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mrs-ghost-2 · 7 months ago

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One Round Man (Round 1)

Pairing: Boyfriend!Simon x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: swearing, oral (m receiving), pet names, Dom/sub tones, sub!simon, dom!reader, basically smut

-Not checked so all mistakes are my own as I wrote this on mobile. This is only round 1! Feel free to reblog and comment! I plan on posting round 2 soon. As always, MDNI and 18+ only! :)

Simon had a lot on his plate. Had people counting on him. Expecting things of him. He had places he needed to be and things that needed to be done and people he needed to impress. He is a part of the 141, after all. His name opened doors for him, but it also crushed his bones and soul under the weight of it, too.

But he also had you. You didn’t expect anything from him other than for him to be present in the moment. For him to be with you physically, and to help him be there mentally, too. Even if that meant he wore a pair of silk ties around his wrists and was tied to the headboard every once in awhile.

Simon had had a long night; too much adrenaline after a training mission and too much paperwork and no way to work off the rage that was brewing under his skin and heating his blood. But he knew that you were still awake, the light shining from underneath your door an obvious sign that you waited up for him.

He knocked twice, two loud thumps on your door and then he posted up between the wooden frames. Fingers curled around the thin wood, chest heaving under his compression shirt and veins bulging in his neck.

“Coming!” You called out, soft feet padding towards the door and swinging it open to see Ghost- your boyfriend and most stubborn patient in the med bay- staring down at you with fire behind his eyes.

You had gotten a heads up from Captain Price earlier that evening that Ghost had been through the wringer with the newest soldiers on base and he would be feeling…pent-up. You nodded and thanked him before bidding him goodnight and heading back to your barracks room.

“Simon.” You acknowledged, always seeing beneath the eye black and skull balaclava to the man beneath it.

“Help.” Was the only thing he said, bulldozing his way through the doorframe and collapsing onto your king-size bed.

“You know the drill, Si.” You loved that he trusted you enough to be vulnerable, to put his mental, emotional, and physical safety into your hands both as a doctor and as a significant other.

“Yes, lovie.” He drawled out, thighs spreading to allow you to sit comfortably between them and wrists crossing above his head to wait patiently.

Simon was a soldier first and foremost, but he only followed orders from people he trusted. So assuming the position without back talk? He trusted you beyond words.

“Need me to take care of you, Si? Help you relax?” You asked him, gauging where his head was at while you grabbed the silk from the drawer under your bed and moved to straddle his wide hips.

“Please. ‘m desperate.” He made a move to grab your hips but thought better of it and put his hands back to their original spot.

“Keep your hands above your head.” You ordered softly, fingers making quick work of tying the strands of silk around his thick wrists and looping them together to essentially “lock” his hands and keep them out of your way.

“Yes, lovie.” Simon’s head fell back against the bed frame, exposing the hard lines of his collarbone and the soft, scarred skin of his throat.

You grinned and leaned forward, plush tits pressing against his chest from underneath your (his) oversized shirt. He groaned low in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as your teeth sank into his neck and you sucked a deep purple mark into his skin.

“Fuck, kitten.” He grunted in barely-there pain and his hips rocked up against yours.

“Watch it, Simon.” You gently smacked his hip in warning and he sighed before nodding and settled back against the mattress.

You wanted him pliant. You wanted him to be present with you and the only thoughts in his mind to be about you, your mouth, and letting you take his stress away. You wanted the lights on his eyes but his brain empty to everything but pleasure.

“You gotta be patient, Si.” You murmured against his neck as you peppered kisses along the wide expanse of his chest.

“I am not a patient man, lovie.” He responded, eyes closing as he felt your fingers slide under the hem of his compression shirt and start rubbing soft circles into his scarred skin.

“I know you can be. You can be so good and patient for me. I believe in you.” You cooed, finger tips curling to start drawing nail marks across his abdomen.

“Only for you, kitten. Fu-fuck, only for you.” Your hips started rocking against his, the thick bulge in his tac pants creating the best seat for you.

No words were exchanged for the next few moments; instead, you continued to roll your hips in slow circles against his covered cock while dragging up his shirt inch by inch. Simon knew better than to try and rush you so he decided to do his best to sink into the mattress and let you have your fun. He was fighting to keep his eyes open to watch you while you carefully pulled his shirt up to rest high on his chest and leaned forward to begin mouthing wet kisses and sucking on patches of his warm skin to leave marks for him later.

“Doing okay, love?” You asked him, checking in to make sure he was doing okay while you worked to get his belt buckle undone and tugged the button of his pants to release it.

“Jus’ fine, swee’heart.” Simon’s head lulled to the side and he was only able to nod.

You smiled up at him, keeping your eyes locked on his as you tugged the zipper of his pants down as far as it would go. He knew to keep his eyes on you as you worked his pants down to his ankles so he was laid beneath you with his shirt shoved up his chest and only his black boxers covering his aching cock.

“C’mon, kitten, touch me. Wan’ your mouth on it.” Simon begged, hips jerking up when you began palming him through the dark fabric.

“You’ll have my mouth when you’re good and stop moving.” You admonished, pulling your hand away to shoot him a frown.

“F-fuck, I’ll be good. I promise.” He was slowly falling away from his anger and began to rely on his need to please you and have you happy with him. It was the softer side that you only got to see behind closed doors.

“Promise?” You cock your head to the side, the index finger of your right hand slowly dragging up from the covered base of him to where you know his tip waits, pulsing for you.

“Promise.” Simon swore, eyes heated behind his mask as he watched you bend over from your position between his thighs so you could trace the path your finger just took with your tongue.

“Oh, fuck.” You heard his head smack against the bed frame as you sucked at the wet patch of fabric covering the already-leaking head of his cock.

Just barely, you could see him from your frame of view and the sight almost had you cumming in your panties. His thick eyelashes brushed against his cheeks and you could see his mouth fall open from underneath his balaclava.

“Can I take the mask off, Simon?” You pulled your mouth away but kept your hand busy while you waiting for his permission.

“Yes, shit. Take i’ off.” You didn’t have to be told twice.

You yanked the mask off his head, laying it on the bedside table before turning back to see his now-uncovered face.

“Wanted to see you fall apart.” You explained to him, getting back to your previous position and suckling at the leaking tip of him while your fingers made quick work of tugging his boxers down his thighs to meet his pants.

Simon can do nothing but take the sweet torture, his head falling to the side to watch you try to wrap your fingers around the base of his rigid length while you extend your tongue and run it from base to tip.

“Such a sweet fuckin’ mouth, lovie. Gonna kill me one of these days.” He growled out, chasing your lips and tongue as you move to suck marks into the V of his hips.

“I can’t have that, now can I? This is too much fun to stop now.” You laugh low, warm breath hitting the blooming bruises on his skin as you take the base of his cock back in your hand and wrap your wet lips around his tip.

It’s like a blow to the stomach for Simon as he feels your tongue swipe across the leaking slit before sliding down to curl around the sensitive underside. His stomach caves in and he fights to not break the silk ties; he doesn’t want to disappoint you but he feels like he’s going to combust if you don’t start moving faster. He’s desperate to feel his cock down your throat, to feel the spit used as lube drip down onto his balls and puddle in the sheets. He wants to hold each side of your head while you suck him, wants to lovingly brush his thumbs along your aching jaw, wants to have you stick your tongue out while he bounces the tip of his throbbing dick against it before showing it down your throat.

But he also wants to be good for you. Wants to make you proud of him for staying in his spot, leaving his wrists tied, mind empty of everything but how amazing your mouth and tongue feels wrapped around one and then both of his balls while you jerk him roughly in your palm. He craves the feeling of his impending orgasm building at the base of his spine, of knowing that he can’t really do much but take the sweet torture/pleasure that you gift him.

“‘m gonna cum if you keep tha’ up, kitten.” Simon warns you, panting for breath as you move from his balls back to the head of his dick.

“Didn’t say you could cum yet, Si.” You retort, removing your mouth completely but still jerking him off with long, slow strokes.

“Lovie, please. Wanna cum for you, wan’ you to swallow it for me and let me see it disappear.” Simon begs, mind in the gutter as he babbles his pleas for you to swallow him down once more and grant him the glory of your mouth and tongue for him to cover in his load.

“You sound so pretty when you beg, Si. You have my permission to cum but it has to be in the next sixty seconds or else this is all you get.” He nodded quickly, determined to listen and who was he to lie and say that he would even need sixty seconds?

Ten seconds and he’s a goner, stomach caving in as he shoots ropes of cum across your tongue and down your throat. You do your best to swallow around him while you continue to jerk his still-hard length, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as he continuously thrusts his hips to fuck your mouth through his orgasm. Eventually he collapses against the bed, slightly shuddering and swearing softly as he fights to regain composure over himself.

“Only sixty seconds, huh? You think m’gonna be done after one round, kitten?” Simon questions you, finally having enough of his bearings to take stock of the new dynamic.

You grinned at him, leaning up and backing down the mattress slowly as you see his eyes darken and one rough yank of his wrists has the silk bindings snapping off and falling to the floor.

“You forget, lovie. I’m not a one-round man.”

#simon ghost riley #ghost cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost cod smut #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley smut #ghost mw2 #simon riley #simon riley x reader

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artificialgirl · 10 months ago

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Secondhand Market

Her fingers run along your smooth plating, tracing a seam in the cool metal until they find the release. You blurt out a wavering protest as she applies gentle pressure and pops the hatch open in your back- She is not a registered technician, and improper maintenence procedures could cause damage to both her body and your hardware. She ignores you, cutting off your explanation with a command. "Mute". Your speakers fall quiet and you're left there, kneeling silently as she stares into the hatch in quiet contemplation.

Your rear camera shows you her hand extending towards you again, and though you move to block her, you're not quick enough. Your body automatically jolts to a halt as her hand plunges into your machinery, leaving you in a locked state in order to prevent any potential compression damage to your unexpected technician's hand.

She braces herself against your still body as she peers in, looking for something. "Illuminate internals". You feel warmth spread through you as the soft glow of your internal lights creeps up her face. She reaches for a screwdriver as she pushes a bundle of wires away from your left abdominal piston, sending a wave of overwhelming sensation across your circuits as the wires tug gently at their ports.

Still and silent, you can do nothing but rumble almost undetectably as she begins to unscrew the cover for your central memory unit and pops in a protocol chip. She doesn't remove her hand from the wire bundle, and even with the minimal amount of pressure on the ports you can feel tactile processors overheating and fans whirring as you struggle to process the sheer amount of raw feeling. Your vents let out a small gasp of steam as the liquid coolant floods into their chambers, and she pulls her hand back as she realizes what's happening. "Shit. Sorry. Um, unmute".

Your speaker audio briefly peaks as a thousand thoughts you expected to be silent pour out into the room, and you see her smirk as the cacophony of private thoughts fades out and the tail ends of the longest few become briefly clear and distinguishable to human ears. A quiet laugh escapes her lips as she pops the panel closed again and gets up.

"Can you list your registered technicians for me?" You pull yourself back up to a standing position as you repeat the list back to her. Only one name comes from your speakers, and it's one they've never produced before. She grins as you as you realize the name is hers. "Good! Now, let's go home."

#robotfucker #robophilia #robot girl #ns4w

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socially-awkward-skeleton · 1 month ago

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Chapter 1 - Dark Paradise

Pairing: John Price x fem!oc (oc: Rory Sinclair - 3rd person pov)

Word count: 4.2 K

Warnings/tags: MINORS DNI, Vampire AU, smut, p in v sex, biting, consensual blood drinking, established relationship, unprotected sex with a vampire, swearing, pet names, roleplay scenario, John Price POV for this chapter

A/N: the first chapter and we're opening with a "bang". In this universe Rory is a previously turned vampire and member of TF141. The canon she has otherwise still holds, she just happens to also drink blood now.

Releasing the first chapter in time for Halloween, not entirely sure how regularly this fic will be updated.

And then the door to his quarters creaked open —

Goddamn tired.

He’d been awake for nearly 36 hours straight, finally given a chance to rest after prepping for another mission. The briefings had become the least of his worries, the same old-same old, but still every possible scenario circled his thoughts like he was a bloody clown with spinning plates on sticks, making sure not a single one fell on his watch.

Laying back in his bed, Price released a long, burdened exhale up towards the ceiling. Staring at the boring beige paint that was military standard as if he had expected it to change, running his hands back and forth through his hair. Thoughts of pouring himself a drink or perhaps lighting up a cigar for a little stress relief sparked behind his eyes.

It was the silence of the night, the others long since turned in, and while everyone else on base should have been sleeping, he realized he wasn’t entirely alone.

She appeared like an apparition. The door closing shut behind her with the flick of her delicate wrist, the lock clicking just as he gulped down a heavy swallow, his saliva thick in his throat, his tongue feeling sizes too large for his mouth.

His heart thundered in his chest, pounding in his ears, silencing any of his previous worries. White noise blanketed the gray matter. A haze as thick as fog blurred his vision, tunneling it until all he saw was her – everything else was just background noise. Non-existent.

His breath came in short and heavy. Sitting up against his pillows, his whole body felt like it had been entombed in earth, muscles unable to move without the use of brute force, and he’d been made docile under that singular stare, crushing him beneath it. His chest compressed, suffocating, squeezed tight until it hurt just to breathe.

Pale, slender fingers stretched out, and with the reaper’s touch, they pushed him down onto the mattress, forcing him down. His struggle, entirely futile under her feather-lite touch. The strength of a two tonne tank contained in her fingertips and total control slipped through his fingers the way the fibers of the sheets within his fists did. A shuddered breath tumbling over his lips before he sucked it back in through gritted teeth with a labored hiss.

Frozen hands traveled down arms that could toss a man over his shoulder or throw them over a barrier wall, and he’d never felt so unbearably pathetic. Held captive, imprisoned in his own bed like a child who’d woken from a terrible nightmare and didn’t even have the strength to scream. Soft palms drifted along his limbs, marble-smooth, stone-cold. Shivers slid down his spine, fractals of ice freezing the blood, spreading through his veins and making each pump of the work-horse muscle in his chest painful. Fingers slipped around his wrists, manacles that made his own digits lock like the blistering wind of a frozen tundra had chewed its way through his gloves and began to gnaw at the skin below.

His jaw clenched, heels digging into the mattress in some feeble attempt to break free from her hold as she settled herself on his lap, straddling him, milky-white thighs trapping him between them and each desperate attempt to flee only caused the blanket covering him to slip further down his hips, revealing the dark curls that bordered the root of his cock. He bit his lip, chewing on the flesh as his hips bucked, groaning, deep and low from the back of his throat.

“Christ, Ror. Please, darlin’...”

“Please what?” She purred, leaning towards him, her mouth inches away from his. Testing him, toying with him.

Her soft breath ghosted over his lips like a cool breeze in summer, chilling the heat that simmered beneath his flesh, sending yet another shiver coursing through him as the sweat that began to slick his skin and dampen the hair on his body was wicked away by her frozen touch rather than the evaporation of body heat. The soft swells of her breasts pressed against him, but there was no heartbeat there, the cavity may as well have been hollow below. It didn’t rise or fall either, her lungs lying as still as the grave.

“Fuck, woman, can’t just come in here and tease me like this,” he gruffed, teeth gritting together, brow furrowed. With each lift of his pelvis, he would grind against her, stroking his thick length against her velvety soft folds, and despite the icy temperature of her flesh he still hardened to the stiffness of a glacier in return.

She giggled and it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard – it was bloody torture. He was more worked up than usual, desperate and aching after days without rest, and she was playing him with the gall of a cat whose claws had managed to curl themselves around the tail of a rat.

Lifting his arms above his head, manipulating and maneuvering him like he was a poseable doll, she pinned his hands above his head and brushed the tip of her nose against his, paying extra attention to the little mole that sat there.

“Gonna get you back for this, sweetheart.” An empty threat. “Mark my words.”

Her hum in response vibrated through his skin and rattled his chest. “Promises, promises.” That sweet voice of hers melting his urge to flip her over and take the upper hand, conquering her gorgeous body – not that he could if he would, she was much too strong for that now.

Growling, his eyes narrowed at her, the piercing blue stare holding her dead to rights. “You’re bloody cruel.”

“Oh, shut it,” she said with that goddamn smirk of hers curling her mouth and awakening her angelic dimples.

His brow cocked and a short huff fluttered the dark waves that framed her face. Much too fucking pretty a face. “Am I not allowed to indulge in a little fantasy, my girl? How many men get to say their lady is a bloody vampire? Doesn’t mean I want to be left in the cold though, Ror. Driving me mad here.”

“So impatient, my darling. Think I never get you off with the way you’re acting.”

Brows knitting together, he looked up from beneath them with a darkened expression. His mouth scrunching in frustration, his square jaw cut with sharp edges as he lifted his chin defiantly and a low rumble built like rolling thunder in the distance.

“Do not give me that look,” she scolded him, “You’re the one who asks for these bloody games, love.”

“Party pooper,” she muttered before capturing his mouth in a deep kiss. Each press of her lips to his seemed to last forever, languid and slow, as sensual and seductive as the very aura that surrounded her since being turned several years back.

Her lips, like the cool side of the pillow, were refreshing, invigorating. The taste of her was sweet, the spoonful of sugar that made the shitshow of life go down a little easier. Grunting as he shifted beneath her, her hardened nipples brushed over his chest and she whined into his mouth.

He’d give anything to break free, to run his hands up and down the smooth curves of her waist and over the round of her hips, squeezing her firm little arse cheeks in his rough palms. To be able to grip her tight and drive her back and forth on his shaft, directing her, watching pleasure wrack her body, making her moan the way only he could; but instead, he was stuck there like a bug pinned under the glass in some hobbyist’s collection.

“Oh, my darling,” she cooed, pulling away, her lips glistening with the sheen of his saliva upon them. “You really must be suffering.”

Price nodded, jaw tense, his throat bobbing as the pulse point in his neck hammered so hard it nearly strangled him. “Can only take not touchin’ you for so long, darlin’.”

“Rory,” he husked her name, a quiet whisper traveling in the space between them.

Her full lips curled into a half grin and she gazed down at him, her eyes warm and brimming with life despite her circumstances. “You really want your hands free, don’t you?”

She gripped his shoulders, snaking her arms around the back of his neck. Her body rocking against his. Hips grinding, rotating. He was faced with Heaven on Earth while buried deep inside her. Price nuzzled in against her neck, breathing in the decadent scent of her perfume – sultry, heady, unfathomably deep. His mouth trailed along the smooth column, laving his tongue over the cool flesh as his beard rasped against her.

Sitting up, moving with the reflexes that made him so dangerous in the field, he wrapped his arms around her, gripping her tight and pulling her against his chest. “Lift up, sweetheart,” he ordered, slipping a hand between her legs and teasing the entrance to her core with the head of his cock.

As she lowered onto him, his breath hitched. Taking all of him, every last inch, they groaned in unison. “Fucking hell, love,” he purred in her ear as her hips started to roll against him, her slick coating his shaft as tight walls clenched against him. His eyes fluttered shut and his head rolled back, exposing the flesh of his neck, releasing an inaudible moan. One arm coiled around her waist, pressing her body to his, as the other slid up her back, his hand delving into the strands of her hair, bunching it up in a fistful. Straining to maintain clarity of thought, his whole body stiffened, his tendons all standing in stark relief.

“So damn beautiful,” he mumbled, lost in the feel of her undulating, of being inside her.

Trapped in a daze of passion, a dark paradise with a woman cursed with everlasting life so long as she had a constant food source, he was lost in the sensation of reaching the precipice she was leading him towards in her thrall. Losing track of time and space, her soft lips grazed against his artery and the barely there touch of pillowy flesh pulled him back into reality.

The hushed slurp of her open mouth wrapped around him reminded him of biting into a ripe peach in summer and the juice that ran down the chin with it. Succulent, sweet. And as her hand caressed his jaw, gentle and tender, coaxing him deeper into her maw, he was sure that was how her brain had learned to rewire itself with her change so she could stomach what she was forced to do for sustenance.

Gasping, he gulped air like he was drowning. The pinch of her bite soothed by her plump lips wrapping around the wound and sucking on the flesh, drawing out more of his blood that bubbled to the surface.

“Rory,” he murmured, knotting her hair in his fist as he tried to pull her mouth away.

It didn’t take much for her to get the hint, panting as she tore herself away from her source of fresh blood, drips of it curling down her chin from the corners of her mouth.

“Sorry, love,” she breathed, her tongue darting out to clean her lips as she wiped the traces of claret from her face with her hand.

“‘S okay,” he rumbled before pulling her in for a kiss, tasting himself on her tongue.

Redoubling his efforts to reach their shared climax, the metallic tang lingered in the air and in his mouth, clinging to his gums and inside his flared nostrils with each heaved breath.

Her moans were better than any song he’d ever heard, a siren’s call to his most base of instincts – the ones he’d trained to ignore, to forget, to rise above. He was a veteran of the SAS for a reason, and yet, their bodies moving in tandem eradicated any of the drilled in logic.

“Fuck, John,” she cried out, her voice straining, trembling as her nails dug into his back. “Right fucking there, don’t stop.”

Hips snapping, he’d never refuse to follow her orders, not when she was in his lap like this, when she was helping him unwind in the best way possible.

“Never, darlin’. Never.”

Bed creaking, the headboard knocking against the wall in time with their passion, he stopped caring if anyone else on base could hear them, he just wanted to keep her making those pretty noises for him.

Stiffening in his arms, her body turned rigid, muscles all tightening, locking up – Rigor mortis. A choked groan escaped her as her eyes rolled back in her head, fluttering shut as she went limp and rested her head on his shoulder.

The fact that he could still cause this sort of reaction in her, make her tremble and whine like the pretty, sweet and soft thing she used to be brought a hazy smile to his face. Panting as he felt her mouth wrap around the bite marks she’d left behind in his neck, her tongue dragging against it with the same attention she used on his cock. A growl rumbled in his chest as his thoughts drifted to that scenario for a fleeting moment.

That tongue of hers trailing along his skin, cleaning up the mess from his still draining veins, made his toes curl and he surged forward, thrusting into her with the force of a man possessed before grabbing her ass and bouncing her up and down on his shaft, punching out warbling mewls from her. Slick, wet – cunt, tongue, the blood that pumped from him. His fingers kneaded into her flesh, rough and possessive, if she still had a working pulmonary system she’d likely bruise with how hard he was gripping her.

So close. Right fucking there.

Her tight, velvet walls clenched around him, pulsing with contractions (like the heartbeat she no longer had), milking him and bringing him to the brink. The heat in his core made his cock throb, and all sense – his seat of control – was stolen from him. Filling her, flooding her with his come, continuing to fuck into her straight through his own climax.

Nuzzling his face into her, their necks curled around each other like mated wolves, mumbling and moaning, quiet ‘thank you’s’ tumbling from his lips. His thrusts slowed, becoming lazy and languorous, while labored puffs of exhausted breath fanned over her flesh, moist not with her perspiration, but his.

In the daze of his afterglow, his brow furrowed as her fingertips began to lightly massage the wounds on his neck and a tingle radiated outwards from the point of origin. It was the same feeling he received when she’d heal his wounds after a clash against whichever enemy it was they were being sent in to deal with. Smearing her blood on him like it was antiseptic ointment and he’d skinned his knee. It was a miracle, able to save him and the other lads from ever needing stitches.

But it came at a cost.

There were times when he wondered what it might be like to be the same thing she was, not dead, not truly alive, existing in a limbo state somewhere between the two. Free of the fear of dying. Stronger, faster. Able to heal from her wounds, and save others. That wasn’t even counting the other benefits: hypnosis and compulsion, flight, shapeshifting. She was already a damn good recon specialist, but once she’d changed she was damn near unstoppable, leaving him in the dust.

Cradling her in his arms as they lay together on his bed just wasn’t the same anymore and even after the last few years it still took some getting used to, especially after making love. There was no racing heart, no sweat slicked skin or panting breaths. She was cold. Still. Like sleeping next to a marble statue of the woman he loved, a replica of the real thing. He knew it was still her, she had all the same thoughts and feelings. Hell, she even had the trauma. But her warmth, the bit of her he clung to when her curves slotted against the stiff planes of his body – it wasn’t there anymore. The best he’d ever get was room temperature.

Carding her fingers through the hair at his temple, he was sure she could probably count the gray hairs that were there, the way they kept increasing while she would stay young and beautiful forever. Like the Picture of Dorian Grey, she’d never age while he just kept getting older, more tired, more grizzled, worn down and callused.

Left behind to rot.

He cleared his throat, pushing away the cobwebs that ensnared him about the life he could have in some alternate timeline where he’d been bitten and she wasn’t. The one where she was still the gentle little lamb he had sworn to protect. Pulling her in tighter against him with a grunt, his arms surrounded her in a bear hug that pressed her cheek against his hirsute chest before his meaty hand began to aimlessly drift down her side, appreciating her form and its every peak and valley.

“Are you okay, love?” Her voice was a soft whisper as she looked up at him, holding his gaze. “Looked like you were a million miles away.”

“‘Course,” he said with a curt nod, his brows stitching together.

God forbid she ever found out he was jealous of what she could do, at how it would make him a better soldier. He’d never have to worry about retiring, finding something else to do to fill his time, finding his place as a civilian in a life free from danger. He could handle the struggles that came with turning, just like he handled everything else that was thrown at him – he was sure of it. But he’d never dare ask her to turn him, he already knew she’d never agree to it. Never willingly “curse” him the way she was. He couldn’t blame her for that either, she hadn’t volunteered. She was attacked, forced into being what she was now. She saw it as just another burden she needed to carry with her for the rest of her life, which, in this case, was forever.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout a damn thing, sweetheart.” His hand stroked lovingly over the curve of her spine, tracing along the slope of her lower back. “You let me handle it.”

“John?”

“Yeah, love?” His eyes were getting heavier, drowsiness catching up with him as he lay there spent and sated.

“You’re exhausted. I’ll clean us up, eh?” Lifting her chin and stretching her neck, she kissed him. “Stay right there.”

“No, love,” he husked.

Peeling away from his arms, there was no sudden hit of cold air against his body when she evacuated the bed. Her side was left empty, lacking, as if she’d never been there at all. He sighed and reached over to the bedside table, grabbing his cigar, clipping the end and flicking open his lighter. The dancing flame drifted back and forth over the end until it started to glow and smoke. Puffing away, cock still half-hard, he watched her pad over and collect the wet wipes he’d stashed, the plastic pack crinkling against his stomach as she tossed them at him.

“Oi!” Smoke shot out of him as he pulled the cigar from his lips, a wry grin on his lips as she laughed at his reaction. “Show me a little respect, yeah? Just gave you dinner and a dance,” he said with a smirk, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That was terrible,” she groaned, snickering as she climbed back onto the bed. Collecting a handful of wipes, she started to clean off the glistening remains of their union from his softening shaft. Her large doe eyes lifted to gaze at him, biting her lip, the smile fading from her face. “Didn’t take too much from you, did I?”

“You’re not just saying that?” Her head tipped to the side, eyes narrowing slightly. “I can tell if you’re lying.”

“I swear.”

She licked her lips, wetting them before speaking again. “You need more iron in your diet if I’m going to keep doing this. Whiskey and cigars don’t cut it, my darling.”

He glanced up at the ceiling and sighed with a low grumble. “Nurse, soldier, vampire… what can’t you do, darlin’?”

“Piss off,” she said, tossing the dirty wipe across the room, the damp, rumpled cloth tumbling into the rubbish bin.

Giving herself a wipe between her thighs, she lay back against the pillows beside him, the smoke from his cigar coiling around their faces. Leaning down, her head rested on his broad shoulder and she sighed heavily. “You need to start taking better care of yourself, love,” she murmured.

“Why not? What’s so bad about being damn near unkillable, able to live practically forever?”

He grit his teeth, clenching them tightly around the cigar between his lips. “Or you could just put me out of my misery…” He tried to make it sound like a joke, adding a smirk after he uttered the words, but the bitter taste in his mouth was hard to ignore.

“That’s not happening, and you know it. You don’t want to be like this, trust me.”

“Exactly that. I have to keep watching the world as I know it end, over and over again, and I have to sit there and take it. It’s not like I’m going to forcibly turn everyone I love just so I don’t have to lose them. I’m not a fucking monster.” She raked her fingers through her hair. “I mean I am, but…” she sighed once more. “Not like that.”

It was exactly what he’d expected her to say. Despite the darkness inside her, despite the violence of her profession, somehow this woman had managed to hold onto a shred of humanity, and it still felt like she was a better person than he was most days.

“You’re not a monster. Bloodsucker or not. You’re still my girl, and nothing’s gonna change that,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, holding her tight to him.

tagging: @cassietrn

#call of duty #cod smut #john price #captain john price #vampire au #cod fanfic #oc: rory sinclair #ship: you are the sword to my shield #fic: it will come back #chapter 1 #skelly writes

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t-oppenheimer · 2 months ago

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Athlete, Compression, The Physical Split.

So begins the implicit critique of a popular system: What exactly constitutes physical acumen? That is a philosophical question which must be raised whenever we reproduce this trope of Strength, Dexterity and Constitution. Do humans, as they grow and train out, grow hardier and more pain tolerant without endurance and flexibility to match? I would hope that every time someone weight trains they do stretches beforehand and eat bulk carbs and protiens afterward. And while there are people with strength who lack fine motor function and the other way around, these two things are gained in tandem with experience and one is typically only lost in traumatic, disabling events.

So why have these? It's not for the monsters sake-- for although there is something to be criticized with the 'half-assedness' of symmetrical design when it comes to monsters (all player stats but meaningless equipment, level and arbitrary actions) these splits also reveal frustrations. Should amorphous creatures such as the Gray Ooze be infinitely dexterous (they are able to squeeze and bend and flex with little restriction) or not dexterous at all, for having only 'pseudopods' which lack nuanced control at all? According to WotC, the answer is 'mediocre dexterity' because the only time it ever comes up in actual play is "a fireball has been placed on top of me, despite having no where to go and not moving away from it at all would I be able to contort my body so as to diminish the damage I take from it?". Here of course, it having a '6' is literally just space being taken up for a worthless symmetry, the "-2" is what is relevant.

Pathfinder has tried to touch on this in some ways. My favorite example is the Armor Training trait exclusive to the Fighter class: this gives that character an incentive to maintain all three physical stats to emulate "the peak of physical acumen" by allowing dexterity an increasing benefit to one's strength build as they level up. One could even find a narrative springing from this unique aspect: The whelp who was once a mere town guard who knew how to keep a spear level at their waist and little else grows to find that the rigidity of their training and equipment maintenance proves more a hindrance than a boon. As they begin leveling, they tinker (or have someone else in the party) tinker and modify their equipment to work in ways only that fighter can use, and soon their plate armor isn't just any plate armor, but theirs, with the lion codpiece whose teeth functions for blade catching.

But that is that game and I am to discuss my game. Poison and disease is not a major element of the game, so Constitution is rendered almost completely vestigial. Strength does seem to be an objective thing (there is a difference between being able to dead-lift twenty pounds, two hundred pounds and four hundred pounds) but what justifies Dexterity? After sitting with it for a very long time: too much.

Dexterity controls how well one points a bow, swings a thin bladed weapon, picks a lock, sneaks across a hall and flies in the air? Preposterous. Especially in WotC's most recent products in which strength no longer holds the domain of weapon damage and modifications to your Constitution score no longer directly alters your maximum health value, Dexterity controls a disproportionate amount of the character's total acuity. This stat needs to be broken down.

The easiest angle to go about that would probably be to split fine motor control from gross motor control (you don't hear that one every day!). The strength and coordination of your arms, legs and back can be trained wholly separately from your dexterity between your fingers and... yeah, mostly your fingers. Now hands are central to the human experience so that's okay: the actual problem is likely our imagined "body" stat has is that it is almost exclusively about sports and sports related mobility. Acrobatics, maybe throwing and run speed?

Here, we can connect our "Body" stat to what remains as "Strength" because, as established before, these two seem to be trained in tandem such that there is no meaning distinguishing them. This is the summary of an "Athlete" and thus we have the final result of that thinking. But now fine motor control is only compared against directly, and has no control over secondary stats, the way Athlete determines AC.

Does anyone still have their 2014 5e DMG lying around? You might remember in the proposed "New Ability Scores" that no one ever adopted at any table. I kid, but what I say is not far off from the truth, for nothing else in the game supported either option, all implementation was by facilitator decree. If there is ever one singular sin of the most recent edition of Dungeons and Dragons, its enshrining their facilitating players to 'kinda wing it' as-- even more than a replacement-- the cornerstone of game design. In that ignored section is the ignored concept of a 'sanity' ability score which unlike the honor score is designed to support a theme plainly impossible with the game's progression. If I was an ninth level wizard and a cosmic horror tried to grab me, I'd simply teleport.

I do share the boilerplate objection to 'sanity' mechanics: tying mental health into a binary 'are you fucked up or Normal™?' is not representative of a very serious phenomenon which touches too many people to treat so lightly. Remember the tone of my game: satrical and brutal. What if instead of the Lovecraftian horror situation where you see exactly one (1) biracial person and go "WHAT THE WHAT?!?!?!?! BLBLBLBBL PFFFFFF KOOKOO; KOOKOO-- POLLY WANNA CRACKER" we went in the total other direction. A character who just loses their nerve and says "In this situation, I would fold." Throws their hands up in frustration, or decides this struggle isn't worth it and walks out of the door. It's not that you lose what you once had in a fit of irrationality, but in light of what you just witnessed you suddenly gain rationality and reconsider the stakes you actually have in this. If we maintain this 'nerves' idea, then what is strong nerves and what is weak nerves? One of the first things to go when you are frightened is your control. Fight, flight or freeze, goes the wisdom. When you jump you're liable to throw your pencil in the air, and when you're trembling you can't hold a pencil steady. This is what we tie with fine motor control to create "Precise".

We butchered conventional wisdom to place a new series of mechanics together which is easier to explain and work through while maintaining value for both and simply working. Ah-- but what we did to wisdom, and the other two, is a topic for another post.

#i should open a writing blog #indie ttrpg #horror #dungeons and dragons #pathfinder

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siorasurgical-post · 5 months ago

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LCP Locking Compression Plate – Stabilizing Fractures

LCP Locking Compression Plate is used for the treatment of different types of fractures, non-unions, and osteotomies. Fixed using corresponding locking screws, these medical-grade LCP plates are made having combi-holes that also allow fixation using cortical screws. These compression plates are available in different sizes and are made using medical-grade stainless steel and titanium. They have an anatomically contoured shape that ensures proper fixation over the fracture. Siora Surgicals Pvt. Ltd. is an experienced manufacturer of locking compression plates and other orthopedic devices. The company also offers high-quality OEM/contract manufacturing services across the globe.

#Locking Bone Plate #Orthopedic Locking Compression Plate #Locking Plate System #Orthopedic Locking Plate #Locking Plates and Screws #Locking Plate #LCP Locking Compression Plate #Locking Compression Plate #Locking Compression Plate Uses

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siorasurgicalsblog · 9 months ago

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When you think of broken bones, images of casts and internal metal locking plates might come to mind. But there's another player in the bone healing game: the external fixation system. This innovative approach offers a unique set of advantages for certain fractures and situations. For more info read our blog.

#External Fixation System #locking compression plate #locking plate

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letterstomonkey · 7 months ago

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Mahogany

Picture me inside Mahogany for this moment:

Mahogany, on the count of Three

Mahogany, compress my restless knees

Mahogany, fold inward my Skeleton

Mahogany, I meet here my friend, again

Mahogany, hugging my chin tucked in

Mahogany, how my head Bowed in lament

Mahogany, hear me through leery Amen

Mahogany, shield me from wolf in sheepskin

Mahogany, my ankles protrude in my seat

Mahogany, I rest my breast plates at your feet

Mahogany, alchemize my Vulnerability

Mahogany, make light of naive liability

Mahogany, my hiding spot, burnt sienna colored

Mahogany, breathlessly, I’m locked inside your cupboard

Mahogany, whatever happened to me—

Keep me safe and keep it covered.

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villain-sympathizer · 2 years ago

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I was wondering if you write Magne? There isn’t a lot of fics about her so I was wondering if I could make a request?

Maybe Magne and reader are shopping buddy’s, but reader has feeling for her cause she so beautiful (cause she is), and maybe Magne feeling like she isn’t loveable (just for angst), and maybe the reader prove her wrong by just letting out all they’re feeling for her by accident, then leading to them kisses her. And Magne is just 😳

Sorry, I just love her so much and I think she deserves the world.

YES YES OF COURSE, magne needs so much more love than she has 💕💕💕 sorry it's a lil short, i've got a lot on my plate recently that needs all my brain power lmao

────── ･｡ﾟ: .☽ . : ｡ﾟ･ ──────

[Magne x GN!Reader]

[Contents: GN!Reader; No gendered descriptions for reader; Written in third person with “[Name]” instead of “y/n” so OCs can be included! Fluff; Accidental love confessions; Mutual pining; AU where Magne doesn’t die cause shes a bad bitch]

[Content warnings: Brief moment where Magne is insecure about her gender identity, but it's pretty short; MC uses the "womens" dressing rooms but still remains gender neutral, as they're going with Magne to make her feel more comfortable]

────── ･｡ﾟ: .☽ . : ｡ﾟ･ ──────

The city streets weren’t very busy, seeing as it was the middle of the week in the early afternoon, and the majority of folks were still at work with the exception of some stragglers. It was perfect for a shopping trip according to Magne, since less people were likely to be roaming about, and thus less Pro Heroes to recognize her. Ever since the raid on the League of Villains hideout and their debacle with Overhaul, keeping Magne’s identity a secret out in public required a lot more effort. Though, it seemed to be a blessing in disguise – pun intended – since this allowed her to experiment more with her fashion tastes and overall gender identity, like she’s always wanted.

Which is why a shopping trip was so important to her and [Name], her best friend and emotional support throughout both their time in the League. Mr. Compress and Giran had managed to fence off some stolen goods to support the League now that AFO was locked away, and Magne decided to spend her rations alongside [Name] on clothes shopping. They said it was for proper disguises, which is true, but it was mostly to regain a sense of normalcy in such a low point of their lives. Horrible coping method, sure, but it brought some light on their darkest days, so who cared?

“Ohhh, I know a good thrift shop that has a ton of styles and trends!” Magne says to [Name] as they make it out of the busiest part of the city without being recognized. Both were clad in baggy, old sweatpants and rugged hoodies to hide their body types from security cams and the public alike. With Toga’s help, Magne was able to look at least a little more put together, with her hair temporarily dyed a darker shade of red and styled in a more trendy, casual way. Her iconic sunglasses were replaced with a different pair, something more similar to reflective green aviators. [Name], on the other hand, simply wore a cloth mask to hide their appearance, with some colored contacts and cut hair for good measure.

“Sounds good to me. Lead the way, beautiful,” [Name] responded to her, the nickname used in a teasing manner that held a genuine truth within it.

Magne giggles at the compliment, waving her hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t make me blush, bestie,” she chirps, before leading them both in the direction of the shop, an excited hop in her step.

---

The thrift store was small and quaint, but true to Magne’s word, held plenty of old-fashioned-yet-trendy clothing styles. The two were currently heading towards the fitting rooms, discussing their outfit possibilities before Magne stops in her tracks just outside arcs to the fitting hallways. [Name] gives her a confused look, before noticing why she was seemingly debating with herself.

The fitting halls were separated by “male” and “female” options, which was unfortunately expected. Magne was typically very confident in her gender identity, especially around her friends, but there were still times where she doubted her physical appearance – especially since it wasn’t mainstream “feminine" enough for most people. And in cases like a dressing room, where body types always seemed to matter the most to everyone in range, her worries flared up instantly.

Realizing why their friend was having an internal debate, [Name] reached over and gently rested a hand on her arm. “Choose whichever makes you most comfortable,” they assure her. “I’ll join with you in there, and if anyone gives you any shit, I’ll make jewelry out of their teeth to go with your outfits.”

Magne’s small but genuine huff of laughter calms [Name]’s nerves a bit, glad to have broken her out of her spiraling thoughts.

“You always know what to say, don’t you?” Magne says to them, a comforting smile on her lips as the two of them head into the hall marked “ladies”.

---

Outfit after outfit was tried on, [Name] letting Magne have most of the spotlight, despite the taller woman cooing and fussing over the outfits her friend also tried on. However, they seemed to notice Magne had lost the confidence she carried when the two of them were picking out the clothes earlier, seemingly nitpicking every little detail that pertained to her body.

“It’s a little too small.” Or “My arms are a bit too thick for this shirt, don’t you think?” Or “This dress would look better if I had tits…”

“Magne,” [Name] spoke up when the red-head changed back to her street clothes, exiting the dressing room with a dejected expression and a pile of “rejected” clothes in her hands. “You know clothes are supposed to make you feel pleased, not others, right?”

An embarrassed blush crosses the woman’s cheeks when she realizes her sour mood had been that obvious. She pouts a bit and turns her face away. “I know, but-“

“And you know your friends adore you no matter what you look like, right?” [Name] gently cuts her off, reaching a hand up to her shoulder comfortingly, glad that the fitting hall was empty so the two could have a heartfelt moment. “You shouldn’t have to force yourself to be appealing to the very people who want to see you in Tarturus. The only outfit they want to see you in is an ugly orange jumpsuit that totally wouldn’t bring out your eyes.”

Taking Magne’s short bark of laughter as a good sign, [Name] continued their reassurances.

“You’re a beautiful woman, no matter what you do with your appearance, no matter what cloth covers your body. No one else’s opinion matters,” they pull down their mask to give her a soft smile. “I love you, Magne, y’know that?”

Magne’s head shoots up to look over at them, the blush on her cheeks growing redder at the confession. “Wait- you mean… as like, more than…?” She stutters out, unable to form a proper question through her shock.

[Name]’s smile turns into a lopsided grin, their own blush rising to their cheeks a bit. “More than a friend? Yeah, exactly that. This isn’t how I wanted to confess, but I felt like… you needed to know, now more than ever, that I’ve always saw you as the most gorgeous and confident person in the world.”

In an instant Magne had them scooped into her strong arms in a bear hug, the red-head burrowing her face into [Name]’s neck as she lifts them from the ground.

“Ohh, bestie, I love you too! So, so, so much!”

#magne x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha magne #mha magne #x reader #bnha #mha #dame writes #Anonymous

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narangmedical · 3 months ago

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The LC-DCP Safety Plate 3.5 is indicated for the fixation of fractures in the clavicle, scapula, olecranon, humerus, radius, ulna, pelvis, distal tibia, and fibula, particularly in osteopenic bone in adult patients ... https://www.orthopaedic-implants.com/small-fragment-locking/safety-locking-implants/plates/small-dynamic-compression-safety-locking-plate.php

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socially-awkward-skeleton · 3 months ago

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tagged by @trench-rot thank you <3

Spicy NSFW snippet below from the vampire!au (if you want to join that tag list opt in here)

banner by @/cafekitsune

warnings for: p in v sex, blood, Rory getting to be just a little dominant (as a treat)

Goddamn tired. He’d been awake for nearly 36 hours straight, finally given a chance to rest after prepping for another mission. The briefings had become the least of his worries, the same old-same old, but still every possible scenario circled his thoughts like he was a bloody clown with spinning plates on sticks, making sure not a single one fell on his watch. Laying back in his bed, Price released a long, burdened exhale up towards the ceiling. Staring at the boring beige paint that was military standard as if he had expected it to change, running his hands back and forth through his hair. Thoughts of pouring himself a drink or perhaps lighting up a cigar for a little stress relief sparked behind his eyes.

And then the door to his quarters creaked open —

It was the silence of the night, the others long since turned in, and while everyone else on base should have been sleeping, he realized he wasn’t entirely alone.

Her lithe form crawled up from the foot of the bed. The mattress creaked, bending to her weight, and his stomach dropped as something feral coiled inside him. Survival instinct. Fight or flight. Nerves fired, synapses screamed every red flag and siren and they died away before his body was even given a chance to react. Years of experience, training, battle readiness, all made into myth as big, beautiful hazel doe-eyes locked onto him from under long, dark lashes – the gleam of a predator within them. Hunger. A starving beast. Stalking towards him with the sleek sway of a panther. Slithering up the bed, an adder – deadly, dangerous. Intoxicating. His breath came in short and heavy. Sitting up against his pillows, his whole body felt like it had been entombed in earth, muscles unable to move without the use of brute force, and he’d been made docile under that singular stare, crushing him beneath it. His chest compressed, suffocating, squeezed tight until it hurt just to breathe. Pale, slender fingers stretched out, and with the reaper’s touch, they pushed him down onto the mattress, forcing him down. His struggle, entirely futile under her feather-lite touch. The strength of a two tonne tank contained in her fingertips and total control slipped through his fingers the way the fibers of the sheets within his fists did. A shuddered breath tumbling over his lips before he sucked it back in through gritted teeth with a labored hiss. Frozen hands traveled down arms that could toss a man over his shoulder or throw them over a barrier wall, and he’d never felt so unbearably pathetic. Held captive, imprisoned in his own bed like a child who’d woken from a terrible nightmare and didn’t even have the strength to scream. Soft palms drifted along his limbs, marble-smooth, stone-cold. Shivers slid down his spine, fractals of ice freezing the blood, spreading through his veins and making each pump of the work-horse muscle in his chest painful. Fingers slipped around his wrists, manacles that made his own digits lock like the blistering wind of a frozen tundra had chewed its way through his gloves and began to gnaw at the skin below. His jaw clenched, heels digging into the mattress in some feeble attempt to break free from her hold as she settled herself on his lap, straddling him, milky-white thighs trapping him between them and each desperate attempt to flee only caused the blanket covering him to slip further down his hips, revealing the dark curls that bordered the root of his cock. He bit his lip, chewing on the flesh as his hips bucked, groaning, deep and low from the back of his throat. “Christ, Ror. Please, darlin’...”

“Please what?” She purred, leaning towards him, her mouth inches away from his. Testing him, toying with him. Her soft breath ghosted over his lips like a cool breeze in summer, chilling the heat that simmered beneath his flesh, sending yet another shiver coursing through him as the sweat that began to slick his skin and dampen the hair on his body was wicked away by her frozen touch rather than the evaporation of body heat. The soft swells of her breasts pressed against him, but there was no heartbeat there, the cavity may as well have been hollow below. It didn’t rise or fall either, her lungs lying as still as the grave. “Fuck, woman, can’t just come in here and tease me like this,” he gruffed, teeth gritting together, brow furrowed. With each lift of his pelvis, he would grind against her, stroking his thick length against her velvety soft folds, and despite the icy temperature of her flesh he still hardened to the stiffness of a glacier in return. She giggled and it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard – it was bloody torture. He was more worked up than usual, desperate and aching after days without rest, and she was playing him with the gall of a cat whose claws had managed to curl themselves around the tail of a rat. Lifting his arms above his head, manipulating and maneuvering him like he was a fucking posable doll, she pinned his hands above his head and brushed the tip of her nose against his, paying extra attention to the little mole that sat there. “Gonna get you back for this, sweetheart. Mark my words.” Her hum in response vibrated through his skin and rattled his chest. “Promises, promises.” That sweet voice of hers melting his urge to flip her over and take the upper hand, conquering her gorgeous body – not that he could if he would, she was much too strong for that now.

Growling, his eyes narrowed at her, the piercing blue stare holding her dead to rights. “You’re bloody cruel.” “Oh, shut it,” she said with that goddamn smirk of hers curling her mouth and awakening her angelic dimples.

The nip at his lower lip, her pearly white fangs pricking against him, caused another groan as his hips rolled towards her. Trying – and failing – once more to lift his arms from beneath her grasp. “So impatient, my darling. Think I never get you off with the way you’re acting.” Brows knitting together, he looked up from beneath them with a darkened expression. His mouth scrunching in frustration, his square jaw cut with sharp edges as he lifted his chin defiantly and a low rumble built like rolling thunder in the distance. “Do not give me that look,” she scolded him, “You’re the one who asks for these bloody games, love.”

“Sweetheart…” He hated to plead, hated how weak it made him sound, hated giving anyone that sort of power over him but Christ, if she couldn’t pull every little whimper and moan from him like it was second nature to her. “Oh, my darling,” she cooed, pulling away, her lips glistening with the sheen of his saliva upon them. “You really must be suffering.”

Her hands squeezed around his wrists a little tighter, constricting the blood flow, the flesh growing hot and red below as his life’s essence pooled in place. Closing her eyes, she sat there silently, unmoving – like a corpse. She used to only be able to read him by memorizing his tics and tells, perceptive in her approach to dealing with him. Now, she could hear his heartbeat, the change in his breath, smell his sweat, feel the blood pump in his veins through his very skin. It had been an unnerving development at first, the woman he loved becoming an undead lie detector with blood-sucking instincts. “Rory,” he husked her name, a quiet whisper traveling in the space between them. Her full lips curled into a half grin and she gazed down at him, her eyes warm and brimming with life despite her circumstances. “You really want your hands free, don’t you?”

Price nodded, jaw tense, his throat bobbing as the pulse point in his neck hammered so hard it nearly strangled him. “Can only take not touchin’ you for so long, darlin’.”

Pulling her hands away, she sat back, her back arching in a gentle curve as she leaned away from him. The entire swath of her silky flesh available to him to roam his callused hands against, appreciating every inch to his heart’s content. Sitting up, moving with the reflexes that made him so dangerous in the field, he wrapped his arms around her, gripping her tight and pulling her against his chest. “Lift up, sweetheart,” he ordered, slipping a hand between her legs and teasing the entrance to her core with the head of his cock. As she lowered onto him, his breath hitched. Taking all of him, every last inch, they groaned in unison. “Fucking hell, love,” he purred in her ear as her hips started to roll against him, her slick coating his shaft as tight walls clenched against him. His eyes fluttered shut and his head rolled back, exposing the flesh of his neck, releasing an inaudible moan. One arm coiled around her waist, pressing her body to his, as the other slid up her back, his hand delving into the strands of her hair, bunching it up in a fistful. Straining to maintain clarity of thought, his whole body stiffened, his tendons all standing in stark relief.

“So damn beautiful,” he mumbled, lost in the feel of her undulating, of being inside her. Trapped in a daze of passion, a dark paradise with a woman cursed with everlasting life so long as she had a constant food source, he was lost in the sensation of reaching the precipice she was leading him towards in her thrall. Losing track of time and space, her soft lips grazed against his artery and the barely there touch of pillowy flesh pulled him back into reality.

With his jaw cupped in her hand, holding him in place, her thumb brushed softly through the whiskers of his beard and the stubble of the five o'clock shadow on his neck and jaw. The quiet hiss of her parting lips was the only warning he received before the tip of her tongue flickered out tasting the beat of his heart. Fangs descending against his skin, she dragged them gently and pierced the flesh with all the pain of the prick of a needle. Gasping, he gulped air like he was drowning. The pinch of her bite soothed by her plump lips wrapping around the wound and sucking on the flesh, drawing out more of his blood that bubbled to the surface.

His fingers dug into her, searching for but never finding any source of heat while warm blood trickled down the contour of his neck and over his barrel chest, pooling where their bodies met as she continued to drink. The suctioned sensation was just enough to keep him from falling over the edge, maintaining at least a portion of lucid thought before the lightheadedness started to creep into the corners of the little world they had created together. “Rory,” he murmured, knotting her hair in his fist as he tried to pull her mouth away. It didn’t take much for her to get the hint, panting as she tore herself away from her source of fresh blood, drips of it curling down her chin from the corners of her mouth. “Sorry, love,” she breathed, her tongue darting out to clean her lips as she wiped the traces of claret from her face with her hand. “‘S okay,” he rumbled before pulling her in for a kiss, tasting himself on her tongue.

He redoubled his efforts to reach his climax and hers, the metallic tang lingering in the air and in his mouth, clinging to his gums and inside his flared nostrils with each heaved breath.

NSFW taglist: @roofgeese @efingart @josephseedismyfather @g0dspeeed @cloudofbutterflies92

@imogenkol @inafieldofdaisies @raresvtm @evvie-a @clicheantagonist

@rc-dragons @la-grosse-patate @direwombat @statichvm @cassietrn

@lady-eudaemonia @voidika @strangefable @simplegenius042 @writeforfandoms

@elligatorrex

#wip wednesday #nsft #vampire!au #fic: it will come back #ship: you are the sword to my shield

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