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love-note-musings · 15 days

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˙✧˖°📷 ⋆｡˚꩜ toby x reader // creepypasta oneshot

request: HelloI May i request a oneshot where toby pins the reader against a wall and maybe threatens her but she lowkey can't focus BC she's thinking how pretty he is? The reader has a love hate relationship with him. Sorry if it's confusing.

word count: 3.6k

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──────

As the last costumer of the day left, your shoulders dropped as the tension ebbed out of your body, dropping the “customer service smile” you had plastered on for the last couple of hours. A lengthy sigh left your mouth and you shook out the tired feeling from your muscles and with a swift lock of the doors, you began your nightly routine of cleaning for close.

Working the night shift wasn’t so bad, you had thought, it was generally pretty uninteresting, living in a small town and all, the clientele were the same, jobs were casual, it wasn’t that horrible. Having worked at this quaint restaurant for a couple of years, you knew the ins-and-outs pretty well and you operated most of the tasks you needed to on autopilot. However, the job was one thing, and daily living was another. Of course the pay was less than what you needed to live on realistically, what with housing, insurance, and feeding yourself. You still didn’t mind the nightshift, you found it rather relaxing.

Wiping down tables, sweeping floors and mopping, cleaning out cappuccino machines, all of it went by as fewer cars passed on the road. You could hear the breeze start of as a small gust here and there until it picked up into a violent wind that rattled the building. Soon, you figured it would begin storming, with big raindrops pelting down and you surely wanted to be in your own home underneath thick blankets before then.

Unlocking the back entrance, you began dragging the heavy trash-bags out in the back of the parking lot, the last thing you’d need to complete before heading home for the day. You could feel how the cold nipped at your skin and willed your legs to go faster.

The city was always quiet, it was still except for the symphonies trees played nearby in the forest, clanging against each other from the wind. There were stories of course, about people going in and never coming back, but there were lots of people who did come back, more so than the latter, so the locals knew it as folktales. In reality, it was just another ordinary small town, with small-towned people, small-towned restaurants, and small-towned ideas. Forest or not, it was also another small-town ideal.

Swinging the bag into the bin, you closed it with a sharp bang just as the back door to the restaurant flew with a clang. The weather was worsening overhead with dark clouds hiding the moon and the wind was threatening to take you away with it. Your feet carried you back inside as fast as they could, one pounding after another. //

// He crashed into the back door with a thud as his legs gave out, one arm trying to hoist himself up and another trying to stop his wound from exuding any more blood. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle, but the exhaustion was creeping up his body, the lights had looked like crystallized diamonds hanging off of his eyelids, and he stumbled into them with reckless abandon before collapsing on tiled floor… somewhere. Vision swimming, legs crumpled underneath him, he sat there, body trembling and nauseated, trying to grasp onto his abdomen in an attempt to convince his body to let him back up, to keep moving. It wasn’t even that bad of a wound despite its length, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t work with, but there he was, slipping on himself in the back of some beat-up building. The lights slightly flickered every few seconds, the buzzing of electrical appliances seemingly rang through his ears in tenfold, there was nothing in his stomach but his body forced him to empty it anyway, spilling out nothing onto the black and white tiles besides the gagging noises coming from him. He couldn’t stop the movement from racking his body once again as he dragged himself forward.

There was a scream, a crash maybe, all he saw was a figure with their arms raised high, ready to pounce on him, everything else was foggy besides the lights. Big, bright lights. Groggily, he looked up with lidded eyes, mouth slightly agape, nostrils flaring, trying to allow more oxygen into his lungs. He yelled at his brain to move faster and to process the situation, finding nothing once again but some static sound that filled it. Their mouth moved, and the sound flowed back into his ears, slowly, and then all at once.

“I said—“ they cleared their throat “do you need me to call the authorities?” There was an umbrella raised threateningly in their hands, knuckles already turned white. It looked like their breath was caught in their throat and their body shaked. He slowly registered the information piece-by-piece, stringing together some semblance of thought.

Slowly, he forced his head to move side to side, shaking ‘no’.

“Are you hurt?” They asked authoritatively, despite the tremble in their knees.

Again, another rather slow nod, another no. Hurt was subjective, after all.

Sighing, they lowered the umbrella just a little more to their side. “What do you need? Are you in trouble?”

He ended up coughing violently, his head was spinning and he was mentally whacked. “b.. bath- can I use your b..athroom.”

They stood off to the side and pointed towards it, watching his movements as he tried to force himself to stand upright. He managed to get up to his knees before crashing over again.

“I’m going to help move you there, okay?” they said as they set the umbrella down against the wall and moved closer towards him. He nodded once and they hooked an arm underneath his and guided him to the bathroom.

They turned on the light inside, indicated him to ‘be careful’ and that ‘there was a first aid kit under the sink’, before leaving him alone with a soft close of the door.

Toby gazed at himself in the mirror, bracing his weight against the sink before shakily turning the knob and splashing himself with cool water. How many days had it been since he had first left? He couldn’t even recall how long he’d been out, but it was long enough for his body to put the brake lights on his activities and start naming demands. And one of the demands was water. He earnestly started to drink the water from the faucet, cupping his hand and bringing it up to his lips over and over again.//

// Meanwhile, an exasperated worker decided to flick back on the lights to the dining room and begin preparing a small meal to share with the guy who just stumbled into their restaurant. They didn’t really know what his deal was, nor did they care to know, they just wanted to give him something to eat before sending him back out into the storm. If he wouldn’t talk then maybe he’d eat and be able to go back home or something like that. Whatever the case was, it wasn’t your responsibility to know, but you’d also be damned for not trying to help him out just a little bit.

It took awhile, but the bathroom door finally clicked open and close again. Toby stumbled along the hallway and followed the light into the dining room. There were bandages wrapped around his abdomen and minor scratches on his legs and arms. His body was exhausted and his mind was more or less alert.

“Hey,” when you saw him feebly inch his way, you quickly went over and offered a hand, to which he shaked it off. Regardless, you told him where he could sit in the dining room, a little booth by the kitchen door, and watched to make sure he settled himself well. You made a note of how determined he was despite his body practically shutting down, and he hadn’t tried to stop himself yet. Even as he fell into the booth, you watched as his body relaxed and his eyes stayed vigilant, always looking this way and that, carefully observing. It was fascinating. But again, it wasn’t your business.

You placed a plate in front of him with leftover food from the fridge and a pastry you had been saving to take home. “You have a drink preference? I can get you water.” He shook his head and you got him a glass of water anyway, of which he eyed a bit oddly, sipping little by little. When he saw the food, however, you noticed that he immediately went for the pastry.

He was…strange, at the very least, that’s what you gathered as you watched him from the kitchen picking at his food and glancing around every couple minutes to double and triple check his surroundings. If you had to admit to yourself, you just wanted to go home, and by now it was raining, evident by the sound of raindrops pattering onto the rooftop. You were tired too, having worked all day, cleaning up and waiting on people, and now doing it all over again for a second time. Thankfully tomorrow you’d have a day off.

When he drank all of the water in the glass, you went over to refill it. “My name’s Y/n, what’s yours?” You asked with as much normalcy as possible, hand settling on your waist as you stepped back to watch his expression.

“Toby.” He muttered, before eating more and ignoring you.

“It’s nice to meet you, Toby.”

Sometime while you were re-cleaning the kitchen, you heard the bells on the door open with a clamor and close. Shrugging, you supposed he would have left, and you didn’t expect anything more from him. But now that you were thinking about it, it was kind of weird for someone to stumble in from the back of the building, but lots of things happened out in the forest. People go out with their friends, some people like hunting deer, who knows? Some kid could have just gotten mixed up with the wrong people and left out there. You don’t consider it much, but you sealed it away in the back of your mind as a little note for later as you left the restaurant and headed home. Personally, you had never experienced anything bad out there. //

// It became more common for ‘Toby’ to show up after closing hours. Every few days or so, he’d show up looking tired and miserable, he’d ask to use your bathroom and then lug himself out to the dining room while you gave him the leftovers. You didn’t push him to talk about himself and settled for short conversations about the weather, or asking if he needed you to call anyone this week. Whenever you asked if he needed anything, he’d say no and continue eating solemnly, playing with his food and acting almost disinterested with it.

“What’s your favorite food?” You asked while chewing a piece of bread from the pantry.

Toby shrugged, “I don’t really have one.”

“There has to be something that you like at least? Can’t you think of something? I can try to make sure we keep some of it here.”

He pondered for a moment, putting his fork down. You never questioned his sudden movements or verbal outbursts at all, figuring it’d be best not to pester him with questions since he obviously couldn’t control it, other people probably bothered him enough. Toby answered you quietly, “I liked that pastry you first gave me, I..I don’t remember when that was.”

“Hmm.. okay. I can get it for you next time.”

And the next time you did, and the time after that, until you were sure that he was sick of it every time you served it to him. But he never said anything and accepted it without a word.

Perhaps you could say that the two of you had come to a mutual understanding, maybe a friendship, and you wouldn’t admit it to yourself that you looked forward to your short and awkward meetings. You didn’t know much about each other, but you felt comfortable despite his out-of-the-normal appearance and habits. It was non-judge mental, as far as anyone else was concerned, nothing happened here after-hours anyway.

You found yourself tracing his facial features in your mind, promising them to memory and making mock-paintings in your mind. He had pretty eyelashes, his skin was pale and light, he had deep scarring on the side of his mouth, that’s why you assumed he wore the mask in public, you couldn’t be sure though, and you could be less sure about the googles attached to his jeans. The only thing is that you’d wish he’d eat more since it was obvious his health wasn’t the greatest. Whenever you saw him, he was almost always exhausted and almost ready to pass out. Although, besides the first time you met, you didn’t see him with any more wounds, so you supposed it was just some off-handed accident and nothing intentional.

Yeah, you politely admitted to yourself that you were quite fond of your new and odd friend. Perhaps attracted, whatever attraction meant. You found him nice to be around. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to feel the same. It had been a long time since you’ve had a proper friend. . .

Rock songs played from the radio atop the refrigerator, melodies soft and sweet, they played from collections of the classics and you loved it. During your shifts you’d lose yourself in the tune, pretending that you existed inside music videos and getting lost in a world where the waiters and waitresses were the main characters. You had asked Toby a while ago if he liked the station you left the radio on, hoping it was to his tastes. He had replied affirmatively, and you had kept the radio on that station every time he visited.

“Come on, get up.” you instructed, coming around the bar and onto the dining room floor.

“What?” He asked, nonetheless getting up from the barstool and following you along.

“You like this song, I like this song, let’s dance.”

“But I don’t know how—“ Toby insisted as you took his hands anyway.

You scoffed with a fool’s smile, “Neither do I.”

At first you dragged him along around the dining room floor, navigating between the tables and chairs, tapping to the beat. He was awkward and didn’t know how to move his legs, flinging this way and that, but eventually he fell into your pattern and moved along. You both laughed, rocking your bodies to the beat hand in hand. Swaying left and right and once or twice trying spin each other. At one point, Toby almost toppled over into a couple of chairs, but you grabbed on tight to his hands and didn’t let go. A silly little smile spread across your faces and the two of you turned giggly as a new song started playing and the dance continued.

It was true—the two of you really didn’t know how to dance, and if anyone were to look into the windows they’d see two people who were wildly uncoordinated. You felt like you owned the world and that your body was perfectly aligned to the songs, you saw Toby and how he finally looked relaxed, mouthing along to the lyrics and shaking his arms around freely with his eyes closed. When you started screaming out the lyrics yourself, belting out notes pitches too high or low, he didn’t hesitate in joining you, resulting in one grand cacophonous harmony.

When Toby left later that night, it hit him in the face. Realization, fear, all of those types of things that crept up his back and settled into the crock of his neck before lodging itself into thought. That feeling, it settled inside of him and wouldn’t leave, it overwhelmed him and gnawed away at his stomach lining. Toby was never still, and it was more apparent now as the anxiety rose up his cheeks. He gulped, drank from the water bottle you had given him, slipped his hatchets into his belt loops and disappeared back into the forest. He always left his hatchets hidden behind your restaurant whenever he visited you. Just so you’d never see them with all the dents and stains that’d scare you away and leave him alone again. Toby really hated being alone sometimes.

And Toby also knew who he was. It was evident by those same stains. It haunted him. He would never be able to sleep without seeing all of the things he’s witnessed, that he’s done. While knowing who you also were, he knew that you wouldn’t need him, that you’d need to help other people that got lost at night, who just need a helping hand. He’d hope you’d be able to help a lot more people than just him. You’d need to forget him, or at least you would, eventually. //

// The night was quieter than normal. There was no radio playing, there were no cars passing by on the road, and there was no rain or wind, clear skies all day and all night. In short, it was boring. You were propped up by your elbow as you leaned over the bar countertop, idly skimming through the contents in some magazine left here by another customer. Only one customer remained, a pleasant old man who stopped by during the weekdays to watch the news on the television here. With a yawn and a tip, he left too, and you weren’t bothered to immediately lock the door after his departure. It had been a slow day.

He was behind the restaurant, hunched behind some garbage cans and waiting to hear the last car pull out from the parking lot. Everything was still and he was seeing the place for the first time with orange-tinted lenses. He shook and shivered, bones rattling, and he couldn’t stop his arms from jerking even as he held himself together tighter. The last customer was gone. Now he just had to wait for you to come outside. Rocking back and forth to calm himself, he toyed with the fraying strings on the edge of his sleeves, occupying his mind and trying to distract himself from the bloodstains forming on his shirt and pants, not to mention the uncleaned hatchets that hung by his side. It wasn’t until a rather loud clang that he was snapped out of his trance.

Shooting up from his hiding spot, he made his way over to you without even a trickle of a sound.

All of a sudden you were shoved back towards the building, the air was knocked out of your chest from the force and you stumbled back. Toby had one hand blocking your exit, and another raised high above your head with a hatchet threatening to crack your skull open.

He stared at you, questioning himself, looking at you and then the hatchet and then you - you were terrified, and trembling, and god he wanted to disappear right at that moment, to drop everything and cling onto you. And he knew it wasn’t going to happen, but still his arms wobbled and there was a hitch in his throat. One hand slowly went to his mouth to stop the whimperings from escaping and the other slowly lowered his weapon until it fell onto the pavement.

How could he be so stupid? He caved for the niceties, any inking of kindness and he instantly folded his hand. It wasn’t the terror in your eyes that had stopped him, it was just you. The way it felt to be so close again, how his body responded by going weak, he wanted to stay like that for a long time, he wanted to stay by you for as long as you’d let him. But he couldn’t do that, could he? Trust is a delicate thing. He knew that lesson well.

You stood there with your back pressed painfully against the wall, your heart was beating frantically against your chest, your muscles were tense, your eyes were glued on Toby as he lost his resolve and crumbled down onto the ground in a heap with his head in his hands. Sobs wracked his body up and down and he heaved. Kneeling down next to him, you grabbed the hatchet and threw it as far as you could, considering for a moment if you should comfort him or not before placing a hand tentatively on his back, rubbing circles once he responded to your touch. The goggles on his face were fogging up, and you carefully found the clasp underneath a topple of tangled brown hair, letting it fall onto the ground as you wiped the tears falling down his cheeks with your hand and slipped off his facial mask.

His eyes did not meet yours, leaning over and making himself seem small. He sobbed until there were no more tears left, and even then his chest just heaved wildly as he struggled to find an even breathing pace. Kneeling closer, you wrapped your arms tighter around him, embracing, whispering in a soothing voice.

Toby wrapped his arms around your waist, slowly at first before completely enveloping you, resting his head into your lap. You felt nice, and comfortable, safe. He hung onto you for dear life.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ────── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ──────

originally posted on quotev/citrusyfruits, reposted with permission

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drunkenskunk · 1 month

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Been thinking a lot about Lancer lately, in case you can't tell. And a thought has crossed my mind.

The various military powers that exist in the world of Lancer. Union. The Karrakin Baronies. The Aunic Ascendancy. The corpro-states like Harrison or SSC or IPS-N. Even the smaller independent nations in the diaspora outside the control of Union or anyone else. How are all the various armies of these different powers organized, and what are their respective doctrines actually like?

Let me explain.

When you play Lancer, the book makes it VERY clear that what you, the players, are doing when you're in the combat part of the game is... the exception and not the rule. 3 to 5 people in absurdly customized and overpowered mechs is not normal. You are exceptional people, piloting exceptional machines, constantly being thrust into exceptional situations.

So how are the armies of regular mechs organized, and how are they deployed against one another in actual war?

By way of an example: Battletech. When it comes to the armies of the Inner Sphere (at least during the Succession Wars), forces of mechs would typically be organized like:

4 mechs in a Lance

3 Lances in a Company

3 Companies in a Battalion

3 to 5 Battalions in a Regiment

Now, obviously I'm oversimplifying here. There's gonna be some variations, depending on the time period and the Successor State in question, and anything larger than a Regiment has it's own problems... but that tends to be the starting point. Usually. And there's also many different variations when it comes to the organization of things like aerospace assets, armored vehicle elements that are NOT mechs (like tanks and artillery), and infantry units. Because even in a setting dominated by heavy metal, the humble footsoldier has never truly gone away.

But that's just how the Successor States of the Inner Sphere do things. Mostly. The Clans have a very different way of organizing their armies:

A Point is the smallest unit for the Clans, either being a single mech, two aerospace fighters, two armored vehicles, five power armored infantry, or a 25-man platoon of conventional infantry.

5 Points in a Star

2 Stars in a Binary

3 to 5 Binaries in a Cluster

3 to 5 Clusters in a Galaxy

The Clans like thing to be simple and organized, which... can be both a good and a bad thing, depending.

In terms of battlefield doctrine, the way the Successor States wage war is an absolute clusterfuck. Tactics can vary wildly depending on which house you're talking about, and when, but for the most part? They're going to employ some form of combined arms, with mechs spearheading an assault, supported by infantry, armor, artillery, and aerospace assets. The Clans, on the other hand, have a completely different doctrine: their Batchall, or "Battle Challenge."

See, the Clans treat war like a game. It's a sport. It's not (usually) about annihilating the other side; it is (supposed to be) a means of settling disputes in a "civilized" manner. Clan Wolverine would probably have some choice words to say about that description, but that's a topic for another day. See, they want things to be an even fight. A test of skill, rather than a test of who can buy the biggest weapons or field the largest number of troops. For example: if your side has warships, and your opponent does not have warships, then you're expected to bid away your warships and you don't get to use them in that fight.

It is a very fair, but very stupid, way of waging war, and that battlefield doctrine came to bite them in the ass in 3052 when the ComGuard beat the shit out of them at Tukayyid.

... I think I may have drifted slightly off topic.

Right, yes, Lancer, that's what I was talking about.

What got me thinking about this? Well, I was reading through the rulebook earlier; specifically, going through the GM part of the book where it has the list of all the different NPC types and the templates you can apply, and how to build encounters and such. And I was also fucking around in Comp/Con. Doing things like trying to figure out how strong I could make the "squad" NPC using the rules available (is it even possible to make a squad of infantry a threat to mechs?), and trying to see what stats a tank would have, that sort of thing.

And as I was futzing around with all this, I noticed that the way you build encounters reminded me a lot of... well, building a Lance of mechs to fight an opponents Lance of mechs in the tabletop wargame version of Battletech. And then that got me thinking about organizational structures and battlefield doctrine, and...

I suppose the point my autistic ADHD-addled mind is trying laboriously to get to is: would it be possible to modify the rules of Lancer to play it like a tabletop wargame instead of an RPG? Y'know, like...

Well, Battletech, I suppose.

And, y'know, from a lore side of things: what would an army of mechs in Lancer actually look like (beyond the squad of player characters who are special by dint of the narrative), and how would those armies be organized?

#lancer #lancer rpg #lancer ttrpg #battletech #mechwarrior #tabletop wargaming

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ravi-deactivated · 7 months

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𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨

„Sweet cunt and a sharp tongue, you're a dangerous combo, love.“

featuring: edward kenway

cw: praise, vaginal sex, semi-public i guess

synopsis: owning a tavern in havana means being used to pirates in your every day life, their crude words and behaviour. but you've never met a pirate going this far in attempt to apologize for a crewmate's bad actions.

note: „fy nghariad“ is a welsh phrase meaning „my love“ or „my sweetheart“ which i thought would be nice to include, but please tell me if i used it incorrectly, that would be kinda embarassing lol

18+ content - MDNI

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Havana is always warm, always welcoming and soft, with sunlight flooding through streets of beige and gold, full of laughter and peaceful existence.

Even at night, it feels like the warmth wraps around people like a soft coat, summer air resting between the buildings and mingling with the scent of the sea, darkness enlightened by warm lanterns and candles. The sound of joyful music, shanties and drunken laughter has become the soundtrack of your nights as bartender in the tavern and restaurant which are owned by your father, and you like to say that Havana is a place of joy, no matter the time of day.

You've done this job since your teenage years, are used to bar fights and lusting gazes resting on you, know how to handle men who try to let their hands wander, think they can whistle at you or spit out crude and naughty things.

Most of them know that it will only get them a ban from the house, or in worst case, a beating from your main visitors or an arrest by the guards, but sometimes, there still are idiots who try it, out of pure stupidity and falsely placed ego.

Citizens of Havana adore your tavern as a centre of the city, they know how to behave and have their fun in peace, but the pirates docking on the shore are a different story.

You can see it in their gazes, in the way they talk, the way they stride through the streets like they own them and the houses forming them, that they're looking for provocation, hungry for a fight.

Thankfully, most of them are more of an inconvience and not an actual threat, and you know how to handle them, know that a tavern is a pirate's favourite place, which gives you a slight advantage against them, even if it's just out of their sympathy for the rum you pour them.

It doesn't diminish your dislike for them, despite them being your costumers.

Pirates are a disease, you've always been told. And yet, you can't help but feel a thrill in your veins, feel your heart leap and your legs trembling when a strong hand grabs your chin from behind, gently, sensually lifts your head.

The soft light filling the dim walls of the empty, closed tavern flickers in your vision, soft tears of passion melting it to a blur along with the dark of the late night and a breathed, blissful sigh leaves your lips, forced out of you by the way the body of the man behind you rocks once more against you.

Pirates are the worst of the worst, you learned early in your life. And Edward Kenway is so good at being a pirate, at getting what he wants, that he might be something even worse, armed with those mischievous eyes, his charming smirk and skilled fingers.

You did not question the leathern bracers wrapped around his lower arms, the hidden blades you saw shimmering in the dim light when you served him and his men, and you didn't question the hooded robe hanging over the back of his chair, could only focus on the white lace-up shirt on his body, the cleavage that slightly revealed the tattoos spreading over his chest.

It was no surprise and nothing new when one of his men hit on you, spitting rude words from a drunk tongue in an attempt to seduce you. What did surprise you was how fast Adéwalé grabbed him by the scruff like a puppy to kick him out of the tavern, and the way Edward apologized to you, genuinely and gentle.

Most men did not act like this when they came to drink in your tavern, only laughed when their comrades harrassed a girl. It did not fit your world view, disturbed the evil picture you carried of pirates all these years of your life.

You couldn't help but smile at the way Edward looked at you, a mixture of apologetic and enthrilled, felt your breath hitch when he asked you what he could offer to beg your forgiveness.

The way his hands are now roaming your body, his husked breaths against your ear and his body pressed against yours is not what you had in mind at first, but you'll gladly take it as a form of apology.

He lets out a groan as he fills you, slides into you like you are made for him, slicked walls hugging his cock, clenching around his girth.

He fills you just right, hits spots you have never felt, makes you see stars despite the roof above both of your heads.

„What do you say, sweetheart? Think this'll make up for the inconvience?“ he husks against your ear, sends a new shiver down your spine that ends up right inside the heat pooling in your lower stomach, and you lightly lean your head back, feel the stubble of his beard brushing your ear.

Just when you're about to answer, he hits you with another thrust from behind, knocks the air out of you with the sheer depth of his movements.

You need a second to catch your breath, collect yourself, before a little smirk spreads on your lips.

„Thought a world-class-pirate would have more to offer“, you respond, with a low, seducing voice, a tone that lures him in, makes his breath hitch lightly, bearly hearable if he wasn't so close to your ear.

He's so close even that you think you can feel the way an amused smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and you shudder again when his breath fans your cheek.

„Sly little thing, aren't ya?“

Before you can answer in an even brattier tone than before, you feel how he slightly pushes you down, makes you lean further forward until you're forced to hold onto the bar, driven further and further into the wood by his harsh thrusts.

He quickens his pace, makes you whine and moan with the way he fills you, tip kissing your womb, his slight curve brushing your sweet spots just right.

„Sweet cunt and a sharp tongue, you're a dangerous combo, love.“

His words and the deep tone of his voice only make you arch more in his grasp, make you hold onto the bar with one hand, while the other carries your balance on its wooden surface.

You feel your own arousal run down your thighs, feel yourself getting higher and higher on the wet sounds echoing through the room whenever he enters your aching cunt, your brain spinning around mixed feelings of confusion and arousal.

He's a pirate, a well wanted one as well, and yet you can not help but love the way he grabs you, the way he fucks you, the way he makes you feel.

When he leans over your back, one hand placed next to your body, the other one on your hip to hold you steady, you somehow forget how much his head is worth, how dangerous his hands should feel on your body.

It feels strange, but a spark of sympathy arises within you when he leans in further, buries you in his shadow as he pushes a soft kiss against the back of your neck, drowns you in the illusion of intimacy when he gently closes his teeth around the shell of your ear.

Edward doesn't seem like other pirates, doesn't initiate fights he can not win, doesn't harrass others, doesn't cause unnecessary ruckus to prove his ego. He smells better than most of them, covered in the scent of the sea, of salt and a hint of rum, but with an underlying note of herbs, probably because of salves that are used to treat wounds lingering his body.

And above all, he looks so handsome, a dark angel within a bunch of dirty, fattened and drunk pigs, his cheeky smirk more intoxicating than alcohol or money.

A smirk that is directed at you, resting on you as he observes you, watches you writher and shake beneath his movements. When you catch it from the corner of your eye, it fuels new fire inside of you, and your lips curl sweet and mischievously when you slightly raise your head to respond.

„Maybe you shouldn't provoke my sharp tongue too much then, captain.“

The word does something to him, you can feel it, notice the way he gasps for a second, slows his thrusts for the shortest bit. Then he suddenly slips out of you, both hands grabbing your hips and pulling you up, your back straightening for the shortest second before he turns you around, pulls you in by the waist and leans forward to push his lips against yours, catching you in a heated kiss that steals your breath, makes your knees weak.

You bury your right hand in his blonde hair, hold him close, while your other hand rests on the textile of his shirt, trying to hold onto soft linen while you sigh and feel your legs tremble.

As if he's feeling it, he lightly bends his knees, slides his hands from your hips to the back of your thighs to pick you up, makes you wrap your legs around his waist while your hands cradle his face and you sink further into his kiss, melt against his lips. You hear the rustling of clothes, feel how he picks up your discarded dress from the edge of the bar and spreads it on the counter, adjusting the textile before he sets you down on the wood, just to break from your mouth a few seconds later.

He smirks at your little gasp, licks his lower lip before raising his voice.

„Captain, huh? That a hidden request to join my crew?“

You gasp when you feel his fingers dig into the softness of your thighs, need a second to collect yourself before you scoff at his words, look at him through a glimmer of competition before you breathe out an „In your dreams, pirate.“

He only grins at that, eyes slightly narrowing as they slide down to his hands on your thighs, watches them when he spreads your legs to get new access to your leaking centre, his eyes staring shamelessly at it.

And just when you think to finally have the air to add another snarky comment, he suddenly thrusts back into you, one switft motion with which he fills you to the brim, makes you throw your head back as he falls back into a relentless rhythm, his cock slicking in and out of your warm wetness.

He leans over you again, holding you by the waist as he pounds into you, forcing high pitched moans and whimpers out of your throat that you simply can not hold back.

His thrusts feel so deep, hit you so perfectly and when he grabs one of your legs to raise it to his shoulder, you almost choke on the air in your throat, bliss filling you at the pleasure washing through you by his deepening movements.

You curse out an „Oh god-“ as you throw your head back, hear a breathed laugh from Edward when he grabs you by the hips again, adjusts your body on the textile of your dress, pulls you in to take his hard thrusts.

Another whimper leaves you as he partially folds you in half, sass and mockery leaving your body with each new thrust, slowly melting in the heat of a building orgasm within your body.

It doesn't help how he reaches out with his hand to search for your clit, forcing a loud moan from your throat when his finger presses against it.

„That it, darling? That the spot?“

Through your panting and heavy breathing, the dizziness in your vision, you see how he smirks at you, pure confidence written in his attractive features and you can only nod, breathe out a „Please-“, a word that only makes his smile widen.

Your lower body tenses, a coil clenching deep within your core, tight enough that it almost hurts.

„Don't hold back. Let me feel you come, fy nghariad.“

His voice slightly falters, breathless because of his own arousal, the tension with which he holds himself back, and his words only add fuel to the fire in your body, make the flames lap higher, reaching your chest, making your heart race.

Whimpers and gasps leave your throat, you tense, feel your thighs shiver, your entire body short-circuiting until eventually, you feel yourself breaking apart, tension and arousal reaching their peak, knocking you into an abyss of white noise, making you cry out in pleasure, your head falling back as arousal floods your veins.

His thrusts never waver, seem to get even harder, fucking you through your orgasm, almost making you pass out with the sheer overstimulation. Your brain turns to mush, simply melts away and when you look up at him, with tear-filled, flickering eyes and your tongue slightly peaking over your lower lip, he takes in a sharp, hissing breath, slipping dangerously close to an orgasm just by your gaze and your walls spasming, clenching and relaxing around him.

His hand trembles a little as he trails it further up your body, fondling your chest for a second and making you whine out at the soft feeling, before his fingers graze your neck, eventually rest on your cheek.

He spreads his thumb, runs it over the corner of your mouth, doesn't expect the way you push out your tongue to taste salt, gunpowder and rum on his skin. Not a second later, you allow his finger to slip into your mouth, relish in the way he draws a sharp breath when you lazily swirl your tongue around it.

The facade in front of his face cracks the slightest bit, and you see how he bites his lower lip, how his brows furrow a little in what seems to be despair, before he breathes out a „Shit, you're gonna make me cum, sweetheart.“

It's the cue you need and while you whine, shudder beneath each of his thrusts, you at some point slightly bite down into his finger, hard enough to make him jolt, hard enough to break his facade.

He gasps for air, lets out short „Fuck-“, before he holds onto your hip, digging the fingers of his free hand into the skin when he forces himself to pull out, holding you in place as warm, white seed spurts over the skin of your abdomen.

For a few moments, you only look at each other, breathe into the space between both of you, wallowing in the heat of each other's body. Your head is still spinning when Edward slightly leans forward, gently rests his forehead against yours before he lets out a heavy breath.

His eyes are dark and dominant when they dig into yours, captivate you with the slight glimmer within them.

„Aren't you just something else... Maybe I'll pick you up and simply take you with me. Wanna know what else that sweet mouth of yours can do.“

It doesn't matter what you learned your entire life, his words make you giddy and thoughtless, make your heart leap in joy and your lips curl to a smile.

„Careful, Kenway. My lips may seem sweet, but they come with a pair of teeth.“

He lets out a little groan, a sound of playful despair and frustration, before he leans further against your forehead, gently nudges his nose against yours.

„Fucking heavens, you're perfect.“

You smile when he kisses you, wrap your arms around him and become a mess of sweet nothingness beneath his hands when they start roaming your body again, not taking long until you throw your head back once more, sending sighed versions of his name into the warm night.

#assassin's creed #edward kenway #edward kenway x reader #assassin's creed x reader #smut #oh to be one of the girls he's with in the trailers agfhfjsgxhs #assassin's creed black flag

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transmascsteveharrington · 1 year

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demiromantic steve ficlet because mom said it's my time to project onto him

Throughout most of Steve's childhood love is absent. His parents teach him about disdain, desolation and neglect instead. Still, Steve kinda obsesses over love, listens enraptured when his nannies read him fairytales about true love's kiss and love that saves the day and even love that conquers death. He thinks about how love could fill his life while he sits in a house bursting with emptiness, echoing with despair. Love might be absent, but Steve still yearns for it.

When his friends are getting their first crushes, Steve doesn't get it though. Sure, some girls are pretty (and some guys but apparently no one ever talks about that Steve sure won't bring it up) but the butterflies, the sweaty hands the hearts skipping beats never happen for him. So either everyone is lying to him about love or Steve is broken. He doesn't allow himself to dwell on that thought. Instead, if a girl shows interest in him, Steve talks himself into being in love, /decides/ that now he is in love with that girl. He almost buys is own lie especially because it still hurts when they leave. But it doesn't hurt because Steve lost the girl, it hurts because apparently, he was not good enough for her.

And then comes Nancy Wheeler. They dance around each other at a couple of parties, figuratively and literally before they finally kiss at one. Nancy is nice, smart, witty, pretty much perfect. Steve might not get the butterflies in his stomach, but he genuinely really likes spending time with her, kissing her, sleeping with her. it's only after the upside down, after they have seen each other bleed, after they have been bound together by secrets and trauma, after Steve feels like they know each other inside and out that his heart suddenly kicks into overdrive. They are just sitting on the couch, arms around each other and for a second Steve thinks he is having a panic attack, only that the usual dread stays out and he realizes that this feeling? This indescribable fondness, the magnetic pull in his chest, the adrenaline-filled tingling in his entire body? It's love. It makes their break-up feel even worse and Steve suffers from his first genuine heartbreak.

After that Steve is a mess, kinda gives up again on the idea of love. Sleeps around, never manages to bond with anyone really. Stops telling himself that he is in love just because someone is interested. There is a brief interlude to his self-loathing.

The summer with Robin feels like a build-up, getting Steve closer and closer to the edge and he knows maybe a week more and he will be falling. He doesn't in the end, but he still loves her nevertheless. Just a different kind of love than he expected.

Steve tries after that. Tries to give his dates a chance, but none of them feel right. The longest he lasts is when he goes on three days with Marcia Wellburn and she tells Steve that she likes him. It's nice, but Steve doesn't feel the same. Considers for a moment, maybe if he had more time to get to know her, to truly get to know her he could like her too. But that would feel like leading her on and thanks to Nancy he knows that you can't force yourself to be in love. So he ends it with Marcia, grabs snacks and a movie and crashes on Robin's couch and complains about his sucky love life.

Eddie is the first guy Steve truly admits to himself being hot. He thinks about Eddie a lot, about kissing Eddie, about sleeping with Eddie, about finding out what the sweat on his skin tastes like. But Steve never does anything about it. He knows he could, Eddie came out to the gang relatively quickly, no point in getting attached to the people who saved the world and your life if they might kick you out of their little found family over your sexuality. But no one had done any kicking, if anything it had brought Eddie a little bit closer to them all.

So Steve could def make a move, flirt a little and be flirted back with. But he doesn't. He doesn't want to jeopardize their friendship like and he is done with meaningless sex. Is so tired of interchangeable bodies and lack of feelings. And it's enough for now. He has his friends, his little family, love is no longer absent in his life. Sure, a relationship would be nice, the little cherry on top, but the hassle just doesn't seem worth it. Steve knows it takes him forever to fall and he is still worried about leading people on.

It's late autumn when things change. Steve has spend the entire day with Eddie, just hanging out and shooting shit nothing special. But as Steve drives home through the dark of the night he can't help but already miss Eddie. Which is stupid they hung out all day. But his heart aches just with how much he loves Eddie. Platonically of course, but god, Steve loves him so much, is so glad that Eddie is in his life.

It should have been the tipping point, should have clued Steve in, but not quite yet. Steve has his lightbulb moment two weeks later. He, Robin and Eddie are at a Halloween party in Indy, friends of Eddie's, almost completely queer group. It's nice, welcoming, makes Steve forget how much he hates Halloween parties. The trio is talking when a slightly tipsy mummy approaches them and says, "you really make a cute couple."

"Oh Robin and I aren't dating," Steve says, used to people assuming that they are together. The mummy shakes her head.

"I meant you and Dracula," she says and nods towards Eddie in his vampire costume. It makes both of them blush and splutter.

"We're not dating either," Eddie corrects her.

Steve gets how the mummy might have gotten to the wrong conclusion though, they are standing close after all, sharing personal space, leaning against each other, always gravitating around each other. They're always touching, always whispering and especially tonight Steve can't stop staring at Eddie's lips. They are not dating, but god Steve really wants them to be. The realization hits him like a wall of bricks. He glances at Eddie, managing to look both hot and dorky with his fake vampire teeth, the bloody makeup, hair messier than usual.

Steve thinks about how much Eddie gets him, how he never makes Steve feel stupid, how he takes the time to explain his nerdy references to Steve, how when they are in a group he always listens to Steve telling a story even when everyone else is ignoring him. Steve thinks about the time they fell asleep on the couch and woke up in each other's arms and how that had been the best morning in a long time and yup, yes, there it is: a storm of butterflies in his stomach, his heart skipping enough beats it might as well go into cardiac arrest, the tingling all over his body. He is in love with Eddie. The all-consuming, potentially life-ruining, breathtaking kind of love. And a couple of drinks, a game of spin the bottle and a life-changing first kiss later, Steve finds out that Eddie feels exactly the same.

#steddie #steddie fic #stranger things #stranger things fic #steddie ficlet #steddie fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steve harrington fic #eddie munson fic #my writing

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jebewonmorelike · 1 year

Text

I Am The Boyfriend, Sir

wc: 1.5k pronouns: she/her (he/him and they/them versions are below original!) warnings: junhyeon being unhinged, ~flirtatious ending~, allusion to strict parents, fluff summary: kum junhyeon is SO excited to finally meet your parents... what could possibly go wrong? ~bp masterlist~ ♡ ~kofi (no pressure at all)~ THE HOURS. ARE DWINDLING. THE END. IS NYE. THE APOCALYPSE NEAR. BEP1ER IS APPROACHING RAPIDLY. i don't want to stop writing about any of these guys. i don't want to stop seeing any of themmm. i love them so much. catch me in therapy tomorrow only talking about boys planet istg.

"I think they're gonna love me," Junhyeon predicts as he hops out of the car. You grab your bag from the floor and start to open the passenger door, but your boyfriend beats you to it. He holds his hand out to help you chivalrously with a cheeky grin.

"Thank you, kind sir," you tease as you step out of the car. He laughs, taking your bag from you and throwing it over his shoulder along with his own.

"I'm so excited," Junhyeon relays, grabbing your hand and forcing you to jump up and down with him as you walk up to your parents' front door. "I can't believe I'm about to meet the people who made you who you are! I bet they're just as fun as you."

"Well..." You start to interject, but he continues on.

"Ugh, I've seen this moment in dramas a bunch of times. The male lead is always stressing out about meeting 'the family'," Junhyeon babbles as you ring the doorbell. "It's so annoying! Like, what are you so worried about? That your father-in-law is going to--."

Just then, the door swings open to reveal your dad. Six-foot-four and brawny, a greying mustache, and wearing his Marines t-shirt that you always begged him not to wear when you had guests over, your dad blinks back at the two of you in the doorway.

"Kill you," Junhyeon finishes his sentence in a whisper as he takes in your dad's massive build.

Your dad gives you a warm smile. "Hey, peanut," he says gruffly, then turns to Junhyeon; giving him a once over. "So you're the boyfriend?"

“YES, SIR!” Junhyeon jumps to attention, dropping your hand as quickly as possible and saluting your dad. "I AM THE BOYFRIEND, SIR!"

Your dad shoots you a concerned look as you reach up and pry your boyfriend's hand from his forehead. "Dad, this is Junhyeon."

"Junhyeon, huh?" Your dad nods thoughtfully. "I had a buddy in the service named Junhyeon."

Your boyfriend grins and you can tell he's revving up for a joke. "Is he handsome, too? I wouldn't want you to get us mixed up."

"He's dead," your dad announces dryly.

Your bag drops from Junhyeon's shoulder to the ground as shock takes over his whole body.

Your dad snorts. "I'm just messing with ya, kid. Come on in; your mother's setting the table."

Shaking your head hopelessly, you finally step past your dad through the door and into the house. When you realize Junhyeon isn't following you, you turn around to see what the hold up is.

"Junhyeon?" You begin to question before you see your boyfriend on the ground in a full bow in front of your father.

"Thank you for letting me into your home, sir. I appreciate so deeply your hospitality and kindness," Junhyeon pleads as you walk back over to him and pull him up by the neck of his t-shirt.

"Let's go," you say exasperatedly, dragging him through the front door and into your house. Your mom walks out from the kitchen into the living room, smiling at you.

"Hi, peanut," she greets softly, giving you a pat on the cheek before turning to your boyfriend. "It's nice to meet you, Junhyeon."

Junhyeon nods respectfully at your mom, whose hair is tied up in a tight bun with her rectangular framed glasses sitting towards the end of her nose. A research librarian, your mom was quiet and caring by nature-- but she valued discipline and quiet just as much as your dad while you were growing up.

"You kids can drop your things off upstairs and freshen up before we eat," your mom directs. "There's clean sheets on the guest room to the right."

Junhyeon's eyes bug incredulously. "We--... You want us to sleep in the same room!?"

Your mom glances at you. "Is that a problem?"

Junhyeon nods vigorously, checking over his shoulder to see your dad sitting in the arm chair behind you. "We won't be sharing a bed until we're married!"

You grab your boyfriend's sleeve, pulling him towards the stairs and up to the guest room-- shutting the door quickly behind you.

"Baby, what the hell are you doing?" You ask, watching as Junhyeon sits down on the bed quite cautiously.

"I--... I don't know," he says, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm so scared."

You can't help but laugh at your boyfriend's complete attitude change. In the car he couldn't shut up about how good he is with parents; how his friends' dads always adore him more than their own sons...

And now, here he is: head in his hands on the verge of combustion from terror.

"I know they can come off a little intimidating at first," you soothe, walking over to Junhyeon. He rests his head on your stomach and you run your fingers through his hair soothingly. "But I promise their bite isn't nearly as bad as their bark."

"He's so big," Junhyeon whispers. "How does he even fit through the door?"

"Well, they actually had custom doorframes built in this new house..." You trail off when you see him looking up at you with a worry you'd never really seen on him before. "Hyeonni, it's going to be absolutely fine. Didn't you say you were excited to meet the people who made me who I am?"

Junhyeon laughs sadly. "But you're so... I mean, you're..."

"Fun? Light-hearted? Whimsical? Care-free?" You suggest, Junhyeon nodding enthusiastically in response.

"Exactly!" He agrees, eyes widening as he makes a clarification. "Not that there's anything wrong with them or anything! You're just really different, is all."

“I actually evolved more in response to my upbringing," you say with a sigh. "Not in accordance with it."

Junhyeon puckers his lips cutely and you lean down to kiss him. He wraps his arms around your waist tightly, deepening the kiss.

"Two minutes!" Your mom calls up the stairs, causing Junhyeon to jump back up to attention-- almost knocking you over in the process. He catches you quickly with one arm and spins you around, placing you down firmly in the spot he was just sitting.

"Trying to steal my innocence," he shames, clicking his tongue and shaking his head disapprovingly as he makes his way to the bathroom. "It's like you want your dad to bury me in the backyard."

You watch as Junhyeon takes very careful, calculated bites of his steak; cutting respectfully with the knife and fork provided to him. Usually he'd just shove the meat in his face and nearly swallow it whole.

"I heard you were thinking of moving in together," your mom says, smiling politely at the two of you.

Junhyeon blinks nervously. "No, no. Me and her? No. No way. Absolutely not."

"Oh," your mom replies in surprise. "(Y/N) told us that--."

Junhyeon interrupts: "(Y/N) is an evil temptress and I am but a mere victim."

Your dad chokes on his water.

"Junhyeon," you try to intercept to no avail.

"We will not be moving in together. We don't have any physical contact-- not even platonically. This is actually the first time I've seen her in a month," your panicked boyfriend rambles, the lies just rolling off his tongue.

"Son, if you're worries about offending us--," your dad tries to deescalate but Junhyeon continues.

“I don’t even look at her, sir!"

“You don’t look at her?” Your dad repeats, brows furrowed concernedly as he glances at you.

Junhyeon shakes his head furiously. “I respect your daughter far too much to taint her with my gaze, SIR!"

“Junhyeon—," you try again.

“I only plan to look at her for the first time on our wedding day!”

One last time, you try, “Hyeonni—.”

“Hyeonni!?” Junhyeon’s eyes bug out of his head incredulously, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Are you crazy!? Your dad could kill me with his bare hands.”

Your dad looks down at his hands with a frown as he freezes in the middle of cutting his steak.

“He’s literally holding a knife!” Junhyeon exclaims, giving up on his piss poor attempt to be discreet. “(Y/N), I know you want me, but you can’t have me if I’m dead!”

Suddenly, your dad begins to laugh heartily-- something you've only heard about a handful of times in your life. “Where did you find this guy, peanut? He’s got quite the sense of humor.”

"He does. Doesn't he?" You agree tersely, glaring at your boyfriend.

Your dad places his fork and knife down, announcing decisively: "I like him."

Your eyes widen in surprise as Junhyeon stares back at your father, equally stunned. "You do?"

"You do!?" Junhyeon repeats hopefully, clasping his hands together as if he's praying for it to be true.

Your dad picks his fork and knife back up, continuing to cut into his steak. "He's a little odd, but I think he really likes you... In his own way."

Junhyeon nods enthusiastically. "I do! I really do!"

You smile at him, biting your lip as you look at the sweet, considerate, and absolutely insane boy sitting next to you.

"I really like him, too."

Junhyeon flops down on the bed, arms above his head as he smiles happily to himself.

The night had passed by fairly smoothly after that-- your parents patting you on the back lovingly and congratulating you on finding such a good match for yourself.

"That was awesome," Junhyeon says with a sigh. "I don't know what you were so worried about!"

You chew your cheek as you grin, suppressing the urge to smack him. "You wouldn't even kiss me, you were so worried," he says, sitting up and looking around with his eyebrows raised as if he's checking that no one else is in the room. Finally, he gazes back up at you with a shrug.

"Wanna make out?"

he/him pronoun users :)