

"Sorry, sir."

You glance between the two of them, but they're both resolute in their professional silence now. You sigh again, folding your arms under yourself to rest your head on.

A moment passes. Another.

"Got a fox in my shot."

"Two o'clock?"

"There 'bouts, yeah."

"Saw 'im poking 'round a moment ago."

You nearly knock John's chin with how quickly you raise your head. "I wanna see."

"Hush," John instructs dismissively.

You huff, and then remember you don't need him anyway. Wriggling your hips what little you can, you feel the hard cylinder of your lens press against your right thigh and you squirm around until you can feel it under your fingers.

"What're you doin?" John's lifted slightly off you, but you think it's a move probably rooted more in curiosity than an actual desire to make your task easier. Still, you'll take it.

Grinning triumphantly, you pull your camera up until it rests next to John's tripod and then frown, dejected, when you spot the snap halfway up the barrel. "Must've fell on it," you pout.

John is unsympathetic. His hand is big enough to encase the whole unit when he grabs it, flinging camera and all into the stream with another disheartening splash.

Your cry dies in your throat this time, the fight gone out of you. When you slump back onto your arms dejectedly, John pats your elbow. "Material could've caught the light, flower. Had to be done."

You pout anyway. "Bloody expensive."

"I'll buy you a new one."

"You will, cap? Or will the service?"

"You will, if you don't shut up."

"Wouldn't mind. Get 'er a real nice one. Anything you've had your sights on recently, buttercup?"

"Don't have my sights on anything, currently," you snark and you can practically feel John roll his eyes.

"Christ, here." He fiddles with the device a bit, then leans back enough he can guide your face up to the viewfinder. You keep a squeal of delight bottled in your throat when John's hand lingers over your jaw, reminding you how you need to keep quiet.

You watch the fox happily for a moment, content to let the boy's low conversation wash over you as you let this new amusement pass the time. Except then the fox wanders out of frame and when you move the scope in order to follow, you only seem to muck it up more.

"Give me that," John grumbles, not unkindly. You slump back down anyway, like a child.

"Forearms, cap," Gaz drawls and you see John peel away from his scope long enough to look down at you. He grunts in acknowledgement, fiddles with his tripod, and then lowers himself even further onto you, wrapping one scraggy arm around your own to block you in completely.

It's so much worse. John runs hot, apparently, and without the breeze on your face at least, you're sweaty within minutes; or maybe hours, hard to tell.

You've nothing better to do so you try synching your breathing with John's, thinking maybe that's the secret to his seemingly infinite patience. It's hard work, though, his breaths somehow both shallow and slow, and you wind up counting them instead to pass the time.

Eight sets of one hundred later, Gaz breaks the silence with a low murmur which may as well be an explosion with how much it startles you out of your reverie.

"Gotta piss."

Your voice is floaty when you complain, head wobbling up to eye him. "Ew."

John's stern chastising Kyle, calm when he brushes his lips against your ear. "Quiet, sergeant. Go back under, petal." You hum in agreement, duck into his arm, count his breaths again.

You lose track after another five hundred, content yourself to feel the warmth of him contrast with the cool damp of the soil underneath you. You remember the sight he makes above you, a rolling crest of greenery pulling you under. You blame your sleepy state when you begin to fantasize about it like some old myth; Hades collecting his dues. When he does speak again it's low enough you're not sure it actually comes from above you, half convinced you're hearing the movement of tectonic plates deep below instead. He sounds pissy though, despite his low, soothing tone, and you try to blink yourself into wakefulness, peering around to find Kyle unloading his gun with distractingly deft fingers.

"What's wrong?" You ask, dumbly, and John drops his hand from his radio back to your shoulder, rubbing at you with a heavy, steady hand.

"Nothing, flower." To Gaz he adds, "Liked him better when he was dead,"

Gaz side eyes him, begins to load his gun back up. "Say the word, cap." His voice is so serious you only figure he's joking when John puffs a laugh across your cheek.

You watch as John disassembles his own equipment, the weight of him almost fully pressing down on you now that both his arms are raised and busy. It's strange but you're almost sad it's over; it had been oddly relaxing, tucked away underneath him.

"You awake yet?"

"Wasn't asleep." He keeps pulling away from you, but the ground is cold so you get your hands underneath yourself and push up, following.

"Right. You ready to get up, then?"

John's movements are still slow and heavy. When you nod, he levers himself up to a kneeling position, wraps his hands around your tummy to bring you up as well. He sits there a minute while tucking various tools and things into his pockets and placing your cap back on your head. It takes you a moment to realize the way he's seated has him straddling your calves. He doesn't seem to mind how you lean back into his chest.

"What time is it?"

"Still hoping to make your date?" Gaz teases. He gets his equipment settled and holds out a hand to you to help you stand. When your feet catch on John's big boots, the captain steadies you with a hand on your back.

You'd nearly forgotten about the mousey little man who would likely be left waiting for you downtown. He doesn't hold much appeal anymore but you lie anyway and tell Gaz yes.

"More bad luck there, petal," John commiserates. His voice should be further away now that he's not laying on you, surely? When you turn you find him standing far too close, somehow seeming even larger now despite no longer crushing you into the ground. Gaz is tall too, you note, and between the two of them in their ghillies, you imagine you look like some illustration from a fairytale book: the barefoot maid and her two elements, maybe. It's silly, distracting, which is why you've already forgotten what he's talking about when John continues, "'fraid you still got debrief to sit through."

"Huh?" You ask stupidly, and then yip when John throws you over his shoulder.

"Debrief. Could take all night," Gaz winks. "Looks like you're ours for the evening, flower."

"Oh. Well, you do still owe me a camera."

Gaz laughs, neat white teeth splitting his face in a handsome smile. "That's right, and cap here owes you some boots."

"Any color you want, flower," John agrees.

next>>

#okay i lied #much as i hate the movie #this was also inspired by the ps i love you meetcute #pricegaz x you #pricegaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick x you #john price x reader #john price x you #💷🔪#gazprice x reader #gazprice x you

454 notes · View notes

mrrharper · 5 months ago

Text

Not In The Exhibit Brochure

It was a hot summer day and the city was filled with people coming to be a part of one of the biggest fantasy conventions in the country. Video games, board games, tabletop RPGs, LARP, movies, TV shows, theater shows, even musicals. If one fancied themselves a fan of a franchise that existed in any of these forms, they could be found spending a sunny August weekend in the convention center.

Mark meandered between countless people in the Second Pavilion, getting tired having spent the last five hours walking around the convention area, being asked for pictures and catching up with his friends. This year he came wearing a full cosplay of one of the characters from his favorite first person shooter. He put on a tactical vest, helmet with a full headset, a tactical belt with a bunch of accessories and camo pants. In his hands he was bearing a perfect replica of the most famous gun from the game.

He spent a long time perfecting the costume, both by searching for just the right gear and by spending hours in the gym. Now his broad and thick shoulders, football-sized biceps and veiny forearms were visible for all attendees, which garnered Mark a lot of attention, which he enjoyed.

It was exhausting, however. The temperature inside the convention center got uncomfortably high at times, so he decided to take a break. He fold the few friends who joined him during the day that he was leaving for a while to take in some relatively fresh air, then pushed his way through the crowds until he got to the exit.

Thanks to the fact that the center was basically in the middle of the city he didn't have to go far to get to a park and relax, then find a place to eat and just take a walk through the city.

Mark was aware that many businesses and institutions had various perks for the convention ticket holders, to keep the attendees in the city for longer and spread the economic effects of the convention. He was reminded of this fact just as he was walking by the giant building of the art museum. His curiosity was piqued and he checked if he would get a discount of a ticket. It turned out he could walk in for free, the only requirement was to show his pass at the entrance.

What Mark saw after getting through a quick but awkward security check truly amazed him. He slowly walked from one part of the building to the next, taking his time to watch every piece, all displayed in a well air-conditioned space, which was a nice bonus. The museum had a bunch of different special exhibits currently open to the public and they were all pretty stunning, each in its own way.

Finally, Mark made his way to a part of the museum furthest away from the entrance where he saw a recent collection of sculptures from a local artist. Each statue was an extremely realistic depiction of a person, and they were supposed to collectively represent modern society. There were athletes mid-run, businessmen in the middle of walking in between offices, chefs tasting their newest creations, it was all incredible to watch, every sculpture most likely taking weeks or months to complete. Mark stood in the middle of the room as he looked around and every time he managed to find a new detail in one of the statues. While his eyes were jumping from one piece to another, inspecting every curve and small detail, he was unaware of just how much time has passed since he entered this space.

And then he tried to move.

Mark heard his phone buzz loudly in his pocket. It was probably one of his friends wanting to check up on him. He tried to move his hand to take the phone and answer the call, but it wouldn't move. Neither would his head. Or any part of his body. He was immediately alarmed. Mark tried as hard as he could to get any element within his human form to move even an inch, but it didn't work. His whole body was suddenly completely stationary and he could not control its movements, because he couldn't cause any movements. He started to panic and hoped someone would notice that he wasn't well. There were a lot of people at the museum so it would be just a matter of time before one of them came to this room and noticed a guy in a military cosplay was standing weirdly still.

Except this did not happen. Visitors just passed by him with no interest in the person standing frozen in the middle of the room. As Mark looked with his unmovable eyes at the tourists wandering around the space right in front of him he felt like he was losing the track of time. Was it a minute ago that he realized he couldn't move? No it mus have been almost an hour by then. Nah, it couldn't be.

Then Mark realized something horrifying. Not only was no one coming up to help him, they began to stop in front of him and just look at him, as if he was just another...

Did he turn into a fucking statue?! That terrifying thought seeped deep into his mind wreaking havoc along the way. How could this have happened? Magic? But magic wasn't real! That was impossible, this was a dream, for sure! He tried to move his body even a little bit, but again he failed every time. He desperately tried to force his hand to move so that he could pinch himself and wake up from this terrifying nightmare. But no part of his arm changed position, not even an inch.

A larger group of tourists, mostly retirees, led by a young woman slowly moved through the exhibition space and passed by Mark, who continued to struggle and try to move.

"Huh, the guide didn't say anything about this one. Did that lovely lady talk about this soldier, Harold?" An elderly couple stopped in front of Mark and they stood there and admired him for a moment.

"No, Mary, I'm pretty sure I'd remember" The man, Harold, took a step closer towards the statue.

"Harold!" The woman shouted at him. "You can't walk up too close to the sculptures dear."

"Oh, calm down" Harold responded, slightly annoyed at his wife's comment. "I'm in an art museum so don't tell me to not look at the art." The older man stood just a few steps away from Mark. "There's no plaque or rope or anything, this is a free country, Mary!" He was a few inches shorter than Mark, so he couldn't clearly see everything but it seemed he was just looking at Mark's gear.

"Look. The artist — that Gary what's-his-name — knew what he was doing with this one. I recognize all that gear this man is wearing. Nice work." Harold's tone of voice suggested he was weirdly pleased with the statue that used to be Mark. "This is what a real man's supposed to look like. Not some sissy sitting behind the desk all day."

"Of course Harold, of course" The woman walked up to her husband and put her arm around him, then started gently pushing him towards the other statues.

Mark's brain struggled to comprehend what he had just witnessed. He had really turned into a statue! People thought he was a part of the exhibit! How could this have happened? He couldn't come up with any even remotely plausible explanation for what he was experiencing. He then thought that his only hope would be his friends - they knew he was downtown, maybe some would guess that he used the opportunity to get into the art museum for free, which would lead them to the place where Mark was currently stranded.

The group of retirees came back, walked next to Mark and was about to leave the room when the tour guide looked at him and murmured to herself.

"This statue was not a part of the exhibit. How did it get here?" She grabbed her phone and quickly led her group towards the rest of the museum.

Mark again realized he couldn't tell how much time had passed since any of the recent events. It was as if his internal clock had stopped working, ran out of batteries. This whole experience was so confusing that he had issues fully registering everything. He tried counting in his head, but got lost after 20, maybe? The only thing he was sure of, for now, was that the day had not yet ended, but he could not tell what part of the day it was, as the whole museum was constantly lit with this slightly weird diffused lighting.

Three people suddenly came into view and stood some distance away from Mark, clearly looking at him. He couldn't hear the conversation they were having because of the noise from surrounding visitors, but he could clearly see that they were all agitated, talking over each other and aggressively pointing at themselves and Mark. As he looked closer he realized they were all museum employees, meaning they were probably debating what to do with a statue which has suddenly appeared within the premises of the musem they worked for, a rather uncommon occurrence.

Not long after they left Mark's view and he was once again stuck in this feeling ot timelessness. Tourists stopped in front of him every now and then, looked at him for a moment and moved on, while he stood still, holding the gun in his hands as if ready to fight, and yet incapable of it because of some indescribable force.

The employees from before came back, one of them holding in their hands a metal stand of come kind. It had something written on it at the top, but Mark couldn't see what it was. What he could see was the employee putting the stand in front of him and them all looking at it.

"That will have to do for now" One of them said. This time they were standing closer and Mark was able to hear what they were saying.

"Yeah, I won't be able to make a proper one until tomorrow."

"Okay, but it has to be there by Monday afternoon, otherwise we're fucked. Jesus Christ, still'can't believe this happened."

"No time for moaning, Jacob. We have work to do." Another one replied. They all nodded their heads, took one last look at the stand and quickly left the scene.

Mark thought about what he had just witnessed, and it took him a moment to understand - this was a stand with information about the statue, which meant him. It was the same kind as dozens more throughout the museum that visitors could look at for further information that was meant to enrich their experiences. This was meant to hide the fact that he was not here just mere hours, or minutes, or days, or-- he was certainly not here when the exhibition was opened. That fact was probably what had made them so angry and confused before - from their perspective a random statue of a soldier randomly appeared in the museum.

His mind immediately asked one question - I wonder what did they write on there? What was his title, his author, his artistic description or statement? Wait, his author? That was a strange line of thought, Mark realized.

I am Uncontrolled Power.

Wait, what was that? Who said that? Where was that deep voice coming from?

I was created by Greg Duchaime Arreman.

Was there someone standing behind him?

I am meant to represent unchecked aggression and power of the Military Industrial Complex.

Wait a second, what this voice inside his head?

I am the physical manifestation of toxic masculinity and bravado.

Holy fuck, this was a voice inside his head. Was this... what they had written about him on this stand?

Fuck yeah, I'm an alpha who follows orders and crushes any sign of disloyalty.

The voice was talking to Mark. Shit, the voice was talking to him! What the fuck?

You scum, get ready to experience the primal, animalistic force of a toxic man! I'm gonna crush you!

Mark wanted to sigh loudly, but of course he couldn't. Great, the museum employees with their great art wisdom made him a stereotypical aggressive soldier. Obedient muscle. The armored tool of American imperialism. And this soldier character seemed to have appeared inside his head.

I am here to blindly follow orders, enforce them and show everyone what masculinity really means!

If Mark could have rolled his eyes, he would. He was stuck, like an NPC frozen mid-frame, standing in the middle of an art museum, possibly forever. And from now on he would represent toxic masculinity, aggression and military prowess.

Whoever stands in my way will be violently crushed with the power of the American Military and my primal force! Toxic and proud, that's who I am!

#inanimate tf #statue tf #military tf

302 notes · View notes

mockerycrow · 1 year ago

Note

Hiya!!! I'm the anon who asked about fics with biting Ghost!! I didn't get the notification that you answered my ask so I'll be asking like this, and to answer the question: sub!Ghost heehee 😋

NEED IT (Sub!Ghost x GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist — ghost pic here

summary; ghost has been too wound up recently and you’re tired of it.

a/n; tbhh i’m not too satisfied with this :( wish i wrote it better!!!!

[WARNINGS; Sub!Ghost, pet names, dirty talk, biting + hickeys, brat taming elements, implied discovery of pain kink. Simon doesn’t talk much :(]

THERE WAS AN itch underneath the surface of Simon’s skin and he couldn't figure out what it was for the life of him. He spent the entire day all wound up and unusually short with everyone. It’s true, he isn’t the nicest person to begin with, but he sure as hell isn’t too unnecessarily rude. Simon is usually more laid back than how he was behaving; he’s usually making puns and jokes, sometimes at other people's expense, but nothing too serious.

It’s like he was stuck lecturing recruits with how tense his shoulders are, the way there’s way too much venom in his tone. Even when you bothered him about his sudden change in attitude, Simon didn’t have an answer for you. You could tell even he himself didn’t know. Simon felt like there was an uncomfortable energy running through his veins, stabbing his muscles and the nape of his neck. Every few hours for him, Simon felt like it was intensifying—so his reactions got worse.

You were very fed up with him by the end of the day; if something was pissing him off, he had the complete authority to do something about it.

And so do you.

Simon groans as your hand pushes on his bare chest to keep him down on the bed, pushing him into the sheets. You’re straddling his hips, his jacket and shirt tossed somewhere, leaving him in his camo pants and with his balaclava on, but it’s bunched up at the bridge of his nose, exposing his neck and his jaw. His lips are parted as he looks up with you with a slight scrunch in his eyebrows, a need in his dark eyes that you can’t quite place, his pupils blown out. His hands rest on your outer thighs.

You lean down and you press your lips to his jaw and trail down, ripping a rumbling noise from his chest which develops into a shocked gasp when you sink your teeth into the area where his shoulder meets his neck. “Fuck—“ Simon hisses, one of his hands grabbing at the back of your shirt near the base of your spine. Pain sinks deep into his muscle and shocks his system for a moment, which quickly develops into a hot sensation as you turn from biting to sucking. “Haah—what—“ Simon manages to push out, his legs twitching underneath you.

You don’t usually bite him; maybe a hickey or two, some licking but you’ve never bit him like this. You press your hips down onto his, drawing a choked noise out of his throat as you trail up to his throat and you suck a harsh hickey into his skin, your teeth nicking him. Simon’s tongue comes out to lick his lips, instinctually tipping his chin upwards to allow you complete access to his neck. Hot arousal pool in his stomach, spreading like runny honey through his hips and down his legs. Your hand grabs his jaw and moves his head the way you want, and he lets you.

Simon’s eyes flutter closed as you press harsh kisses and nips to his skin, ripping out a few loudish noises from his throat as you take your time, enjoying the way he’s twitching underneath you. You suck a harsh hickey to Simon’s collarbone. He inhales sharply; he’s never felt this sensitive to this kind of stuff before, but something about the way you’re leaving your mark on his skin is making his face flush hot. His hands trail under your shirt to grab at your waist, craving that skin to skin contact. You tsk, snapping Simon back to reality, his eyes opening. “Greedy,” You chide as you sit up.

Simon’s eyes lock with yours as your hands play with his belt for a moment, which sucks all of the air out of his lungs. You grin at his reactions; there’s something different about the both of you right now, and Simon shivers at the way your eyes flicker to his chest. Simon calls your name under his breath but before he can question what you want, you lean down and you press your tongue against one of his nipples and you drag, ripping a groan out of him before you begin to suck a hickey right next to his nipple. You feel Simon’s hips jump from the sensation, his hands twitching—trying to be good for you, trying to stay still. Simon wants to be good but fuck, the itch under his skin is ramping him up again.

He gasps when you sink your teeth into the meat of his pec and—the itch subsides for a second, the pain of your teeth shooting up his spine in the best way possible. Simon’s hands shift down to your hips and he squeezes, his breath hitching once you pull away from his pec. Your eyes roam his chest and Simon damn near wants to cover up from how hungry you look, Jesus Christ—

“All compliant now, aren’t you?” You coo, looking down at him. Simon’s eyebrow twitches in confusion and he goes to open his mouth to reply, but a “haah” leaves his lips when your hand wraps around the column of his throat. He melts into the mattress when your fingers press into the sensitive marks you’ve left against the sides of his throat, a full body shiver leaving him. “So sensitive, too..” You comment, watching the way his body just completely relaxes under your touch.

Simon turns his head away with a breath, feeling the embarrassed heat creep up his neck to his face. “Fuck off.” He hisses, his throat vibrating under your hand and his Adam’s apple bobbing for a moment. You laugh in return and you squeeze the sides of his throat, causing Simon to close his eyes for a moment and it draws out a strained gasp from him. “You need a fuckin’ attitude adjustment. You’ve needed one all day, huh?” You sneer, using your grip on his throat to turn his head back towards facing you. “Look at me.”

Simon’s eyelids flutter open, his eyes staring back at yours. Your gaze is so invasive, searching for any sign of disobedience. “Maybe you need a reminder of where you belong, Simon.” His lips part to ask you what you mean—like he always does, he already knows he belongs under you—but you get to him first. You press a harsh kiss against his lips, biting at his lower lip until it’s swollen and you only pull away when his lips are slick with saliva. Your hand moves from his throat to his chest like before, allowing you to trail hot, wet kisses down his neck, over his collarbone, and to his chest. “Shit—“ Simon grunts as you sink your teeth into his other pec, sucking a dark hickey into the skin, causing a hot wave to flash over him.

Simon’s sure his skin is covered in your mark now—it’s only been a few minutes and he can already feel a delicious ache settling—and he doesn’t expect you to scoot back on his thighs and to undo his belt to his camo pants. His heart stutters in his chest right before you unbutton and unzip his pants. You swing yourself off of Simon’s thighs for a moment, tapping his leg. He’s already doing it as you murmur, “Hips up, sweetheart.” You tug his pants and underwear down, his cock twitching against his stomach; hard and aching, the tip leaking ever so slightly. Simon’s trying so hard to keep his eyes on you, he knows that is what you want—but it’s so hard when you look at him like he’s something you want to consume whole.

“Stop.” He whispers, catching your attention immediately. Simon’s looking away and his hands are grabbing at the sheets nervously. Big ol’ Ghost, cocky Lieutenant Simon Ghost Riley is nervous. “What was that, baby?” You ask, pausing. You could’ve sworn he said stop—it isn’t your safeword, but the way he said it concerns you—and you don’t want to push if that’s the case, if he truly wants to stop. Simon clears his throat and it’s clear he’s struggling, so you give him a moment. “You keep looking at me like you wanna eat me.” Simon says with a breathy laugh, managing to make eye contact with you. Your shoulders relax at the realization that he doesn’t want to stop, that you haven’t pushed his boundaries. You chuckle and you move between his legs, placing your hands on his knees and you slowly move them up his bare thighs, causing him to shiver. “Oh, you have no idea.”

You bend over and you press kisses against his stomach, causing the muscle underneath to flex and tense. You get to his thighs, your hand wrapping around his cock. “I’m gonna make sure you think and feel me every step you take, darling. Gonna make you sore and think of me for days.” Simon goes to respond but like the many times before, you interrupt him by sinking your teeth into the meat of his thigh, causing him to gasp. Simon knows you aren’t going to stop until his hips and thighs are aching with hickeys and bite marks—your hickeys and bite marks. Simon doesn’t complain when you suck dark and harsh hickeys into his v-line, nor when you scratch angry red lines into his skin to get him to shut up.

721 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months ago

Text

Unorthodox 3

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: you bring order to the disordered life of Captain Syverson.

Characters: Captain Syverson, this reader is known as Izzie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

You’re shown to a room of your own. It’s a luxury in your line of work. You often share the back of the truck or some cramped space with your boss. You look forward to a night without Syverson’s rumbling snores.

As you remove your harness and vest, a knock thumps on the door. You answer and find a man with a pile of fabric in his hands. He gives it to you without a word and leaves, a rifle across his back. You frown and shut the door.

The accommodations are acceptable. There’s a bed, a side table, and a fan. Nothing fancy but better than a cot or a car seat. Or your favourite, the ground.

You hold up the patterned swath of silk and let it unfold. The long caftan is cool and sheer. It might not be your usual attire but it’s preferable to your dusty cargo pants and sweaty cotton shirt. You shake out your clothes as you undress then throw the swishy fabric over your head. You feel almost human.

Another pounding comes at the door. You hear a snort as you approach and know before you answer it, who it is. Sy waits on the outside. He wears the same thing he showed up in; dirty cargo and camo. He blinks at you dumbly and grimaces.

“What the hell is that?” He flicks a thick finger at you.

“What?”

“What’re you wearing, Iz? You look like my mammy.”

“Shut up,” you jab him and turn back. You push your feet into your boots and tramp back to him. He chuckles at the clomp of the heavy soles.

“Naw, I mean it, Iz, you pack that get-up or what?”

“No, it was... given to me. I don’t know.” You cross your arms and look down with a shrug. “I thought... Well, it seemed nice.” You look up and narrow your eyes. “Wait, why’re you bothering me anyway?”

“Hungry, ain’t ya?” He scoffs.

“Sure.”

“So come on, I’ll show ya the mess.”

You cluck and step out into the hall. After settling from the jump, your stomach has turned ravenous. You wish you were at Retro’s, gnawing at hot wings and downing martinis. Alas, you have work. Well, you’ve had worse than this.

“Thank,” you grumble.

He’s quiet as you walk through the halls. Others pass or follow in your stead. He toys with a flap on one of his many pockets.

“Tired?” He asks.

“Mm? Oh, yeah. Kinda.”

“Get that adrenaline kickin’ and you sleep like a black bear in winter.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” you chuckle. “Maybe you though. You’re pretty good at it.”

“Good at what?”

“Sleeping through the b—chaos,” you keep yourself from swearing.

“Ah, I guess. Not much of a skill.”

You shrug. He can be awkward sometimes. Mostly when he talks. When you first started, he didn’t say too much, now he tends to force himself too.

“Here we are.” He points you to a door.

You peer down the hall and step out of the way of the men in civvies milling around. Sy opens the door without knocking and nudges your lower back to urge you inside. You stumble in as a figure stands to greet you. Conrad smiles and tilts his head.

“I don’t like to presume things about you Americans but it is rather uncourteous not to knock,” he reproaches.

“Eh,” Sy grunts.

“Then again, it is you,” Conrad snickers back. He moves around the table in front of him. There’s a bottle of wine and glasses, a few cans of beer, and food that isn’t served in tin or vacuum seal. “And you, I do hope the attire suffices. It was all I could scrounge, I regret.”

“Uhhh, it’s good. Er, pretty.” You look down and touch the silk.

“Feel free to take it with you. That colour is immaculate on you.”

“Ha, er, thanks.”

Sy marches forward and claims a seat with a huff. He shows no patience as he reaches for the dish of seasoned chicken. You come forward and Conrad rounds the table to pull out another chair. You thank him as you sit and your brutish boss glances over at the gesture.

“Shiraz? Does that suit you?” Conrad grabs the bottle wine and a glass.

“I’m not picky,” you assure him.

“Yes, but I hate to leave a women disappointed,” he winks and pours you a glass.

“What’s in here?” Sy interrupts as he holds up a bowl.

“Olive? Rosemary, bit of red vinegar. How about a brew, eh?” He grabs a can and offers it.

“I’ll have what she’s havin’,” Sy insists through a mouthful.

“You may help yourself. As you have done.” Conrad clunks down the bottle between your and Sy’s plates.

He sits and offers to serve you before he does himself. You don’t mind the attention though it does strike you as a bit overdone. You have an extra scoop of curry as the aroma drives you mad.

Conrad watches as you taste the wine and Sy slurps from his own glass. Your boss tuts and puts it down heavily. He scrapes his plate loudly with his fork as you only just start to poke at your own fare. The other man is uninterested in the meal as he stares you down.

“Please, you must tell me, how did you end up here at my table?” Conrad purrs.

You chew slowly and look over at Sy. He narrows his eyes and shovels more food into his mouth, a dribble catching in his beard. You stir the rice with your fork.

“I applied on a job board and interviewed and--”

“Ah, that sounds rather proper. Syverson, I thought you more the type to snatch up beautiful women.”

“Hm?” Sy grunts around a mouthful.

“And yet, a creature like this should be cozened. To have her jumping from planes? Tsk tsk. Oh, don’t tell me he’s had you living on beans and sleeping in dirt.”

“Her job...” Sy sneers over.

“It’s exciting, actually. My old job was just the same desk, same walls. I couldn’t even get the time off to go parachuting for fun so... not so bad.”

“Thrill seeker? Mmm, that’s intriguing. Have you ever been rock climbing? Not in a gym but on a real mountain?”

“You got barbecue sauce?” Sy interjects.

Conrad laughs again. He stands and goes over to the footlocker against the wall and opens the lid. He pulls out a bottle of a southern brand of sauce. The same you stocked for Sy. Hm.

“I have to be prepared for anything, not least of all the way you get when you’re hungry.” Conrad struts back and sets the bottle at Sy’s elbow. “I must admit, I wasn’t ready for you, darling.” He sits again and you’re certain there’s a low growl from your other side. No matter the perks, managing men is never simple.

#captain syverson #dark captain syverson #dark!captain syverson #captain syverson x reader #series #au #bad bosses #unorthodox #sand castle

131 notes · View notes

txttletale · 11 months ago

Note

Why did you choose a blank background? Why did you choose that specific coloration (no camo)? Why did you choose that specific angle (and not, say, one that places the viewer above the mi-24)? Why did you choose that specific level of cartoonish softness, and not any more or any less?

Or were you not the one making any of those choices?

i obviously didn't make those choices although, note, i could have: ou only know i didn't because i shared my very simple and low effort prompt -- my prompt could have been 'mi-24 attack helicopter blushing demurely, blank background, front angle, slightly cube chibi style'.

& of course if i were an actual AI artist and was using a local stable diffusion model instead of futzing around on bing image creator, i could have given several prompts and weighted them, putting an exact 1-100 number on exactly how much cartoony softness i wanted, and generated multiple generations of images, picking the one that most fits my artistic vision and img2img generating four offshoots each time, until i finally picked an image that perfectly matches what i want from a hundred different permutations .

but of course, none of that is salient to the point that post was making, which is that there is obvious and undeniable self expression and intentionality behind even the laziest and least interesting AI art. the presence of unintentional elements or elements outside my control has no bearing on that!

(& of course, the idea that art having major elements that do not represent choices by the artist is not art quickly runs into the fact that, for example, all mediums have limitations -- or, for a more direct example, all outdoor and candid photography)

1950s comic about a socialist gumball machine

#ask #ai art

244 notes · View notes

shadeops21 · 6 months ago

Text

Ghost Cosplay Concept

I've become real invested into the CoD cosplay realm now, and looking at the reboot's different skins and loadouts, I'm surprised we haven't seen a few more "classic"/"throwback" kits than what we've been given.

I know that the "iconic" Ghost look is the grey fleece jacket with the camo pants and chest rig, as seen during Loose Ends, but I would like to propose that the Rio missions are where we saw what I consider "peak Ghost" and peak SF vibe, of which we see a lot more of in the reboot series (civil attire with tac gear over the top).

Here is Ghost's OG Rio kit from the game for those who can't remember:

Now I want to cosplay this look, but I also recognise that not a lot of what's seen above is too identifyable by today's standards, and may include discontinued equipment.

Then I wondered what it'd look like using the reboot's level of detail and assets. So I kitbashed a similar kit using a mix of assets from different characters and operators, and this will be the basis of my next cosplay:

I'll be able to recycle elements from my previous Ghost cosplay as well as other pieces of equipment that I've got for gelsofting and other cosplays.

The actual cosplay may vary in some aspects such as the kind of pants I wear (model uses UF Pro Striker pants, might swap for just regular cargo pants or G3 Field pants, haven't decided) and may use a different dangler pouch. Will probably use my green AMPs as well, rather than tan comms.

Will also def source a temporary tattoo using Ghost's arm tats, just for max level of detail. I think that'd look dope.

The next thing would then to just figure out what primary to carry: do I go classic MW2 M4A1 as he carried in Rio, or do I use his Chimera/Honey Badger from the reboot?

Lemme know your thoughts or if you have any ideas!

#mwii #mwiii #mw2 #mw3 #cosplay #cosplay reference #cosplay plan #call of duty #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley

89 notes · View notes

aiartwerk · 3 months ago

Text

Carpenter A confident female carpenter working on wood in a workshop. With her curly hair tied back, safety glasses, and tools in hand, she is fully focused on her craft. Wood shavings and sparks surround her as she smoothly planes a piece of wood. Her robust physique adds to the image’s emphasis on empowerment and craftsmanship.

Construction Worker This image portrays a construction worker standing proudly on a construction site, donning a hard hat and tool belt. Her dusty outfit and powerful stance amidst cranes and scaffolding show her strength and dedication to the job, surrounded by a backdrop of a large industrial site under construction.

Crane Operator A woman sits inside a crane cabin, wearing a hard hat and work gloves, operating heavy machinery with intense focus. The interior of the cabin is filled with dials and switches, capturing the mechanical aspect of her job. The background is a vast construction site, highlighting the scale of her work.

Race Car Driver A striking woman in a yellow racing suit stands confidently in front of a Formula 1 race car. Her stance is powerful, with arms akimbo, as she commands attention amidst the high-energy backdrop of a race track. Her sleek outfit and the car’s detailed design contribute to the fast-paced energy of the scene.

Electrician This image showcases an African-American woman working as an electrician, kneeling down amidst a tangle of wires and cables. She holds a tool in her hand while sparks fly around her. Her expression is calm and composed as she works with precision in a high-stress environment.

Firefighter A fierce female firefighter stands in front of a blazing fire, exuding strength and bravery. Her orange firefighter suit is charred, and her face is determined as she readies herself for action. The flames in the background highlight the danger and intensity of her profession.

Pilot A stylish and commanding woman stands in front of a large airplane, dressed in a crisp pilot’s uniform. Her tailored black jacket and cap emphasize her authority and professionalism. The jet behind her and the blue skies reflect her role as a leader in aviation.

Lumberjill A woman in plaid and work jeans is in the midst of chopping logs in a forest clearing. Her strong arms grip an ax as she focuses on the task at hand. The sunlight filtering through the trees adds warmth to the image, emphasizing her connection to the land and hard work.

Mechanic In a garage setting, a female mechanic works on a car, her hands covered in grease. Her denim overalls cling to her toned frame as she holds a tool, surrounded by equipment and automotive parts. Her intense expression shows focus, dedication, and passion for her trade.

Soldier A soldier stands at attention amidst a battlefield, her body armored and weapon at her side. Her camo fatigues blend into the war-torn environment, while her fierce, unyielding gaze suggests experience and readiness for the challenges ahead.

Plumber A woman kneels beside a kitchen sink, tools in hand, as she works on the plumbing. Her determined expression and sturdy overalls emphasize her hands-on approach to fixing things. The homey kitchen setting contrasts with her industrial tools, blending domestic and technical elements.

Power Line Worker High above the ground, a woman works on power lines, equipped with a tool belt and safety gear. She balances on a wooden beam, her face focused as she repairs wiring. The towering power poles and bright sky in the background add scale and drama to the scene.

Spaceship Pilot Inside a futuristic spaceship, a young woman pilots the craft, surrounded by high-tech controls. Her white and black spacesuit glows in the colorful lights of the console, and the cosmos stretches out beyond the window. The vastness of space outside complements her focused expression as she navigates.

Submariner In the depths of the ocean, a woman operates the controls of a high-tech submarine. The control room is dimly lit with screens glowing, showing the sea life outside. Sharks swim past the large windows, creating a mysterious and adventurous atmosphere as she guides the vessel.

Welder A woman stands confidently in front of a welding torch, sparks flying around her. Her protective gloves and helmet highlight the dangers of her job, but her composed expression suggests mastery of her craft. The industrial setting around her adds a sense of strength and power to the scene.

Each image is crafted with ultra-realistic detail, featuring vivid 3D rendering and high-resolution 4K quality. The colors are bold and striking, with detailed lighting that brings out the textures in their environments, outfits, and the characters themselves. Each woman is depicted with strength and beauty, emphasizing her role in her respective profession while challenging traditional gender stereotypes.

These characters not only represent women of power but also pay homage to diversity by showcasing African American women in impactful, aspirational roles.

49 notes · View notes

reimenaashelyee · 5 months ago

Text

Getting to the part in Alexander Comic where designing military dress is becoming necessary. It's my first time having to design clothes for war. With the ancient Greeks, I wanted to approach it with an interest for the finery of war as part of ritual performance - which is no longer a thing in modern military what with all the camo and monotones - so I am going all out with the head dresses, colours and all the accessories.

I think if I were a peasant back then the thing that would most scare me about the ancient Greek army would be their mechanical, efficient behaviour - almost automaton. That, mixed with loud, showy accessories.

To emphasise the eerie automaton-y vibes, I am standardising a uniform for the Companions: they will be sharing the linothorax, pteruges, chlamys and tunic. My first intinct is to have them wear all white with orange/red accents for that alien, sterile aesthetic - and they will contrast well with Alexander's outfit, which I plan to make dark. The second option is white with a brown linothorax, which looks more pleasing and will match better with Alex's dark clothes.

One element I am including that's not anywhere in sources (text or art) is the right-handed glove. Mostly cos I keep thinking about the burn and the sweat that comes with holding onto a weapon for so long. It's not historically accurate 100%, but it's viable, so... this is an Alexander Comic Reimena Yee special.

I would like to play around more with the helmet but Hephaestion's big nose (which I love) is getting in the way

#alexander comic #character design

97 notes · View notes

mysterymanjoseph · 6 months ago

Text

The Somewhat Great Outdoors: mysterymanjoseph and x-2-3

Joseph had gotten this little cabin/homestead site built over the last year. His grandfather had constructed many of them across the nation, in case of some sort of societal collapse, for the family to take refuge in and ride things out for as long as possible. Idaho did not have one, and since what photos Joseph had seen of the state showed a great deal of beauty, he decided to have on built there. Now, he was putting in the finishing touches, laying in supplies and gear. Lastly, it was getting firewood ready for both the stove for heat, and the wood fired cook stove. He had contacted a few sawmills, and arranged for 'cull' logs to be trucked into the site and dropped off. Cutting the logs to length, he uses the heavy duty wood splitting machine to finish off the pieces, marveling at how fast the most labor intensive part of the process can now be done. When all the wood is split and stacked, he takes a few days to relax, spending a lot of time sitting on the small porch with binoculars to watch nature do its thing out in front of him. When going to fetch a drink of water from the fridge, he turns on the radio to catch the local weather, hearing a bulletin about a child who wandered away from their family while on a camping trip. Listening to details, he goes to a custom topographical map of the area he had commissioned. Studying it, he mumbles, "That area is not really that far from my property line, depending on what direction the kid went, they might well be on my land,....there is roughly a one in four chance could have wandered this way." Conscience giving him no peace, he decides he can at least hike around his property's boundary, and see what he might see. To that end, he gears up as if he were going on a long patrol like he was back in the Marines in the Afghan mountains, bolt action rifle, [rather than his service weapon], rucksack stuffed with survival gear, heavy duty camo clothing, boots, and canteen of water. As he marches to the starting point of his sweep, he thinks, "Hope the weather does not pull a surprise change and get nasty, that makes the chances of finding the kid that much more difficult, and reduces their chance to make it out in the elements for any length of time."

@x-2-3

40 notes · View notes

bits-and-babs · 2 years ago

Note

I am so, so sorry for what you are going through.

I'd like to request another Kane x fem!reader, with them being inside the shimmer. Some of the prompts I love are 2, 11, 23, 37, 42! Was thinking what if reader was close with a different soldier, and was growing closer as things looked bad, though you and that soldier were never anything more than two friends comforting each other in the face of the end, and Kane finally snapped?

Thank you so much for the opportunity to request! Much, much love to you.

-ˋˏ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍-𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 ˎˊ-

— pairing: Kane (annihilation) x F!Reader

— word count: 1k

— warnings: light dub-con elements, creepy elements, biting, choking, jealous sex, breeding kink, cream pie (yes, I know, I have an addiction, WRAP IT KIDS), reference to murder. 18+ you nasty nasties.

kane masterlist I| main masterlist |l send me an ask

It rattles against the bars of his very being, the creature that had been rearing its ugly head since the moment he stepped in here. It’s snarling, threatening to burst through its confines when he sees Vallows wrap his arms around your shoulder in a comforting squeeze.

He’s curdling, twisting into something obscene in his envy.

“Hey,” Kane calls out, voice tight. He sees you look over your shoulder, startled by the noise with these round puppy-eyes that set him alight on the inside, flames of his desire swallowing the creature whole. He crooks a finger at you, watching you approach with a nervous expression on your face as though he’s about to whip you for miss-stepping.

“Come here,” he orders, and his stomach flips when you do exactly that, footfalls stepping in time with his own as he leads the way into the overgrowth. It’s vile, the sickly greed that had enveloped him since entering The Shimmer. Things weren’t right here; reality fundamentally twisted.

You look up at him with this expectant gaze that makes his body sing for you, the threads in the fabric of his being tearing with their need for you. When you open your mouth to question his taking you aside, Kane descends on you with an animalistic groan, smothering your lips with his own and grabbing at your body with greedy hands.

He should be appalled with himself, but you’re wrapping your arms around him suddenly, pulling his body into your own and breathing his name into his mouth— not his title, his name.

The both of you stumble into the flowering overgrowth, the pink petals of the blossom flowers shimmering rainbows like an oil slick as he rips off your camo trousers, his lips brushing the collar of your khaki polo shirt when he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your throat.

“Kane!” You wail out his name and a pulse of something ravenous washes over Kane’s body. If he wasn’t already scrambling, he’s practically tearing your clothes off you when he tastes the iron of your blood on his tongue. Fuckfuckfuck, he needs this. He needs it. You’re not Vallows’. He can’t have you. You’re his.

He sucks on the split skin across the column of your neck, tasting more of the red blood that stains his teeth. You’re arching off the soil beneath you, pushing your breasts into his chest and whining at the sensation of pressure against your nipples.

“Fuck,” he groans loudly, the envious monster scratching in the pit of his stomach gaining some relief when you work your fingers into his dark curls and press a kiss to his lips. You’re licking your tongue into his mouth, tasting your own blood on his enamel, and Kane’s cock leaps against the zipper of his uniform.

Christ, you barely give him a moment to respond. Your fingers don’t tremble when they reach for the zipper, ripping it down and working his belt open. Not bothering to remove it from the loops, you pull the button quickly, the metal of the buckle hanging at his hip rattling as you work his clothes down his thighs.

Kane growls loudly, grabbing your hips in a bruising grip and yanking your body across the emerald grass to pull you into position. It’s like you know, your thighs hiking up over his waist. You breathe in tandem, sharing one brain as Kane works his cock inside of you with a feral hiss of your name.

“Oh- ohfuckohfuck-“ the praises spill from your lips and it blooms a vengeful pride through Kane’s chest as he brutally slams into you. It’s earth-shattering, each slap of his skin on yours causing your body to hike up the soil and away from him until Kane grabs you and spears you back down onto his cock with a particularly vicious thrust.

“Mhm- Mhm, this fu-fucking Vowels-“ Kane spits, a rasp of something unhinged playing on his voice when you flutter around his cock, pussy gushing against his length, “Could he fuck you lik-like I can? Hmm? Could he fuck you like I can?!”

You’re sobbing loudly, shaking your head quickly as he fucks you into the floor. He can’t help but laugh cruelly, noting the way you look like the antithesis of those nodding-head dogs you see on people’s dashboards because you don’t stop rocking your head left and right.

“Didn’t t-think so,” he gasps as he feels you roll your hips up to meet his, chasing the orgasm you appear to be teetering on.

“Scream my name. Fuckin’ tell him who you belong to, Angel. Come on! I’ll fucking fill you up; go on-“

You do, God, you do. It breaks you apart, shatters your being as you cum around him with a scream of his single-syllable name that bounces off the bark of the shimmering trees surrounding you.

The hoarse cry you let out has him spilling into your sopping cunt, haggard shouts of your name bleeding between your whines. He feels like he pumps you full, painting his cock with a creamy slick as he continues to thrust in and out of you at a slower pace.

Only when you both pause, Kane leaning over you on shaky arms, does reality begin to ebb back into his consciousness, your heaving chest beneath him lulling him back to the sounds of The Shimmer. Birds that sound off, the beauty of the surroundings shifting ever so slightly to reveal the horrors beneath- rotting.

His post-orgasm haze seems to shake the overwhelming jealousy ever so slightly, just enough to give him pause. Shock stills his heart, his eyes staring down at you in fear of his atypical actions.

But he finds it so hard to feel guilt when you look at him, eyes all blissed out and lids hooded.

The Green-Eyed Monster rears its ugly head once more. It couldn’t bear the concept of Vallows taking you for himself.

Kane would have to remove him from the equation.

END

321 notes · View notes