#plus the anatomy is off
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
toxxtt-kotlc · 2 years ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
some wips and trashed stuff by popular request
sophie has the same vaguely surprised expression in all of these lol
36 notes · View notes
jupejumble · 1 year ago
Text
Tumblr media
the eepers
590 notes · View notes
ladypepsfanart · 2 years ago
Photo
Tumblr media
Dude, Mr and Mrs Wayne are kinda scary
2K notes · View notes
wyxan · 13 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
29 notes · View notes
maxblonda · 3 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
here's a quick n dirty maxlie sketch that i'm gonna be slowly chipping away at. the initial sketch came before the designs and then i realized i wanted to give them matching outfits, so i did. poses inspired from this one 19th century drawing. the head angles were an absolute pain but were very worth it. looking forward to showing yall how this turns out!
26 notes · View notes
sanjiaftersex · 6 months ago
Text
It's hilarious how naruto has chemistry with almost every character in that show except hinata
45 notes · View notes
Text
chris ryan casually dropping a joking use of "the great work continues"... continuing to prove himself the ringer person i would most enjoy hanging out with in real life despite on paper the two of us having nothing in common except a deep love for the david fincher movie zodiac
6 notes · View notes
thesnowflake18 · 4 months ago
Text
I can understand why Gege thought drawing Nobara was the hardest out of the main. She really is tricky to get down 😪
6 notes · View notes
selfproclaimedunicorn · 9 months ago
Text
After, like, a month I am finally drawing again! I'd like if things were flowing a little easier, but it's also not terrible so I'm calling that a victory
3 notes · View notes
laufire · 2 years ago
Text
for a moment I thought they REALLY were going to do the ridiculous “run through an airport to declare your love” trope in Grey’s Anatomy. I should’ve had more faith LMAO. the fact that Nick called Meredith as a last-ditch attempt and she hung up on him?? fucking glorious.
13 notes · View notes
albatrossisland · 1 year ago
Text
Me, watching the Grey's Anatomy musical episode:
Tumblr media
6 notes · View notes
xx-psych0-rabbit-xx · 1 year ago
Text
update elfilins design is so hard to animate oh my god
4 notes · View notes
show-us-kaidenshenandoah · 7 months ago
Text
the western animation nerd in me wants to commission an editor (alas: i am broke) to edit together an amv of Taylor Swift's "Clara Bow" where
the Clara Bow section: would have a montage based off of Betty Boop. Because she was a caricature of Clara Bow (and also Baby Esther since Clara Bow copied her scat + baby-voice gimmick) and heavily influenced the infantilization of women in animation (for anyone who doesn't know: Betty Boop was purposefully designed to have a baby head and an adult woman's body to reflect her voice. infantalization in animation of women is based similarly off of "baby proportions in head" + "adult woman body" via peanut-shaped heads, big eyes, and facial spacing (space between nose and lips, a small bottom of the nose as well as a short height of nose, and many more) mixed with an adult body with breasts) Betty Boop, through globilization, famously impacted how Osamu Tezuka drew children and women (along with other influences, of course, but Betty Boop was one of them). So she impacted both Japanese animation and USA animation through trickle-down influences, but her biggest impact was probably on the iconic Ariel of the "Little Mermaid"
the Stevie Nicks section: would have a montage based off of Ariel from "The Little Mermaid". Betty Boop influence Glen Keane in his designs for her as he was trying to differ away from Disney's past princess designs (where you'll see stylization, yes, but also more adult-modeled facial structures) and one of the sources he looked for how to draw this 16 year-old girl was the design conventions (aka: infantilization) of Betty Boop, another famous teenage girl(? Betty's age is complicated and in constant flux depending in what age range best suits the story, but teenager is her classic statis) in western animation. From then on, seeing Ariel explode with popularity, they carry the same design philosophy to Belle and so on to success after success leading to the "Disney Renaissance" period. You can see other studios start to take note of this global success, as Dreamworks changes (it's wild seeing the facial differences between "Prince of Egypt" or "El Dorado" compared to any contemporary human-female characters from the studio) and you can even see Japanese animated properties start to change away from designing adult faces in its animated women (That generalization specifically is likely be correlation and not causation, I will fully admit, but globalization of media has lead to some fascinating influences and trends). Betty Boop was the start of this animation design trend of visually infantilizing women, but Ariel is the one who really catalysted and popularized the trend. Like. To the point that you'd be hard-pressed to not be influenced by her impact of not her, or "the Disney Princess Style" directly lmao
the Taylor Swift section: I'm not sure. I waffled between several different styles and properties ("Avatar: The Last Airbender", "Frozen", Miyazaki specifically from Studio Ghibli, "How to Train Your Dragon", "Steven Universe",... I think you could make an argument for having the Taylor Swift verse just be a montage of a bunch of properties) but I think for the infantilization throughline + chronology (as "Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind" came out before "The Little Mermaid") + western (USA specifically) animation stylizations of how women are designed... I think I'm going to go with the "Into The Spider-Verse" series? And say to cycle that tiny final verse with shots of all the series' female characters. because it truly has changed animation as we know it. Yet it still keeps with infant baby-heads for some of its female characters. Thankfully, not all of them as I think that would've been reductive to the movie series message about "Anyone can be Spider-man"; though even all the female adults have bigger eyes than the adult males which is one of the traits of infantalization. But it makes sense for both the teen boys and teen girls to have some infantilization in their faces since they are in-between childhood and adulthood. But yeah, the infantilization is the most prominent in Gwen and Penny. But it's cool. I don't see visual infantalization as bad btw, I just see it as a design choice that I like tracking the family tree of since it's a design choice that can be done in any style lol But I'm not confident in my choice of "Spider-verse", because it's female characters are not the main characters and I kind of want that to be an over-arching theme as well. But Gwen does sell a LOT and this series has impacted the animation industry's stylization in general (and hopefully also itd depictions of women and diversity ♡). So maybe I'll change my mind, maybe I won't. But the parts with Clara Bow/Betty Boop and Stevie Nicks/Ariel? I love that part of this concept so, so much, I'm cemented on those verses, and I am on CUSP of something with this idea lmao
like?? do you see the vision? idk, man. maybe i'll animate something or edit it myself (i won't; i'm too sickly rn lmao rip)
0 notes
team-frightfur · 1 year ago
Text
love his droopy hair and depressed collar. But I can admittedly imagine him shaking his head hard and all the water flies off. His hair bounces back into shape.
Its ur fault for drawing him too cute
Tumblr media
the dark rebels!!!!
#oh my oh my oh my its the xyz boys#I adore how you draw shuns hair holy shit#something about the way it falls across his eye just makes him seem so much more ragged n edgy#which is good bc shun is composed of edgy razors#arranged like the feathers of a birds wings#anyway it feels very weighty and fluffy and unkempt its great#also love the way you dramatise his eye lashes to make them feel extra dark and fierce#very bird of prey#anyway that back shot is both very cool and very neat#really showing off the fray at the end#in a way a front shot sometimes cant#also again makes him look cool#and then theres miserable pathetic rain soaked wet cat shun#who looks both helpless and bedraggled#and ready to fight the sky#reach for the clouds shun#then punch them#(anyway the lil curves and bends in his hair communicate the wet cat very well)#and now onto Yuto!#he always looks so sad and confused#he starts off at wet kitten and only becomes wet kittener#i like how his hair has the same softness as shuns but only at the back#makes the knives more striking and recogniseable#the slight amount of thickness -> thinness in the floff factor does make it still softe tho#I love all his lil magical boy poses too#you make his cloak and shirt look so fluid and the clothing folds at his pants are weirdly satisfying#plus his lanky anatomy rly makes him fit the scraggle even more#love how shun gets (1) fullbody and yuto gets (4)#its what he deserves#and ofc wet kitten yoot is just as stunning as wet kitten shun
515 notes · View notes
where-does-the-heart-lie · 1 month ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Op Characters Body Study
Id definately do more of these but please dont suggest anymore to do cuz then my brain will shut the idea off entirely <3
Reference Image:
Tumblr media
design comments:
Sanji: I wanted him to mainly be in the legs, while the shoulders and arms were closer together. Compact up top, Watermelon Crushers on the bottom. i vaguely designed him with the Marathon runner from the reference image in mind. I differ from the reference in that i give him upper body muscles cuz he loves his break dancing moves and you need hella muscles for that.
Zoro: Big tits & Tank Body. Cant knock this cat over.
Sabo: This man in my eyes is a Barbie Doll. Long Legs Tiny Torso. Winx Club Sailor Moon lookin mf. In part inspired by this panel of him:
Nami: My headcanon for Nami is that when we first meet her she is very skinny and malnourished, then overtime living with the strawhats she gains weight and progressively gets chubby. I just think that Sanji always cooking her such nutritious meals and tasty sweets, and not needing to fight for herself all the time, would lead to her lovely new body type. Something, something, 'to be loved is to be changed'.
Plus, her new fighting styles isnt like "im wacking you with this stick" anymore, its more "I'm moving this stick in this direction and striking you with the lighting coming from it". That still needs muscles though so i gave her some good muscles up top :3
Artist note: i spent way to long lovingly drawing her boobs.
Tumblr media
Ace: He's the dorito man of the universe. Broad shoulders, itty bitty waist. I modeled him after the basketball player in the reference image Alton Huston. i think that he would focus his athleticism in Jumping and Throwing (literally) punches, so it leads me to think he would build the same muscles a basketball player would.
man is 60% legs. freak. anyway,
I just like the idea of a perfect body that has been twisted by its scars.
Luffy: Brick Shithouse. Healthy mix between muscle and fat. i just wanted to make him look Really Healthy.
The majority of this design is just giving these characters body fat. i dont like the way gangly abs and tits look i love a chub. PWEEESEEE ODA GIVE ME A CHUBBY WOMAN CHARACTER PWEEEEEEEEEESE IM BEGGING YOU PWEESE PWEEESESESESESESESESSSESESES
*ahem*
anyway
i had a lot of fun drawing these, i love love love drawing anatomy and this was a good learning experience on top of that. One of the ways i drag myself out of art block is i just do art studies so this is kinda that.
thank you for coming to my ted talk <3
4K notes · View notes
bi-writes · 7 hours ago
Text
anatomy of us | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader
we cannot change who we are at our core.
Tumblr media
type: limited series, part 1 (6.4k) in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.
series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+
Tumblr media
Whenever she woke up marked the last day of the rest of your life. One moment, the world inside of your head was unnervingly quiet. The next, someone else was there, whispering in the dark, taking over.
You aren't proud of her. No, you hate her. There is no one you hate more, you don't think, because she lets the direction of the fucking wind distract her from what really matters. She paints her environment in a soft, glazed picture, and she tries to hold up her canvas and convince you that her reality is real. But then you blink, and you get flashes of how dull the sky really is and the dirt that stains your shoes, and you know that she's just a liar.
A controlling, desperate thief.
When you heard her voice for the first time, you begged your reflection in the mirror to just kill you already.
If you were an alpha, maybe you could've just drawn away into yourself and lived a quiet life in the middle of nowhere. If you were a beta, perhaps the weight of nothing would've given you a little more freedom to do the things you wanted to do.
But no. You're an omega. Nature's servant. A natural follower. Destined for nothing except to open your legs and say, "yes, alpha, all for you," because if you are anything but complacent, you're unwanted and a waste of your very being.
Your eyes stung when you took your first little pill. They rattled in different colors in a little orange bottle, and it felt like sand as it dissolved under your tongue. Even though it makes you sick, you take them anyways. Even though the pills change colors and shape and efficacy because you buy them from someone different every time, you take them because it makes your omega shut the fuck up finally.
You bury her. And you won't let her out.
The truth of it is that you're only fighting yourself. Your omega, she is you, isn't she? She's a part of you, she makes up your very genetic makeup, and to hate her is to hate yourself. But nature is cruel–it gave you years of freedom. Years to know what life was like without her, when she was dormant, asleep, just waiting for you to finally wake up.
Then your very self locked the cage. Your fingers claw at the bars, but it's no use. It's your very own punishment. So in turn, you bury her, too, silencing her cries, quieting what she wants most in the world, because it isn't fair, fuck you, you whiny bitch.
She's a pathetic puppy; and you are more than happy to step on her fucking neck.
Your aim is off today. The sound is muffled through the earphones you wear, but they've never thrown off your balance before. When you lean over the railing and squint at the target papers towards the back, you can see the bullet holes just a few inches off center.
You're never off-center.
"Getting rusty on me, Kit?"
You turn around, setting the gun down, and you smile wide when you see a familiar face. You pull the headphones off, putting them aside before making your way towards her.
Kate Laswell is surprised when you throw your arms around her and hug her tight. She smells good; she smells like chocolate, dark chocolate, something bittersweet. She's got that edge to it that they all do, something a little heady and all-encompassing, but she's the only alpha that you've ever found comfort being near. You see her nose scrunch a little when she embraces you back.
You must stink like synthetics. You care, only because you hate to make her nose sting this way. It's never been meant for her. At times, you thought maybe you could do a little convincing; maybe if you batted your lashes enough, she’d take pity on you, hide you away in some CIA shack with her deep on a Montana farm and play house. You’d cook, and she’d protect, and you’d be perfect little alpha and omega until the end of your days.
But Kate doesn’t like baggage. Not even the sweet kind, and especially not the kind that makes it even more difficult to make the hard decisions.
Kate isn’t a soldier. She makes choices based on the greater good, the lesser evil. She doesn’t get to be selfish. She doesn’t have that luxury.
When you pull away, she looks down at you strangely. She looks tired. Her dark hair is in a mess of a braid tucked under a cap, and she looks like she hasn't slept in days. Her attempt of a smile emphasizes the lines around her eyes. You open your mouth to tell her something, but she shakes her head.
"I'm not here as a friend," she says softly, and you frown a little.
"Aren't...haven't we always been friends?" You ask, and Kate lets out a shaky sigh, nodding her head behind her.
"We need to talk. C'mon."
You retrieve the gun and holster it, fastening it into your thigh holster before you follow her. She has a car waiting outside, a big, black SUV with the door already open for her. When you get inside, she knocks on the divider, and the car immediately starts moving. You brace yourself against the side of the car as it speeds off, reaching for a seatbelt.
"Jesus, Kate, what's going on? I-I have training later, I can't–"
"You're not...going back to base," she says evenly. You frown a little, leaning back in your seat, and you put your hands in your lap as you try and get a read on her. Even exhausted, Kate is hard to decipher. She has a stone-cold expression, calm and unbothered, and you curse her CIA training for making her impossible to understand, to even get a glimpse of what she might say next. Her face makes you anxious, and the scent in the car that changes puts you on edge.
"Okay," you scoff a little. "Then where am I going?"
Kate sniffs a little, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't break eye contact with you when she says, "Wheels up in 30. I have an assignment for you." She reaches under the seat, pulling out a manila folder, setting it down beside you. When you pick it up and flip it open, you narrow your eyes.
"I'm..." You shrug your shoulders, "I'm not really CIA. You don't give me orders."
"As of one hour ago, you're mine. And this...this is your duty."
Your eyes blur as you skim the text on the pages. You flip through the papers flimsily, getting more and more irritated until you throw it at her, your chest rising and falling fast as you pant, barely able to see her through your tears.
Program. UK. Field assignment. Mate. All the keywords to make your stomach curl and your autonomy shrink in front of your very eyes.
"Kate, don't do this," you beg her softly. You soften your voice, and you let your omega drip syrup into it. You want to see her eyes dilate–you want to make her protectiveness kick in just enough that she might just appease you. It’s desperate, and you know it’s wrong, but you do it anyways, you have to. "Please don't do this. Please. You fucking promised me, you promised–"
"You need to understand that I don't have a lot of fucking choices," she says sharply. She pities you, that much you can tell. She looks pained, but it doesn’t matter how pained she might feel because it isn’t happening to her. It’s happening to you, and she put you on that base so that it wouldn’t happen to you, and she tricked you into getting into this car, and now it’s her–
"Kate, I'll do anything, please," you gasp. You reach over and grab her hands, tugging her towards you. "You know. You know what...w-what I've been through, what this all is, you know...please. Please..."
You promised me. You gave me your word.
"I can't–"
But the CIA can’t be trusted for shit.
"I'll be yours," you try, squeezing her palms. Appease. Beg. Bare your neck. Give her what she really craves. "Just claim me yourself, a-and...and we don't have to do this, w-we can...I-I can go back to–"
Her face contorts, offended, disgusted. You try and swallow down the sting of her rejection, but you cannot help yourself. You would do anything to not be subjected to this fate, to the fate she promised she'd save you from. The only alpha you have ever trusted, and she's pulling away from you, bit by bit.
"I could never do that to you," she interrupts, shaking her head. "I couldn't."
"But you'll do this instead?"
"It's the lesser evil," she says finally, pushing your hands back. It aches. Despite you never leaning towards her, it is still an alpha turning their nose up at you, and the thing inside of you cries at the feeling; she begs you to do more, but you swallow her down, fingers itching for another pill just so you can really squash her singing. "And in my world, that is the best I can hope for."
"It's punishment!" You cry, and she reaches over, cupping your cheeks, pulling you close. You scrunch your face at her touch. Her hands are cold, and they do not welcome you. "A-And for what? For being something that I can't change?!"
"It's mercy," she whispers. Her thumbs stroke your cheeks in soft circles. "I can't protect you anymore, do you understand? They don't want you there, and I can’t take you with me. Even taking meds, even spraying yourself to shit, they don't want you, and I can't protect you if they send you away, do you understand me?" You start to cry, closing your eyes, and you hear the familiar voice in your head preening. She's desperate, slipping through the cracks, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you try and force her backwards. You’re panicking, and maybe she’s trying to help, but you hate her. "I have to get you out of there, and this is the only way."
"Please..."
"I can't protect you," she says gently. "But he can. And he'll be good to you. I promise, this...this I can promise."
You rip yourself away from her, curling into yourself as you scoot away from her as far as possible. You press yourself against the door, tucking your knees into your chest. Whatever passes by outside is a blur, and your brain doesn’t register any of it. The only thing in your head is betrayal, traitor, those sick, stupid bastard alphas, all of them–
"Fuck your promises," you whimper, and when she reaches out for you again, you flinch, burying your face into your hands.
Kate is a liar. She never keeps her promises; that’s her job, it is what she does. The CIA is nothing if they aren’t incredible liars–it’s what they’re known for, and Kate takes to it like a fish to water. As far as you are concerned, she lured you in with bait, and now she's shut the door on a trap. It is lined with padding, soft, delicate, but it still holds you back, it still keeps you still and stagnant and forever chained to an existence that you detest more than anything. She used you; it was in her best interest to keep an omega under her thumb, to do with you as she pleased when she needed one, and you suppose once you are taken, she will find another to do the same with. She will give another desperate one like you false hope, and when she needs another omega to keep someone else complacent and willing, she will offer them up with her signature on paper–just like that.
She tries to touch your hand before you board the plane. She tries to meet your eyes, get your attention, anything. You cower when she reaches out, and when she steps backwards, you walk on.
You never look behind yourself. Not even when you sit, and not even as the ramp closes shut.
Tumblr media
Fighting is futile when you are who you are. It's unexpected. It's frowned upon. You are made up of something that is intended to be docile, to be big-eyed and soft. If you were a dog, they would want you to roll over and bare your belly and forget how to do anything but obey, but that is not the kind of thing that you ever wanted to be, even when you were small, even before you knew what you really were.
You hate what you are. You medicate yourself to the point of being incoherent, you bare your teeth and aggravate the submissive nature you inherit to deter any kind of match. You make yourself undesirable, not just in your physical nature but in the very essence of yourself.
You want to start over, as something else, or you want to never have been at all. You hate this place, you want them to cast you out, you want to be left to your own devices because dying alone and unwanted is better than submission; it;s better than the imprisonment that your kind subjects themselves to, willing or not.
It sickens you. You watch your own kind fall to their knees, close their mouths, and allow their very being to disappear just to make another satiated. Happy. Their entire lives, reduced to being someone else's waiting hand, someone else's property. It's sad, it's pathetic, it rocks you to the very center of yourself, and you demand more of it, you reject this life and the voice in your head that fights with you every single day of it.
She hates you, too, your omega. She claws at your insides and begs for something to drink, but you dry her out. You don't allow her to even breach the surface of the wasteland you've suffocated her with. She is naïve; she doesn't know what is good for her, she doesn't know that you are saving her from a life of constant torture. She screams for you to let her out, but you take another pill and force her back into the dark.
Or at least you did. You haven't taken a pill in days. They won't let you, even when you asked, even when you began to beg. You promised to be good if they just appeased you. You promised to be quiet if they just slipped it under your tongue, even if they injected it into your very veins, anything, just please, please, I don't want to–
Everything is surreal. You feel like you're seeing everything in color. What used to be dull and uninteresting now sparkles in your very eyes, it glows under the sun. Everything is sharper and less blurry. Sounds are clearer. You can hear the wind more loudly in your ears and feel it under the soles of your shoes. But what dizzies you the most is your sense of smell.
Everything before had been so bland. You have been under the effects of suppressors for so long that you don't think food has ever smelled so bad and so good (eggs make you gag now, and the crisps they give you make your mouth water).
They keep you confined in a small room. You are not allowed in the presence of any alphas; you can smell them passing by the door, but whenever the stink of one of them lingers, there's loud voices, lots of heavy boots. A beta comes to collect you to do a daily workout and to shower, and then you are back in your room, your meals delivered on a tight schedule (and the food, after a few days of your tray being barely picked at, gets so much better–it's better quality than you've seen on any military base, and when you asked, all they said was "lieutenant's orders").
Today is different. Today, along with your breakfast, a large black hoodie is folded underneath the tray that they leave on the end of your bed. You set the food aside, picking up the hoodie, and when you unravel it, you spread it out, gawking at the size of it. Whoever this hoodie belongs to is more bear, more beast, than human. An enormous thing, but when you pick it up, you immediately pick up on its strong scent.
You press the front of it to your nose. Your eyes flutter shut, and you sink into the bed a little as you take a deep breath of it. Warm, but gritty, like charcoal. Cigarettes. Military-issue soap. Clean. Eucalyptus. Fire. Something with depth, something with teeth. You don't realize what's happening to you until it's too late.
Alpha. It smells undoubtedly like alpha, and you're certain by the size of it that it belongs to one. You nuzzle your face into it a little, instinctively, and you don't even register your omega knocking, peering through the door that's been cracked open for her.
She squeals with delight. She's getting dizzy, drunk, and you feel a soft noise in your chest bubble as she pets the back of your mind, keening at the introduction of it. She’s giggling. You can feel her tugging at your insides, whispering in your ear–See? I told you. I told you that you’d like it.
They smell strong. They smell capable. They smell pure.
When you put the hoodie down, your legs are pressed together, shaking from how hard your thighs are squeezed. When you relax, you refrain from the need to touch yourself, but you failed before you even started. You can feel how wet you are; your panties must be soaked, and you feel yourself pulsing with some sort of distinct urge to give in, give in, give in.
It's unnerving, the lack of control you have. Your omega has always been a few feet underwater, but she's breaching the surface now, her lips gasping for air.
You try to push her back.
Stay down.
When the clock strikes for dinner, you aren't surprised by the knock. But you are surprised that when the door opens, there isn't a beta in uniform holding your tray. Instead, you cover your nose a little, blinking harshly as a large man comes into the room. He's got a strange beard and a floppy hat, and when he smiles, he reminds you of a teddy bear. You can tell just by his physique what he is, but his eyes are kinder than you're used to.
You will yourself not to trust them. You trusted kind eyes before, and now you’re locked in a prison of your own making.
"'ello," he introduces himself, holding out his hand. "'m Captain John Price. 's nice to meet you."
You glare at him, not saying a word. When he figures you won't shake his hand, he just nods. He lets his hand drop, hooking his thumbs into his tact vest, and he rests at ease.
"I've come to collect you," he says lowly. "It's time."
You pick up your tray of food from behind you and hurl it towards him. He ducks just in time, moving one shoulder backwards as the metal hits the wall behind him and clatters to the floor in a splattered mess. John shakes his head a little, scratching the back of his neck, and he clicks his tongue. You’re unnerved and a little pissed off when a hint of a grin flickers over his face.
"Fuckin' hell," he breathes. "Yeah...you'll do."
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"Let's go," John snaps. "Won't ask again."
When he reaches for you, you swipe the fork from the bed, stepping close and sticking the little prongs up against his chin. You aren’t satisfied until you can feel his scratchy beard against it, piercing the skin just enough.
"If you touch me, I'll shove this right up your chin through your goddamn nose," you threaten, and John’s nostrils flare, his hands going up flat beside his head.
"Easy," he murmurs, and you feel like he’s talking to a skittish mare. "Just need to guide you, that's all."
"Well, I don't want to go anywhere."
"If you don't do this, I have to send you back," John explains. "And Kate made it very clear that is supposed to be my last resort. And you don't want to go back."
"Anything is better than this," you hiss, and he narrows his eyes.
"Not this. What they do to unruly omegas..." He leans forward, snarling a little. "Ones like you. Ones that bite. And scratch. They don't deal with them. They'll sedate you and use you as training practice. And while Kate might have a heart big enough to keep you outta that place, I don't have it. So get your arse moving. Now."
You put your hand down, dropping the fork, letting it clatter to the floor. He grips you by the collar of your shirt, urging you forward, and all the hairs stand up on the back of your neck as he gets dangerously close to scruffing you. It's enough of a threat that you immediately relax, your own body betraying your emotions as it tries to make itself smaller. To appease. To submit.
"This can't wait any longer," John mutters. "Has to happen today."
Your lip trembles.
"What has to happen today?" You ask.
"You're meeting your mate," he says. You know that was the answer, but you had to ask it anyways. You think of the hoodie you received all those hours ago. The smell of him, complete intoxication. "Simon."
Simon.
"Sounds like an asshole," you snap, irritated, and John chuckles a little.
"Mmm. He is. You'll adore 'im."
You flinch at the flickering fluorescent lights as he leads you down a narrow hallway. When you pass other soldiers, John puts you in front of him, glaring and baring his teeth a little. You're confused by this sudden display of aggression on your behalf, but when you spot the looks in others’ eyes, you're grateful for it nonetheless.
You know your scent is strong; piercing the walls around you, displaying your displeasure, discomfort, fear so plainly. It's an awful thing to not be able to hide how you feel, to not feel like you have any control over how you present to others, but you have no practice masking any of it. You have been drowning your omega for so long that you didn't realize the strength of her building up behind the synthetic walls you had built. She's livid, angry, permeating the spaces in your mind that you thought were solid and now are broken and hollow inside.
You stop in front of an unmarked door. John looks over you, eyeing the jacket you wear.
"Take tha' off," he says lowly. You frown, stepping back, but he nods again. "Take it off. You'll get it back, just give it to me."
You shrug your jacket off gently, handing it to him. John holds out his hand for yours, and when you cautiously give it to him, he rubs the fabric against your wrists to soak it in your scent before disappearing behind the door. You wait outside, pressing your ear to the metal, but you hear nothing but low mumbles. You do hear a heavy gait, big feet moving around that don't belong to Captain Price, and you close your eyes as you try and see if you can hear his voice.
You don't.
The door is opened just slightly, John cocking his head to the side.
"He wants to see you."
You raise a brow.
"Your mutt?" You ask smartly, and John scoffs a little, kicking the door open wide finally. Behind it, you can see a small little office situated. Dozens of file cabinets, a stained wooden desk, a peeling leather chair. There are papers everywhere, a disorganized mess and walls filled with medals, plaques, letters, pictures of faceless men. And standing beside the desk, towering over it with his head nearly hitting the ceiling is a bear.
A fucking bear.
He's so tall. Over six feet of hulking man, big shoulders taking up too much space. You can tell just by looking at him that he has to duck his head and move his body sideways to get through the doorway you're standing in. He has big hands and thick thighs, and your lips part when you realize his thigh holster has been released as much as possible just to still fit snugly around him. He's wearing dark jeans and a thick black hoodie, and he looks even bigger with a strapped tact vest that holds numerous little gadgets, weapons (fuck, he looks like he can kill you with the pencil laying haphazard beside him).
You can't see his face. He covers it with a mask, a snug covering tucked under his hoodie with the plastic front plate of a skull sewn to its front. He's holding your jacket in one hand, the other clenched in a tight fist as you step through the door.
"Is this your dog, Captain?" You ask finally. Simon doesn't speak. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing you, taking in the way you look from the tips of your combat boots all the way up over your head. His gaze lingers on your middle, the wideness of your hips and the curve of your body.
John crosses his arms over his chest.
"Suppose so," John shrugs, rolling his eyes a little. You blink, finally making eye contact with Simon. His eyes are dark and beady. He's intense, just as his scent had been. Your omega warms your throat and screams in your ear.
Grab him. Latch onto him. Don’t let him go. Do you see him? Look at him–
"Does it bark?" You wonder, glaring. Simon unclenches his fist, rolling his fingers out a little. They twitch beside his leg. His face twitches a little, too, you can see the mask move just slightly.
"When he wants to."
"Does it bite?"
John snorts. "Mmm. Afraid so." He opens the door behind him. "Don't kill each other. If I don't see her for supper, Simon, I'll hold you to it."
When you are alone, Simon still remains silent. He hasn't moved from his spot by the desk, still in a strange staring contest with you as you stand there trying to read him. Like Kate, he's impossible; this time, you don't even have the luxury of looking over his face, although you suspect even without the mask, he must have mastered some kind of expression of nothingness. He seems like the kind of brute to give nothing away. Not even his displeasure.
"Hope you're good on a leash," you say finally, crossing your arms over your chest. "I like to go on walks."
His face moves under the mask again. Finally, he moves. He unravels your jacket in his hand, holding it open for you to put on again. You eye him strangely before coming closer to fit your arms into it.
When you turn your back to him, you realize how much of his shadow you're tucked under. When he drops the fabric back on your shoulders, you still as he leans over one side of you, bending. Without thinking, your head tilts to the side, giving him more space into the side of your neck. You do it without even thinking. Your omega bleeds through you, and you feel her warmth everywhere now, making you move, but you let her this time.
Your scent gland pulses there under your ear. He can see it, hear it practically, rushing like the blood in his ears. You close your eyes when you feel him come closer, the cotton of his mask just barely grazing your neck as he takes a deep breath.
The growl he lets out shakes you to your core. Your pupils get blown wide at the sound, and your head flops back slow, exposing more of your neck. He uses the opportunity to bend just that much more, until the front of his mask is pressed against the gland, and he can breathe you in, right at the source.
He's snarling under the mask. You can hear his teeth knock together, his tongue wetting his lips. You shiver, leaning into him, your hand raising up to caress the back of his neck as he nuzzles his nose there, taking another deep breath. You step back enough that he presses up against you from behind. You can feel his pelvis right against your ass, and you arch your back just enough to fit him right where he belongs. A gloved hand catches you at your waist, and you put your free hand on the desk in front of you until his cock is right there between your ass.
Your omega is panting. She's clawing, right there at the edge, fighting against quicksand as she's desperate to meet him. The feeling of him, the scent of him so close, it's an aphrodisiac, potent, suffocating. Something warm is wrapping around you, sliding along your skin, tickling your toes. It's between your thighs, in your mouth, wetting your tongue. You're not sure what this feeling is, but it's thrilling.
He's purring. Big, rumbling sounds coming from deep in his chest. More animal than man as his tongue comes out under the mask, and you can feel him lick a nice stripe over the raised, warm skin under your ear. Your omega is being pulled to the forefront. She’s like a magnet to him. The closer he gets, the stronger she bites into you. Your mouth drops open when his hand falls between your thighs, gripping onto you and pulling you up against him in one, slow grind. You can feel the length of him, fucking enormous, and you’re leaking into your cargos as his fingers squeeze the fat of your thigh.
"Fuck–okay!" You pull away abruptly, turning to face him. You put your hands on his chest and push him back a little. He doesn’t move at your touch, but your voice startles him enough that he moves his hands up and away from you. He straightens up, blinking away the haze in his eyes, and you swallow hard. "T-Too much..."
He huffs, moving forward to bury his face into your neck again, but you step back, putting a hand on his chest firmer this time. You have stepped out of the cloud that surrounds him, but you can still taste it, and it’s pulling you back, and you’re losing control.
"Simon," you say his name gently, and he stops, his face scrunching a little under the mask before he stands back up again. "If I have to be your mate...we need to set some boundaries." He blinks, saying nothing. "Like...a-asking for permission."
You can tell by the way his mask twitches that he doesn't usually ask for permission. He wants, and he receives.
Typical.
“What?” You ask, scoffing. “You don’t talk?”
He doesn’t move. You crane your neck to look up at him a little better, and you smooth your hands lower on his chest. You can’t help but appreciate what you feel. He’s wearing a tactical vest, but you can still feel the deep breaths he’s taking, the strong, fatty muscle under your palms. He is the epitome of sheer strength and undeniable ability. Your omega draws your hands back up his chest, over his pecs that pull taut, and they wind up around his neck as you stand up on your toes and lean into the curve of his jaw. You put your nose to it, barely. Simon moves his hands down, cupping you under your ass and picking up your weight with not even a grunt until you can press your face deep into him.
Fuck, it’s like a drug. It’s addictive. His scent impales you. He smells like war. Like chaos and smoke, and your mouth starts to water as you keep breathing him in. You pull back just enough, blinking up at him. You look a little dizzy and intoxicated, and he squeezes your ass to hold you steady as he puts you back onto your feet.
“Uhm…” You sniffle a little, holding onto him. Your hands curl around his shoulders, and you keep yourself upright like this. “I didn’t wanna be here. I don’t…I don’t want this. I never did.” You blink away tears, but he sees them when you draw your eyes back up to his. “T-They made me. It hurts.”
“Wot hurts?”
His voice scares you when you finally hear it. Your lip shakes, and when you blink again, your tears fall down your face. Simon snarls when he sees them, reaching up with hands too rough and wiping them off your face, but they keep coming.
“I’ve never been o-off my meds–” You gasp, and your breaths start to come in panicked and too fast. “Everything hurts. T-The lights are too bright, everything hurts my nose, the sheets are too itchy, and I-I can’t breathe–”
Simon moves away from you immediately. He closes a fist and pounds the lightswitch, and only the yellow glow of the lamp on his desk illuminates the room. You curl into yourself, hugging your own arms, and Simon comes back to stand in front of you, narrowing his eyes.
“I did not want you either.”
“That’s just grand, this is perfect,” you hiccup, and Simon grunts.
“But I have orders.”
“You act like your Captain is just debriefing you for a fucking mission,” You snap, glaring at him. “I’m a fucking person. I know your kind may not see us that way, but I am. I’m not a mission. I’m not something for you to win or to conquer, you fucking asshole!”
When you raise a hand to hit him, he catches your wrist before it lands. He squeezes just enough to hold you at arm’s length, and you lean forward and spit on him instead. It wets the mouth of his mask, and he nearly loses himself as his eyes flash with something dark. He looks away from you for a moment to collect himself. When he turns back, he uses his other hand to cup the back of your head, silencing you.
“You listen ‘ere, omega–” The way he says your title makes the fight in you shrink. Your omega squeaks, ducking her head, that bubble of submission pilling in your throat as he holds you so close to your naked scent gland. “Dunno wot anyone told you, but I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” He ducks his head, pulling you closer, and you freeze when he presses his masked mouth at the base of your pulsing scent gland. It wafts into his nose, dilating his pupils, and he snarls. “And when you inevitably lose control of yourself–you already fuckin’ are, you reek of it–I’m goin’ to sink my teeth right ‘ere, and then it won’t fuckin’ matter ‘ow you feel.”
Your eyes blur with angry tears. You gasp, your breaths hitching, and Simon seems to feed off of your fear, your misery. If he wasn’t wearing a mask, you imagine he’d be licking your tears for a chance to taste your sadness. The worst part of it all is that your omega adores it. She’s been aching for so long for this kind of authority. For that edge to tickle her right under her chin where she likes it. The whiff of alpha that she’s getting is driving her out of control, and you don’t know how make her quiet down. She’s so loud in your head, banging against the walls–give it to him, give it to him, give it to him.
“You’re a fucking monster,” you whisper, glaring up at him. It’s no use–you will never scare him. Simon is what scares other alphas into submission. In one paw, he could crush your windpipe if he wanted to, with just a squeeze. Simon hums, and you imagine him smiling under that mask, some kind of vicious grin that you would love to smack off of him.
“Tha’s right, swee’eart,” Simon mutters. “I am. ‘n now you belong t’me. Everything that you are–” He smooths his hand down your neck. You seize when his hand slides over the curve of your waist until it cups under your ass and forces you up against him. “‘s mine. Your omega–’s mine. Your mouth–mine. Your arse–mine. That cunt that’s going to take my knot like a good little omega should–mine. So y’r gonna get y’r things, and y’r gonna move them into my quarters, and then we’re gonna go get supper, and y’r gonna shut y’r fuckin’ mouth.”
“I hate you. You’re the biggest son of a bitch I have ever met in my entire life, you are exactly the kind of asshole I knew you would be, you are no different than I thought. You’re a terrible, awful, horrible–”
“I can smell you,” Simon snaps. “Don’t try to be fuckin’ smart with me, I can smell how wet your cunt is, so why don’t you just be a good girl and do as I say?”
You bare your teeth a little, and Simon sticks a gloved thumb into your mouth. Without thinking, you relax. You suck it into your mouth and sigh, and Simon rubs his thumb against your tongue, shutting you up nice and well. He traces your teeth with it, and you start to cry. You cry because you don’t know why you can’t fight. Your grip his forearm, but your nails won’t dig. Your feet are planted to the ground, and you can’t move. Your mouth sucks, and he pushes, and you’re frozen here.
He knows what to do. Doesn’t he taste so good?
He seems to like your teary eyes. The big, fat tears. His eyes crinkle, and you know he’s smiling, and you wish you could rip that expression off his face, but all that stares back at you is death. Simon growls, and every bit of resistance in you fails. Slow, like molasses, your knees buckle, and he catches you. He pets your mouth, and when he leans in and presses his mouth to your ear, all you can do is cry.
“That’s it. Good kitty.”
NEXT
630 notes · View notes