#lo writes

[aloracreel]

A+ ˊˎ-

a.k.a the one where coach!Steve makes you grade papers while he fucks you from behind.

PAIRING - coach!Steve Harrington x teacher!Reader

WARNINGS - 18+; mdni. Smut with a whisper of a plot: unprotected p in v, semi-public sex, fem!reader orgasm. Reader is wearing a dress. No use of y/n.

WORD COUNT - 1.3K

A/N - I’m running on three hours of sleep, all because I couldn’t stop thinking about Steve. Send help.

The classroom was unusually peaceful for a weekday. No scraping chairs or half-whispered gossip. Just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the soft scratch of red pen against paper as you scribbled notes in the margins and circled misspelled words. 

Midday sunlight slanted across the empty desks, dust particles floating lazily through the air. 

It was the kind of quiet that made you forget you were still at school—right up until the soft creak of the door caught your attention. 

With your ballpoint pen nipped between your teeth you raised your gaze, an amused smile replacing your curiosity as you saw him slipping into the classroom. 

It looked good on him. The light blue jacket and a blue cap. The khakis, and the way his eyes darkened slightly as his gaze met yours.

"Have I ever told you how good you look like this?" His voice was a breathless chuckle as he leaned against the door, casual as ever. 

You raised an amused brow. "Grading papers?" 

"Alone in your classroom," he grinned. 

"Steve," you shook your head with your laughter, yet as you spoke, you knew your voice was everything but convincing. "I can't."

"Because you're busy grading papers." His voice was warm with his laughter. 

"I have to finish before the next glass."

"What do you think I'm here for?"

You scoffed out a laugh, and yet you knew he knew. The way you were already squeezing your thighs together under your desk. It was obvious, wasn't it? From the way that you nipped your bottom lip between your teeth just to stop the breathless call for his name from escaping your lips.

You needed him.

Fuck, you needed him.

And yet—the gesture taking everything you had in you—you shook your head with a soft chuckle. "I have to finish these, Harrington."

It was then that he pushed off the wall to walk to you, his steps slow. Then, that he spoke, his voice growing deeper. "So don't stop grading."

"Don't stop—?"

"You're gonna keep grading your papers," he wet his lips. "While you take my cock, bent over your desk like I know you're craving to be."

Fuck.

"Steve," your laughter was breathless, and yet in his eyes you saw it.

He was dead serious as he towered over you, his thumb finding your bottom lip to slide along it.

Teasing.

Borderline bullying, and you both knew it was all it would take for you to give in: all it did take for you to give in.

His lips, warm and soft, were nothing short of possessive as they found yours as soon as you stood up from your seat; his hands greedy as he spun you around and guided you to bend over the desk. 

The wood against your hips felt bruising, yet as you felt Steve's hands running on the backs of your thighs, already managing to coax a moan from your lips, you knew you'd love to see the marks your quickie would leave behind.

 "Fuck, sweetheart." His voice was low as his hands pulled the hem of your dress over your behind, his movements slow, the man savouring the reveal. "Could never get tired of seeing you like this."

"Steve—"

Under his burning gaze you felt exposed, and from it, your walls clenched around nothing. 

Desperate.

So goddamn needy for the man who'd made you glow so many times during the past three months that you had spent doing this.

Sneaking around the school, fucking against this surface and that in your ravenous desire for each other. 

Fuck, it was wrong. It was so wrong, but as Steve's fingers hooked around the fabric of your panties to yank them aside…

Nothing had ever felt as right. 

"Jesus Christ, honey," his chuckle was breathless. "So fucking ready for me."

"I need you," was all you managed. 

"So then pick up your pen—," he hummed, his grin audible in his voice. "And keep grading."

Fuck.

Your hands shaking from pure adrenaline and desire, you wrapped your fingers around the ballpoint pen. Your eyes scanning the paper you tried to remember where you'd left off, yet as Steve's cock, goddamn throbbing, brushed against your entrance the scribbles on the page might as well have been Chinese.

The feeling was heaven, and from the way he eased into you, you found the death of a single thought that had ever existed in your mind.

"Fuck, darling. There you go—" His hands were gentle on your hips, his thumbs drawing circles through the fabric of your dress as he pulled out, only to slide back into your slick folds. "So fucking good. Taking it all so well—"

You were, your body opening up around him in nothing but excitement to welcome him back. 

And yet, you knew.

With a desperate shake of your head you tried your best to clear up your mind enough to focus on the paper in front of you.

The words were English once more, and with a relieved breath passing your lips you managed to make sense of the sentences. 

And that is when Steve picked up his pace.

"Fucking—," you clamped your hand across your mouth, knowing that the walls of the classroom were surely not thick enough to conseal the amount of pleasure Steve's cock in you was suddenly drowning you in.

"C'mon, honey, I know you can focus for me," Steve's chuckle was deep, thick with amusement. "You've got ten minutes."

Your laughter was a breathless sound as you shook your head, a knit between your brows. "Fuck you, Harrington—"

"You are, baby, but that's not what you can focus on right now."

Asshole.

Drawing in a deep breath, you focused your gaze back on the assignment, but the pleasure of him brushing his cock against the spot that he knew made you come undone in the matter of minutes—

No.

No, no, no. 

You could do this.

Your heart racing in your chest and your thighs quivering, you nodded your head. You drew a circle around a misspelled word, and though the lines were a little shaky, it was good enough.

"There you go, baby. That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

"Steve, if you don't shut up right now—," you managed, yet the touch of amusement in your voice was audible. 

Just as your surprise was, as his finger slid under you and found your clit. 

"Fuck, Steve—"

"Look at you, you're so close," he chuckled. 

You were, in both meanings of the words. Only a few more sentences left on the paper. Only a few more strokes of Steve's cock in you: a few more lazy circles drawn around your clit and you knew, you knew you would be coming undone.

"C'mon, baby. Finish for me—"

Fuck.

Your hands shaking, you scribbled down a letter and a few words at the top right corner of the paper. 

Your lips parting in a desperate call for his name, you came around Steve's cock. Moaning, gasping, and nothing short of glowing as he made your orgasm last and last, bumping into you, his thrusts slow and gentle.

"See," he then chuckled as he slipped out of you, reaching over for something on your desk. "Told you you'd finish in time."

Your star stickers.

"Steve, those are—"

"For your star students," he uttered, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he smacked a golden star on his forehead. "And you're the one who just graded me A+."

Confusion written on your features you followed his gaze down to the paper on your desk, to its corner that now read: A+. Good job, Steve!

"You know, I hope you’ve got some correction fluid," he then grinned, "or poor Derek? He's gonna be real confused."

[thus-spoke-lo]

whatever you want me to be // deviant!connor [detroit become human] x afab!reader

cw: afab!reader [no pronouns used]; alcohol consumption [reader]; flirting; grinding; oral sex & fingering [reader receiving] a/n: a sort of sequel to Just Curious, taking place in reader's apartment after he walks them home. will eventually rework this and prior fic into a longer piece, but enjoy as-is for now :) wc: 2.5k

The stroll back to your apartment had managed to sober you up some, but not enough to feel rational, not enough to keep you from wanting to surrender to whatever base desires you had tried to ignore. Connor had offered you his arm—more a gentleman than any human you’d gone out with lately—and pulled you close, kept you steady as the snow under your boots made you lose your footing now and again, patches of slick black ice hidden under piles of slush.

You’d invited Connor in, for what reason you couldn’t say—he didn’t need to warm up for a bit before heading back to Hank’s, and he certainly couldn’t join you for a nightcap or a cup of coffee. Yet here you sit together, Connor remarking on random things in your home and chattering about a case he and Hank had been assigned, while you nervously sip at a glass of wine and nod along, answering Connor’s occasional question about the photos on your side table and the knickknacks that line your bookshelves.

The sharp edges of the world soften a little as the alcohol hits you, softening even more with every question Connor asks, every probing glance of his that makes you feel exposed. There is something comforting about his forced familiarity, the way he quickly finds pieces and puts them together to see the whole of you. The conversation lulls, and his focus seems to drift; he fidgets with something in his pocket for a moment, before pulling out a coin and making it seem to dance across his slim, deft fingers. You watch him with a fascination that begins to feel inappropriate, your eyes transfixed by his motions, mind drifting to thoughts of how those skillful fingers would feel thrusting inside you.

Surely, he can sense the desperation you try to quell (have been trying to suppress for months now), smell the arousal on you like an animal in heat—can’t he? Is that why he grows quiet around you sometimes, fixing his tie or finding something to occupy his hands the more you stare? He must be able to tell how you’ve grown so captivated by him—the way he placed your fingertips on his tongue back at the restaurant, the tone of his voice as he explained his behavior away as simple curiosity…it couldn’t all just be in your head.

“Connor?”

He grasps the coin in his palm and quickly tucks it back in his pocket as he acknowledges you, and you scoot closer to him, bumping his knee and placing a hand on the couch cushion, letting your fingertips graze his hip.

You press your lips together and take a slow breath. “…May I touch you?”

He cocks his head ever so slightly, brows furrowing for a moment, before nodding. You can’t tell if he’s baffled by your question, or the fact that you bothered to ask him at all before doing so, and his LED flickers as you take his hand, running the tips of your fingers along his upturned palm. The slight warmth that seems to radiate from his synthetic skin is likely from the thirium that pumps through him, or perhaps it’s something he can manifest at will; he otherwise lacks the body heat you come to expect from someone sitting so, so very close to you, the kind that makes your own desire burn a little brighter.

“You seem…surprised,” Connor utters as his eyes meet yours, before he glances back down to watch you entwine your fingers with his.

“I’ve just never really touched someone like you before.” You trace the outlines of mechanical tendons on the back of his hand, feeling rigid steel that you could mistake for bone if you didn’t know better, examining the purposeful imperfections on his skin—he really was meant to disarm and dissuade, wasn’t he? Perfectly flawed, just as human as you could want him to be.

He places his free hand on your knee for a moment before pulling away, uncertain. “I…haven’t touched many humans, either.”

Emboldened, your hand creeps up his arm, touching his chest through his dress shirt, your breath hitching at the sensations—or lack thereof—under your palm: no heartbeat, no quickening breath as you inch closer, only the soft whirring of his interior machinations, like the gentle white noise of a computer’s fan, the slight hum of a household appliance. It’s unsettling yet comforting, strangely erotic in a way—unlike yours in this moment, his body cannot betray him. He won’t have to shift to hide the slight twitch in the front of his jeans, or apologize for the weight of his interest pressing against you as you lose your composure and swing your leg over his and settle into his lap; he, on the other hand, must be able to sense the damp heat between your thighs as you straddle him, feel the slight tremble in your palm as you reach up to caress his face.

Connor’s eyebrows knit together as he scans your face—searching, always searching, as if his focus is trying to understand you more than himself in this moment, looking for reasoning and rationality in your behavior, constructing your next steps in his mind. It seems to fluster him that your behavior is something he cannot precisely predict—lust, you assume, is not strictly something he was programmed to analyze and understand.

Your thumb traces his lower lip and his jaw goes slack, mouth opening slightly, a quiet stammering noise escaping him. Your palm finally lands on his cheek, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut as he presses himself into you.

You want to ask him if it feels good, if it feels as overwhelming to you as it does to him. While he cannot feel pain, he at least experiences sensation—does he interpret this as pleasure? Do his sensors register the warmth of your shaking breaths drifting across his skin, the spikes in your pulse as your wrist grazes his jaw, the aching heat at the apex of your thighs, as something gratifying, something desirable, something as real and all-consuming at it suddenly feels for you?

The LED on his temple spins yellow, then red, then back to yellow and the corner of his mouth twitches. He turns his head and gently kisses your palm, his lips lingering there as he opens his eyes and settles his gaze on you. It’s unnerving how he looks you over, like he’s both looking inside you and through you at the same time, always predicting and understanding, taking you apart and putting you back together like a beloved puzzle.

Connor lifts his arm and slowly, carefully, places his palm on the side of your face, mimicking your gesture, before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. His kiss is soft, tentative; it’s the first time you’ve sensed something close to nervousness in him. He pulls away after a moment, looking for answers in the way your eyes flutter open, the way your lips part as if to speak but no words form.

“Is that…what you were hoping I would do?” he asks, hand sliding to the back of your neck, his free hand settling on your hip to steady you.

“It was,” you sigh, a grin forming on your buzzing lips.

“Good,” he mutters before he captures your mouth with a hungry urgency, engulfing you in a long, drugging kiss. His tongue slips between your parted lips and makes sweeping, swirling motions inside your mouth, the feeling of hard sensors under moist, synthetic skin at once bewildering and enthralling. You moan into his mouth and suddenly can feel the low hum inside him grow a little stronger, his form vibrating underneath you—so he does have a tell after all.

You slide your hand down his clothed torso, down his firm, sleek body with its machine-sculpted musculature, until your palm lands just below his waistline and carefully palm his jeans, running your hand over the smooth, subtle bulge that sits where a cock would be. There’s something deeply and irrevocably erotic about it, a mound of plastic and synthetic skin meant to create an illusion, and you absentmindedly roll your hips against it, pressing yourself closer.

“Is this…pleasing to you, somehow?” Connor asks, confused. “As we discussed before, I’m not able to”—he pauses, uncharacteristically having to strain to find the right word—“penetrate you.”

“That’s okay,” you pant, feeling a delicious tension begin to coil inside you. “I don’t need you to.”

He follows your leads and grips your hips, begins rocking you back and forth, ever so slightly, as he tilts his pelvis upward. You lean forward and drape your arms over his shoulders, burying your face in his neck and he guides your movements, anticipating the roll of your hips as he thrusts himself against you, his fingers sinking deeper into your flesh with a bruising strength.

“What do you want from me?” Connor whispers against your skin, lips trailing down your neck.

“I—I don’t know.” You think you could come just like this, grinding against him in the dim quietness of your living room, the low vibration of his arousal making your whole body buzz with aching need.

“Tell me. I can do whatever pleases you.” He pauses his motions, releases his grip on your hips, moving his hands to either side of your face, forcing you to meet his troubled gaze. His voice sounds different now, his tone desperate, a tinge of static behind his words. “I can be whatever you want me to be.”

“What is it you want to do to me, Connor?”

The question confounds him, the light on his temple rapidly spinning, changing colors. What does he want? You are needy and hungry, filled with an insatiable longing, yet still pliant and warm, demanding nothing of him except whatever he needs, whatever he desires from you in this moment of heated bliss.

“I… I want to taste you,” he finally says, looking for your approval.

You kiss him softly, lingering for a moment to reward him for the expression of his own yearning. “I’d like that.”

You ease yourself off his lap and sit back on the sofa, and Connor lowers himself to the floor, kneeling between your open thighs. He brushes his cheek against the fabric that separates him from your aching cunt and inhales—processing, always processing, making sense of the scent of your arousal. He deftly unbuttons your jeans, tugging them down your hips, carefully pulling them off and setting them to the side.

You wonder if it’s instinct, or research, or something in between that has him knowing what to do—did he prepare himself for this possibility? The concept of him thinking of you, thinking of things he could want to do with you—to you—and filling himself with libidinous knowledge just in case made you throb.

Connor’s hands move up your thighs, eyes fixed on the growing wet spot in the gusset of your panties. You wince a little, not having anticipated anyone seeing the threadbare cotton pair you settled on today, but you suspect he doesn’t care, doesn’t know that you should have worn a pair more befitting of being devoured. Perhaps next time—if there is one, you hope there is one—you’ll attempt to impress him.

“May I?” he asks, and you nod for him to remove your panties, lifting yourself off the couch to ease his motions. The cool air of the room rushes over your bare skin and his lithe fingers drift over your mound, touching your pubic hair softly, almost reverently, as he explores every exposed inch of you with intense curiosity. He lowers his head and his lips meet your waiting slit; he kisses you with the same hungry urgency as he had kissed you earlier, his tongue tracing the length of your cunt again and again, rigid sensors under the flesh-like texture feeling at once strange and addictive.

You thrust your pelvis forward and greedily rut against his mouth, and he quickly brings you closer to the edge of with every measured movement, your body already primed from grinding wantonly against his lap. You reach down and grip his hair, soft brown strands twirling between shaking fingers, murmured utterances of his name passing your lips, lingering in the space between “please” and “don’t stop” and “that’s it, right there.” He’s eager to please you, urged on by every tug of his hair, every moan and stilted breath, every pulse of your swollen bundle of nerves against his lips.

Connor’s deft tongue traces circles over your clit, long slow movements as he slides one finger inside you, then another, pistoning in and out of your slick, wet heat with a quickening pace. He lets out a shocked groan when he feels how you start to tense around him, how you are electrified with every lick, every kiss, every thrust of his slender fingers. It’s as if he knows your body without ever having to have touched you before, recognizing your peaks and valleys, reading into the subtle ways you approach your release, making precise adjustments to his ministrations to push you further and further towards the edge.

Your eyes flutter shut and your head tilts back as your core is wracked with a profound shudder, a delicious heat radiating outwards as you convulse into spasms, hands mindlessly searching for Connor to anchor you. You press your lips together to stifle the strangled moan that tries to claw its way up your throat, instead letting out a soft whine as your body shudders over and over, and you grind against Connor’s willing tongue, riding out every last shiver of your climax.

“Are you alright?” he asks as he finally manages to pull away from the warmth between your legs, his eyebrows furrowed with concern as he absentmindedly moves to fix his hair.

“Yes,” you utter, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh—you haven’t been this alright in ages. “I’m so, so fucking good, Connor. You?”

He pauses, wipes your sticky juices from his chin as he considers the heady mix of thoughts and sensations that flow through him. “Yes, I’m—I think I’m stable.”

There is no flush in his cheeks, no sweat on his brow or at his temples, no heart threatening to beat out of his chest with exertion; only stillness and calm, his body vibrating in a way that feels intense now, more than any staccato breaths or racing pulse of lovers past. His fingertips graze your upper arms, then your face. He seems to be mapping every exposed part of you, occasionally absentmindedly touching his fingertips to his tongue, sampling the salt of your sweat, testing the composition of the errant tears that forced themselves from the corners of your eyes.

“You’re…you’re very attractive when you orgasm.” Connor’s LED spins with a vigor you’d never seen as he analyzes you, cataloging your expressions, your breathing, your every twitch and flutter as your body finally begins to calm. He lays his head on your thigh and allows himself a satisfied grin, almost smug in its presentation, as his fingertips drift over your slit. “I think I’d like to see it again.”

[hungry-pocket]

[CW: this is a hunger kink story, contains painful hunger that is eventually sated, missing meals for kink purposes, and semi-explicit sex]

Alé knew once she admitted it, Jaimie was going to torture her. She shifted in her seat, trying not to turn herself on just thinking about it.

Her girlfriend was in the bus seat next to her, placidly reading. She’d come to pick her up from the airport, and Alé’s luggage was safely sandwiched between them.

It had been a long week, a long work trip, but she was glad to be back home. She’d missed Jaimie a lot despite their facetimes.

Alé also happened to be in that section of her cycle that made her insatiable, and Jaimie knew it. It was why she was reading quietly instead of paying attention to her girlfriend she hadn’t seen in a week, specifically to drive Alé crazy.

As such, Alé had engineered a situation she knew Jaimie wouldn’t be able to resist. She’d had a small breakfast around 9, then nothing during her three hours at the airport and her four hour flight. It was nearing 6pm by this point, and Alé was starving.

Her stomach had been aching on and off for the last couple hours, but she could feel it twisting now and knew it would make itself known soon.

She kept her hands tucked under her legs, resisting the urge to rub her empty belly. It was strategically exposed too, her black crop top revealing the slight pudge of it when she sat.

It only took a couple more minutes before a hunger pang began building under her ribs, sounding off after a second with a sharp gurgle.

Alé watched Jaimie freeze, her eyes no longer moving across the page. Alé’s stomach followed up with a louder growl, making its displeasure known.

Jaimie turned to her, predatory smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Hungry?” She asked.

Alé shrugged. “I didn’t have lunch.”

Jaimie’s smile grew. “Mm. I see. Clever girl.”

Alé blinked innocently at her. “Who me?”

Jaimie wasn’t going to say more on public transit, but the way she watched Alé’s stomach protest its neglect for the last half hour of the bus ride… well, the look in her eyes almost matched the hunger Alé felt.

When they got off, Jaimie pushed Alé’s suitcases towards her.

“You’re not gonna help?” Alé asked. It was only a five minute walk to their apartment, but lugging both her bags was going to make it feel longer.

Jaimie shook her head. “I’m going to start on dinner when we get in,” she said. “I think you should work up an appetite.”

Alé grinned. She could feel the arousal hitting her already, and she tried to ignore it. “If you say so,” she said.

Her body did not enjoy the trip, and her hollow stomach spoke up no less than three times to remind her she was running on empty.

By the time they got to the house, her arms were shaky.

Jaimie helped her inside, then sat her down on the couch and kissed her.

Alé leaned in, licking into her mouth. Her stomach rumbled between them, and she moaned.

Jaimie pulled back, and Alé tried to chase her with a whimper.

“Not so fast,” she said. “Don’t you want me to start on dinner?”

Jaimie reached out and massaged the slight dip between Alé’s ribs. Her shriveled stomach whined obligingly, and Jaimie raised an eyebrow. “Someone certainly does.”

Alé squeezed her thighs together, squirming. “Probably smart,” she said.

Jaimie emerged from the kitchen twenty minutes later. “I’ve put the pasta in the oven, it’s that baked kind you like,” she said.

Alé was torn between desperation and joy. “That takes twenty minutes in the oven,” she pointed out. It had been nearly an hour since her stomach had started growling, and nearly ten since she’d eaten.

“And you’ll be able to smell it the whole time,” Jaimie agreed, pulling Alé to her feet. “I think it can be trusted not to burn the house down though. How about we take this to the bedroom?”

Alé nearly ran to the bed, the hunger and arousal making her mind foggy and leaving room for nothing else.

Jaimie took her clothes off slowly enough that the smell of the pasta had begun permeating the room by the time she was in her underwear.

Alé whimpered as her stomach contracted, desperately searching for the food she could smell but not yet have.

Jaimie got her out of her jeans, then pushed her onto the bed and started massaging her stomach forcefully.

It gurgled and whined, worked up even more by her girlfriend’s ministrations.

“Ow,” Alé sighed, pleasure-pain hitting her in waves as her aching belly seemed to try to eat itself.

“Does it hurt?” Jaimie asked, voice rough.

“I’ve barely eaten all day, of course it hurts,” Alé complained. “It’s gnawing at me, right here.”

She lifted Jaimie’s hand and pressed it to the place the pangs were sharpest. Jaimie pushed, rubbing in small, hard circles, and Alé’s tummy roared.

She tilted her head back, gasping. “Touch me,” she whined, trying to grind against Jaimie’s thigh. She was practically dripping already, just from how her empty stomach was writhing inside her. “Please.”

Jaimie did, abandoning her stomach to lower her head between Alé’s legs.

The first swipe of Jaimie’s tongue had her seeing stars, and Alé massaged her belly while Jaimie took care of her other needs.

“Yes,” she gasped as her stomach clenched in time with Jaimie’s movements. “Please, please.”

Her stomach assisted, letting out a monstrous growl. She threw her head back, finishing with a moan.

“My turn,” Jaimie said, climbing on top of her. “Not sure you have the energy for this, so your stomach will help me out.”

She straddled Alé’s belly and began to grind against it, gasping as the grumbles vibrated through her.

Alé held her waist and kept her steady until she was done, then Jaimie flopped onto the bed next to her.

Alé felt exhausted and empty, but fantastic.

Jaimie helped her back into clothes, then scooped her up. Alé yelped, and she grinned. “I see how your legs are trembling, I’m not having you falling over because you tried to walk by yourself.

Alé smiled, feeling a wave of affection. Jaimie took good care of her, when she wasn’t torturing her poor belly. “I missed you,” she said, and Jaimie kissed the top of her head.

The smell of the cooking pasta got stronger as they headed back into the kitchen, and Alé felt it go straight to her aching stomach, which felt like it was expanding to hold the food it knew was coming, stretching its painful emptiness across her whole abdomen. It let out a long, low growl as Jaimie deposited her in a chair.

“Just a few more minutes,” she said soothingly, giving Alé’s tummy a final rub as she went to grab plates.

Alé held her starving stomach, cupping it as it contracted and grumbled in her hands, until Jaimie finally placed a plate of steaming food in front of her.

“Eat up love,” Jaimie said, sitting across from her.

Alé lifted her fork to her mouth, hands shaking. She moaned as it touched her tongue, and chewed as fast as possible, her stomach screaming at her.

She inhaled the food in five minutes flat, went back for seconds, did it again, then sat back and rubbed her full belly, now gurgling contentedly. It was good to be home.

[st-rozanov]

no one asked for this but i did it anyway :)

Joe/Ox, absolutely no plot, based on this video, absolutely not for minors<3

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[the-teddy-bear-butch]

this beast that you’re after will eat you alive

1110 words || a D&D character fic in the Curse of Strahd setting

Wrote this as a quick exercise in gore and horror and figuring out how Beau’s werewolf transformation would work :3

Beauregard Deverell knew everything there was to know about werewolves. She had spent the better part of her younger years reading every book and tome that she could get her hands on, and listening to the stories of the elder Dawnstriders as they told tale of their most dangerous hunts. She had put her knowledge into practice and honed it further when she herself finally began to face the beasts. She knew that they transformed on the full moon, but that some had some ability to shift at will–while others could become monstrous if one simply knew how to push their emotions just the right way. She knew how they hunted, how they fought, how they died. She knew that the affliction was a curse, one that ate at the minds of its victims, turning them into nothing more than animals. It was a curse that turned your nicest neighbor into a predator that cared for nothing more than her next meal. Most of all, she knew that she had to be extremely careful every time set out to hunt her quarry, because that monstrous curse could be spread by nothing more than the meeting of fangs and flesh. One bite was all it took.

But she had slipped up. The werewolf she had been sent to eliminate was quicker, slippier than Beau had expected, and in the fray, she was bitten and the monster got away.

The law of the Dawnstriders dictated that a hunter turned was to strike themselves down, to fall upon their own blade before they could truly become monsters themselves. In this, Beauregard had failed. In this, she had broken her Oath. But with the picture of her beautiful wife and her beloved son burning in her mind, she could not pierce the dagger through her own heart.

Now, as the full moon hung in the sky like some mockery, she wished more than anything that she had been able to follow through.

The fever was the worst part. A heat like hellfire burned through every fiber of her being, every nerve electric with pain that pulsed in waves from the ugly gaping bite mark ripped into her shoulder. The hard packed basement floor was utterly soaked in the sweat that continued to run in rivulets down her oversensitive skin. She curled in on herself, shivering despite the warmth that flooded her body. Deliriously, she wished that she would simply fizzle out, if only for the godsforsaken fever to end. For hours she quivered through delirium with not a second of reprieve.

Pain lanced suddenly white hot through the bite, forcing Beau’s muscles to tense to stony rigidity in response. Something half a cry and half a growl choked itself out of lips curled into a pained snarl, reverberating through the cobweb and dust encrusted room like an earthquake. Bile burned at the back of her throat as it felt like the werewolf’s rabid fangs were rending her flesh once again. She twisted, yanking at the linen fabric of her shirt and ripping it off and away from the inflamed and oozing punctures. Tears stung her eyes as she tried to gather enough wherewithal to inspect the wound, but her sight turned blurry as her whole body arched against a new wave of pain.

Beau’s skin felt horribly tight and maddeningly itchy. She could feel every bone begin to ache and shift and stretch in agonizing ways, stretching her skin far further than it was ever meant to stretch. Her jaws fell open in a blood-curdling wail as her nails dug into her own skin, drawing blood and then digging deeper still. She felt suddenly as if she needed to escape, somehow, and the itch and burn across her body quickly outweighed all sense. She barely noticed the rapid curling of nails into claws as she viciously tore into herself, pulling at her own flesh and sinew as if it were nothing more than paper. Blood spattered across the floor in a sickening squelch as deep gashes tore across her body–but it was not muscle and fat that hid underneath. No, with each excruciating rip of Beau’s skin, each layer discarded upon the ground, bloodstained fur broke free beneath the shreds. Even before she could reach her back, her spine swelled upward in an unnatural and violent curve, splitting the flesh until her new form could break free with a stomach-churning crack. It was impossible to breathe through the overpoweringly thick scent of rot and iron hung in the air.

Desperately clinging to consciousness, Beauregard tried to stand, tried to curl away from the mind-numbing pain, but the ground had become slick with her own sweat and blood, and her body was no longer listening to rational thought–or really much at all. She fell forward onto her hands and knees, watching in mingled awe and horror as her fingers began to stretch and curl into something larger and more beastly. Fully formed, wicked claws gleamed in the low lantern light, stained crimson in her own blood. She watched as her flesh began to sizzle and burn, the silver of her wedding ring melting her flesh like acid. A garbled cry tore its way free of her chest as she scratched at her hand—her paw—to rip the ring free of its home. Faintly, she recalled promising Brandi that it would never leave her finger, and her chest ached as though with the pain of a dagger driven through her still-beating heart.

The ring fell with a soft clink against the cellar floor, settling in the gory mess of shredded flesh and sticky scarlet blood. She barely had time to process the sight before she was collapsing once again into the dirt, her limbs contorting and stretching to better fit the monster that was rapidly fighting its way free of her broken form. Her eyes rolled back into her head, mottled oaken brown shifting into a sharp and unsettling gold that gleamed in the darkness like torchlight.

A mind-splitting headache hit her like the swing of a hammer as even her skull began to mold itself into something beastly, bursting through her face as her jaw warped into a massive maw. Sickly pink foam frothed at her lips, dripping onto the ground. Her gums ached as her teeth too began to change, filing into dagger sharp fangs that ached to sink into something, anything. Tears fell freely now, a result of her pain, but also of her regret, of her agonizing shame. She felt utterly, nauseated with agony and fever and guilt and shame and hunger—

And then everything faded into a vast, comforting expanse of nothing.

[sarinataylor]

Chapters: 1/6 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Bant Eerin/Siri Tachi, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Ahsoka Tano Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, CC-2224 | Cody, Ahsoka Tano, Bant Eerin, Siri Tachi, Quinlan Vos, CT-6116 | Kix, Mace Windu Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Single Parent Obi-Wan Kenobi, other tags to be added as i think of them, othr characters and relationships to be added as they become relevant Summary:

The worst part is explaining that he is no longer Anakin’s brother.

(the No Contact Anakin AU)

[theflyjar]

Solstice / GhostSoap

Explicit | 5200+ words | omegaverse

Preparations for winter solstice begin on the equinox. 

With fruits sweetened by the summer sun and meats fattened by the abundance brought by spring, Ghost has always preferred this autumnal balance of night and day.

It’s been years since his last run; too busy with the throes of battle and war to consider ones of ferocious passion. But this banquet of divine foods is something he has missed. 

He is not one for the summer, reluctant to remove his shirt to let his skin burn, blister, and peel. Instead, he adores this warming, golden light. 

The leaves of the forest rustle in the wind, in the midst of hurtling towards their beautiful, ochre death, and Ghost bites into raw flesh of a fallow deer. It is the first feast of this mating season, to strengthen the bodies of Alphas, preparing them for the barbarism of seeking out and plundering the Omega they desire. Preparing them to fight to the death for the one they wish to possess for their mating trysts. 

Tensions are low on the equinox, the camaraderie of this run joining them all as one, but they mount as the day is eaten up a little more by the night with each passing moonrise. Soon, fangs are bared and flesh torn, and Ghost relishes in this primal violence. 

The Alpha pack fractures and splits, hunting bucks and each other, displaying dominance as their bodies command them to. Soon, there will be no rational mind left.

Only instinct. 

continue:

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[ionica01]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Yes hello this fic is still alive pls enjoy~

“It’s really not that funny,” Camie pouts.

Bakugou looks at her with so much fondness that Camie wonders if she can contain it. She wonders for how long he has been storing it. If it really fits in the folds of his chest, and how many times he has wrapped it and for how long she has been peeling away at the wrapper.

And then he opens his mouth to say, “You’re right, it’s fucking hilarious. This is what you get for staring at my back for almost an hour.”