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leftingbadly · 2 months

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There are so many situations i would like to put him in HAHA. But a soft and clingy Godric has always been on my mind. Like you have to leave the nest for a few days and when you come back he’s all soft and clingy with you. He doesn’t even realize it because all he wants is to be close to you, so he just follows you around and have to touch you in some way 😭

A Soft Intention

I hope I did this prompt justice, Lily. Let me know! :)

Pairing: Godric x OFC

Clingy Godric… now that’s something hard to imagine. For the most part I don’t think I can see him as someone outright with that sort of thing, if he does say something that sounds a bit bold, it’s really just because he’s a bit anal with regards to emotions lmao

He’s been alone for the better part of a few centuries, to say the least, and depressed for however long we can conceive, so clingy Godric… hmm…

Let’s suppose you and Godric are a thing, not in a relationship, but not not in one either

Maybe you’ve been around a lot because you’ve been helping the nest, some official business, taking care of injured humans– whatever have you, you’ve just been around a lot. And Godric notices you. And he wants to say thank you

“I’m sorry?”

She wasn’t particularly sure she’d heard the vampire before her correctly.

“Thank you, for your consideration of us.”

When the woman standing alone in the middle of the living room with a two-thousand year old vampire had been recruited at the behest of the Texas nest she wasn’t sure what to expect. She had been told by all of her contacts that the sheriff here was a bit… well.. Odd

But being two-thousand years old, she didn’t exactly expect much in the ways of social niceties. All she cared about was doing her job and getting out. That plan, however, hadn’t manifested so nicely, as she ended up staying at the nest for an extended three month period, after which she had travelled to Louisiana to figure out some other things and then, back to Texas about two weeks later. She was tired, warm, and in need of a long, long sleep. But Godric was staring at her like she had stolen something from his home and she didn’t know what to do about that.

“Y-you’re welcome?” God, she was an idiot.

A silence stretched around them like a yarn pulled taught, and the cat chased it, and his eyes followed her movement like the cat, the way her fingers twitched, the frown in her smile pulled taught, like that yarn.

“Did you travel well?” He asked, knowing that she did. He had assured it.

“I… did. Thank you. You didn’t have to go through all that trouble to–”

“That’s good, then.”

“Um–oh, right. Thank you again.” She paused, and then swallowed courage. “Are you… alright?”

“I am. Why do you inquire?”

“Oh–” God, what was she supposed to say now? That he looked horrible? Why would you ask an ancient vampire if he was alright, you absolute– “No, I was… just being polite. Not that– I mean, you look well. You don’t look not alright, I mean.”

“I see…” his head nodded. Another silence, and she thought she could scream. “May I… accompany you to your bedroom?”

“My… what?”

“Your–”

“No, no I heard you. I’m sorry, yes. I mean… that’s fine?”

He’d watch you the entier way, eyes trailing over your skin, the pulse in your neck, the pulse in your wrist. Anything that could tell him how you’ve been fairing had his attention, any telltale sign of you having been bitten into or drank from, of you having been handled too roughly by his day-men or treated unkindly at all. He was looking for it all

You mistook Godric’s silence as he observed you for awkward tension, shifting even as you walked, one hand fumbling with the handle of your suitcase after the other

It was only after she stumbled with her suitcase did Godric take it from her, walking in front of her up the stairs, a true gentleman

“Thank you,” the woman said silently, her gaze littering the floor as he placed the bag into her assigned room in the nest house. “You’ve been very hospitable towards me during my stay here.”

“You are under my protection,” his answer was immediate. His answers were always immediate. She laughed, lightly, and his smile was almost too instantaneous.

“What?” He asked, teeth shining.

“Do you always do that?”

His head tilted, a question, eyes like a dog’s, curious.

“You answer so immediately, like a house on fire. Do you ever think about what you have to say or is that something you get used to after a few hundred years?”

His silence worried her. She thought, for a moment, that she had said something stupid. It wasn’t until he laughed did she start breathing again.

“I suppose I’m out of practice with some human social queues and traditions, my apologies.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I was just teasing you, I’m sorry.”

He decided then that he quite enjoyed that, being teased by her. He decided in that moment also, that he really liked being alone with her, too. That her eyes only looked at him, that her smile could only be for him, there was no whirring sound of Stan’s mechanical voice or the badgering on of the other underlings that usually surrounded him in the nest. Here, with just him and her, he quite liked this.

“Would you like to take a walk with me?”

You were tired, and you were drained from the travel. You needed to shower and you needed to be in your bed. But yes, yes you would like to take a walk with Godrin in the gardens.

You didn’t notice it, not at first, but the further the night went on there were signs that he had missed your presence around the nest

Godric would often tell you of Stan and Isabella’s arguments in the early morning, the times you would often occupy the living space to do work and would ask them to politely bicker someone else– you hadn’t even realised he knew about that

Or when he would tell you about the latest communication from his progeny and how they had been doing

There was a particular moment where you had wanted to walk on the rocks lining the path, and Godric’s hand reached out instinctively to help you stand on them and balance on the stumbling rocks loosely dug into the dirt

You wondered, for a moment, if he knew about what he was doing, or if this all came as naturally to him as it did to you

But a few hours later when you let out a particularly loud yawn and rub your red eyes, Godric finally notices how tired you are, and a tirade of chastisements makes its way through his head

He had been so caught up in finally being able to have some time alone with you and talk to you that he had completely neglected your needs

“My apologies for keeping you up.”

“It’s alright,” she laughed, and the silence took over again. This time, she moved before he had a chance to speak, and her warm lips met his cold cheek. “Good night, Godric.”

#Godric #True blood #Godric imagine #godric x ofc #godric x reader #godric true blood #southern vampire mysteries #true blood imagines #vampire #vampires #fanfiction #writing #angst

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leftingbadly · 2 months

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Prompts are my calling I’m telling u 😭 Actually been curious what how u think Godric or/and Eric would go about turning a s/o? Would either one of them actually do it? Can’t decide if they would do it if just asked or if it was a life or death situation 🤔 —Anon of Gaul

To Turn or Not to Turn

A meal for you, nonny. It's not much but it's made with love.

Pairing: Godric x OFC and Eric x OFC

Godric:

I’m on the fence of whether or not Godric would turn you if you were dying. Leaning more towards the fact that he wouldn’t, to be honest. Especially if we’re thinking of TV Show canon Godric, bro didn’t want to live himself, I doubt he’d give you the gift of immortality.

The only way I see him turning you if you were on the verge of death is if 1. Perhaps you were unjustly hurt and it was the only way, or 2. He was feeling parttiiccullarrllyyy selfish.

If you asked, though, and nothing was wrong? It’s a definite no.

“No?” Her voice filled the air after some time, the fire cracking, the sound of the old couch rustling beneath them, all paid tribute to the tense air that now surrounded the two.

“No,” his lazy fingers trailed over her bare shoulder, her cheek pressed to his naked chest, and their chests thrummed where her heart and his would-be beated. His cold fingertips a soft contender against her raging desperation, and a sigh left him as she lifted herself up onto his lap, legs spread on either side of his thighs, as she looked down at him.

There was something about the visage before him, something about the way her soft hair was alight with the flames dancing behind her, the figure of her body only illuminated by it, too, and the vicious outline of it shining against his face from beneath his white linen shirt.

He couldn’t resist the way his hand came up and brushed against your collarbones, down your chest to the sigil wrapped around your throat, hanging on by a chain. A symbol of your faith. Of all the things you believed in and held dear. When you were with him, and all your outer layers were stripped bare, this one thing you remained tied to your person. He mused himself when he first saw it, your naked body pressed against his naked body, and when you leaned up he would be lying if he said he didn’t think he’d be burned by it.

It was an old human superstition, a thing that had kept their hearts safe, but he wondered if over the long years of his life if his skin had become thin enough to be pierced by this thing, this thought, this faith.

“Why not?” Her voice sounded dejected, seeing only rejection in his answer. His eyes beheld something more, something she could not understand. The woman’s hands splayed across his chest and her nails raked over his tattoos. Were he human, perhaps, he would have shivered at her gentle touch. “Would I make a bad one?”

“Yes,” he hissed at her as she pinched his collarbones, fangs elongated just beneath his wide smile as he looked up at her. His eyes formed crescents, and hers narrowed in anger towards him.

“You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

She couldn’t help the shiver as his hands ran up her sides. A slight gasp left her, and his hips bucked and his stomach restricted against her lower half as he lifted himself up, holding her now against him as he pushed her to his body, pressing his head into her neck and inhaling deep, inhaling long.

“What does it feel like,” she couldn’t help but ask. “When you drink my blood?”

Her question received no answer.

“Come on Godric, tell me…”

“No, my heart, what I feel for you could only be understood between me and your God.”

Her beating heart skipped. “Is that why you won’t? Because you don’t want to damn me?”

“There is no reason for you to become what I am.”

What he said, and what he meant in that moment, were oceans apart.

Eric:

Now, Eric

He’s a different case entirely, but much the same as Godric in the inherent sense. Maybe the earlier seasons of Eric would have turned you regardless of your wants or wishes, maybe he would have done it just for the hell of it

But as he got to know you, as you grew on him, he started to think that there was something so precious about being human

“Do you remember it at all?” She asked him. “Being human?”

“No.” He lied.

“Really?”

“No.”

“Eric, come on,” she was growing tired of his on and off answers, first he responded immediately, mechanically, as though he had already pre registered answers and words for the people that asked him anything remotely close to–

“It’s me, you can tell me?”

He wondered for a long moment if he could.

It would take so, so long for Eric to trust another human again, after Sylvie he wasn’t sure it was at all possible. He would never have allowed himself to be that vulnerable again if it meant anything as much as it meant with Sylvie

But here you were, standing in his bar as you twirled around the stripper poles in your soft brown cardigan and your hair hanging loose around you, the picture of something that didn’t belong in his world

“I remember some things,” he said, his eyes flickering to Pam for a moment as she wiped down the bar beneath the woman he was speaking to. Her eyes trained on him, her hands moving on the counter as she worked. He tried not to feel the tug on their connection as he spoke.

“Good things?”

“Good… and bad.” He said. Moments flickered like a bug lamp, alluring and murderous, all at once. He remembers the roaring flames of the firepit in the longhouse, the smells of freshly killed, freshly cooked meat. He remembers the cries of his baby sister, as she laughed, as she died.

“...me?”

“What?” He blinked up at the human woman.

“I asked,” she made his way to him, approaching his throne. “Would you ever turn me?”

A crashing sounded from behind them, their gazes turned to Pamella’s retreating back leaving the room. The echoes of broken shards lying on the ground still rang in the air.

“Don’t mind her,” Eric’s voice called the woman back, “she’s… sensitive.”

“Pam?” The woman laughed. “I doubt that.”

“Come here,” his hand outstretched for her, she took it with ease. “Now tell me, why would you want to be a vampire?”

In the end I don’t think Eric would do it either, or maybe he would if you begged, but his heart wouldn’t be in it

At the end of the series we see him ending off with Pam and that little entrepreneur blood thingy? I can’t remember what it was, and he seemed happy and content, but I think deep down Eric was just as tired of it all as Godric was, maybe a little-lot less, but tired all the same (that’s also why I think he was as interested in Sookie as he was, but that’s a different post)

I can’t get over how he was when he was infected, how dejected and depressed he was, and after Nora’s death he broke just so much more than even he believed he could have been, no

I don’t think Eric would turn you because turning you meant the promise of immortality, of forever, after losing Godric and Nora, I don’t think he could make that promise again

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leftingbadly · 2 months

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snow burning. final part | simon "ghost" riley

After a disastrous mission that goes awry, Simon Riley and Lyla come to the agreement of sleeping in each other's beds to ward off the horrors. They are the horrors.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x OFC

pt 3.

Lyla hadn’t made it back to Simon Riley’s bed before she died.

Cold winds shook the grief from the trenches, and the tears fell like dewdrops on the battlefield. Before that, though, at the beginning of her end, there was a laughter, boisterous and loud that had encapsulated her lungs.

She remembers laughing with John MacTavish. Gorgeous, boyish and joyful John MacTavish. A cheeky grin plastered on his face until it wasn’t, until she noticed the screaming look that had overtaken it before she felt the bullet wound that penetrated her abdomen.

Simon was on her moments later. Too little, too late. The man who had shot her grunted and dropped somewhere she couldn’t see. The sky was her vision now, a dark and mischievous canvas, as though there was a thing smiling down at her through the last moments of her life. Lyla felt herself fall, onto the ground, into the arms of the man she loved.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Stay with me–come on. Stay and I’ll make you a wife, yeah? Want that?” Desperate words hung onto desperate hope, fleeting now where before it had been lingering. “Come on, open those gorgeous eyes for me princess.”

She didn’t realise how long he’d been talking for. Calling out to her. But she did pay attention to him now, when he called out to her, when the shock of being shot had left her body. Or maybe it had become her body. Her body that was leaking out now. She could feel the wetness all over her clothes. It was so… uncomfortable. Death was uncomfortable.

And Simon was fraying now. It was a marvellous thing to be a witness to. Even more, to be the reason of. Lyla couldn’t think straight, but she could think about Simon. There were things about him now that she had never truly appreciated before. Maybe, for one, the true blue of his eyes. Love-held, grief-paused, desperate leaking into her own. Onto her own. She realised that it might’ve been his own tears that stained her cheeks wet. She could barely imagine having the energy to cry, so it really must have been his.

A groan left her when Simon Riley lifted her up onto his lap, he was putting pressure against something, somewhere. But she couldn’t tell the difference between the feeling in her fingertips to the feeling in her toes. They both, all of them, everywhere, felt cold and distant. Maybe if she had the strength, she would have asked him where he was touching. Maybe if she had the strength she would have made a joke about this situation.

“Lyla– fucking–!” A gasp left him now, and she was shaken by the shoulders. Her eyes jolted open for a moment, before the heaviness of it all overcame her. A wistful smile encased her lips, and she looked up to the man in front of her, bleary eyed and tired.

“Simon?” Her voice sounded out eventually.

He paused first for a moment, as though there were a million-million things he wanted to say in that moment. He settled on just one. “Yeah?”

“Hello.”

“Hello yourself, princess. You gonna stay awake for me?”

“I’m really tired,” she argued, her hand moving to hold onto his arm. “I don’t think I can.”

“I know you’re tired, but just stay awake okay? Keep looking at me, fuck, don’t stop looking at me.”

“I can do that,” she said. “I like looking at you.”

“Yeah?” He couldn’t help himself when he laughed. “You do? What about me, sweetheart?”

“Just… you. Wish I could see your face though, it’s a pity I never got to see your face.”

Simon hesitated. He knew she was asking, she didn’t need to ask for her to ask. There was a tone in her voice, a hopefulness in her eyes. Those eyes. Damn him, they were going to be the end of him. And maybe if he didn’t think this would be the last time he ever saw life in them, maybe he wouldn’t have hesitated. But he did.

Because if he lifted up that balaclava now, if he pulled back that mask from his face and allowed her to see his face it meant that he was accepting it. Accepting her death. Accepting that she would die and that there would be nothing he could say or do to stop that inevitability. Simon didn’t move. Not to pull the mask from his face, not to stop her when she did.

And he swears that he could have died with her in that moment when she smiled up at him the way she did. Her soft hand glided over the skin of his cheek, and she wondered when the last time was that someone had seen him in this way. Eyes like a victim, trembling like the predator. A weeper’s gaze stared back at her and she wondered, for all the years of his life, when the last time it was that Simon Riley had felt sadness deserved. Death was like that. The death of a loved one was like that. The sort of grief that you were owed by the world, the sort of sadness that was natural to us. Their bodies knew how to handle it, programmed to handle it. The same way they were programmed to handle love, the component of handling that grief came hand in hand.

She held his hand in her hand.

She reached it to her lips and she kissed it. There was something in him that broke then, his body keeling over as he wept over her body. What was it about her that had him like this? Always off his feet, always staring down, heart always too high for him to reach. It floated with her, to her, wherever she was going now.

“You’re so pretty,” her voice murmured. “Why did you hide it for so long?”

“Was scared, princess.”

“I know,” she laughed lightly. “Me too.”

Her hand dropped, but her gaze stayed. “Wasted too much time being angry at each other.”

“I wasn’t angry with you,” he promised.

“You weren’t?” Thin voice a gentle icicle. Wraps around her throat, wraps around her life’s string. There was a death’s gaze now that shadowed her skin, like a cloud, like a shroud.

He shook his head. “Loved you too much for that, princess.”

“Maybe that was why I pushed you so hard, so far away. I’m sorry for that, darling. I shouldn’t have done that. Deserved better.” He lifted her hand for them, kissing it to his pink lips.

“You have all these pretty names for me now. When I’m dying.”

He laughed then. Head bent and smile even more so. Crooked, fading, hard-wrought.

“Don’t close your eyes sweetheart, please,” his grip tightened, but she couldn’t feel it. “Don’t leave me yet. Who’s gonna annoy me if you leave?”

“Please, Lyla, please. Open your eyes for me darling.”

“Come on baby, I’m sorry, open your eyes and we’ll go have a lie down, okay? I’ll hold you just like this. Open your eyes and I’ll never shout again, show you all my scars and ugly sides baby, show you everything. Open your eyes please.”

“Lyla?”

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leftingbadly · 2 months

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You have no idea how happy I am to find someone who writes for Godric! Like my fixation need to be fed so bad and here you are an angel with writings that feels like a kiss 🫶 love love love your writings and you so much 🫶😭

Hello Lily! How are you? I'm glad you found me haha, welcome home then. We love Godric here. Have any prompts or situations you'd like to put our dear Ancient in?

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leftingbadly · 2 months

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GODRIC AND ERIC NSFW?? UR FEEDING USSSSSSS AHHHHHHH literally going insane rn I love ur writing sm —Anon of Gaul

Hello Nonny, how are you? Haha, it was for Valentine's. I'm glad you like it! I've been wanting to write more Godric/Eric-based works and you crossed my mind, have any other delicious prompts for me?

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leftingbadly · 2 months

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snow burning. pt 3 | simon riley

After a disastrous mission that goes awry, Simon Riley and Lyla come to the agreement of sleeping in each other's beds to ward off the horrors. They are the horrors.

[author here, sorri this is soOOoooOOOoOoOO later than last one (words, what?) i've been writiing an OG work that i want to have published by the 20th and it's taken up all my time (spoiler it s about demons and childhood friends to lovers and tails and hORNs bwahahah) horororororo. but here you stinkies go. enjoy!11!!1111!] {also omg ps i saw so many motorbikes on campus since uni started i want to cRY that should be meeeeeeeee}

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x OFC

pt 2.

“Thou who hast shared the guilt must share the woe.”

Head tilted back, eyes closed and feet splayed out along the chair in front of her, Lyla was having a rough fucking day. That, in tandem with the fact that she had barely gotten a decent night’s rest since she’d been back in her own room, under her own blankets, she was in a sour mood.

She couldn’t help but to think back to the night prior to all of this. She couldn’t help but remember how Simon’s door was locked the next night. The rattling of the door handle was a sound she didn’t think she’d be forgetting any time soon. There was a distinct noise to it, coupled with the sound of her heart lurching in her chest. Shadows from beneath the door frame moved for a moment before they stopped, and something tightened in her chest even more. She was a smart woman– and this was why.

Because she knew if Simon Riley didn’t want to be seen, he wouldn’t be. And she knew that if he truly wanted to avoid someone, he could. There was no way he didn’t realise that she would have seen that shadow of his from beneath his door. No– he wanted her to see it. He wanted her to know that she was being ignored.

“What is it?”

Her eyes snapped open as her head lifted up. Jolting for a moment, at the deep foreign sound of a foreign voice that had entered the room. Her eyes followed him as he walked, deft fingers running along his chest and sides to unstrap, unbuckle, unchain.

It was common enough for them to share similar spaces on missions, but she had thought there was a clear indication from the man before her, from their prior missions, that there was no interest in bridging any distances with her.

“It’s… my affirmation.” She supplied cautiously.

Because she didn’t know what she was dealing with, and her body was still in fight or flight from the mission before. It had been successful, barely so, and it had cost them more than what they were willing to part with. “It helps.”

For some reason, she felt the need to defend herself.

“It is sad, for affirmation.”

Her eyes narrowed at the goliath before her, his harsh sniper’s hood no way near as disconcerting as the skull mask she often found herself faced with. But for some reason she had grown accustomed to the white bone and hard edges of Simon Riley’s mask. König’s was, well, strange. In the sense that there was nothing at all to latch onto besides those eyes. They were blue. She knew that much. But there was a tugging in her that wanted to know what, exactly, sort of shade of blue it was that belonged to the goliath in front of her. Maybe that at the very least would allow him some personhood. Maybe that at least would give her an advantage over him. To know that he had blue eyes, to know that he got it from someone-mother or father?-to know that there was a thing he was connected to and that he showed the world so wholly this part of himself simply because he couldn’t hide it away. Simon Riley was much the same. For all they hid, their eyes betrayed all else.

“Yeah, well, it’s mine.” She snapped. And maybe it was the agitation from the mission, but maybe it was because she wanted to know the colour of his eyes. But maybe it wasn’t about the man in front of her at all.

Lyla lifted her legs off the chair and placed them in front of her, but the goliath spoke up again before she could stand. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

And what the fuck sort of question was that?

The woman looked up to him. And she stared. And he stared back. And she still couldn’t fucking tell what the colour of those damn eyes were.

“What?” She asked dumbly.

“Are you leaving?” He asked back.

“I was.”

“Because of me?”

“Does that bother you?”

There was a pause then, from his side. And if she had any less confidence in her observational abilities maybe she would have second-guessed the way his shoulders slumped and the lowering of his eyes. Still he kept eye contact, still he refused to allow her to know the colour of his–

“Yes,” he relented to her shock, moving closer to her. And maybe if she wasn’t such a masochist she would have felt afraid. “Tell me why you left that night.”

A lump began forming in her throat, and images flashed of bare throats and weight she loved–pressing, pushing, parting. König was in front of her now, tall and demanding, his mere shadow overtaking her entire presence in the room. And she was thrilled for it.

Her mind reminded her of the image of the man before her, only then, at that time, he was much smaller. Men often are when they’re reduced to their knees. Men often are when they’re begging. She remembered the whimpers that left through his mouth that day on the field. It was their first meeting, the first time she had ever seen him so up close. Of course, she had seen him here and there. But that particular day the goliath before her now had taken a particularly nasty shot to the abdomen, reducing him to half his height, half his stature.

She had thought he was an enemy first. He had thought the same.

It wasn’t until one of their other allies had come over, a medic, to inspect the half-goliath that they realised they were comrades. At least for now. At least for today. Later, though, when he slammed her against the wall of her bedroom and rutted against her like he hated her, she wasn’t so sure.

She’d left him that same night, when his body had utterly given up on concealing the tiredness that overtook him, like the hounds of hell had been on her trail. Maybe they had been. Maybe they are.

Her eyes shot forward and focused now when he took a closer step towards her.

She heard his mouth open again. “Stay. And tell me–”

“Soldier.”

Another voice, this time not foreign, this time not rough.

Two pairs of eyes moved from one another to the Lieutenant positioned at the door. Lyla felt a surge of annoyance rush over her, despite nothing having happened yet. She found herself wondering when ghosts had come to haunt her. A pregnant silence filled the room, and maybe if she had cast a glance to König before her, she would have seen the daggers thrown at her commanding officer. Maybe, if he had allowed himself to move his eyes from hers to Königs, Lyla could have seen the hate in Simon Riley’s, too.

There was too much happening in the silence between the three of them that Lyla almost gagged on it. Her mind was reeling, her body felt like it wanted to do the same.

It didn’t take long for König to move. His large footsteps thundering as his gear rattled, his leg brushing against hers as he moved passed her and sent a vicious thrill through her body-she was almost embarrassed for it-and left the room.

A ghost stared at her, and she stared back.

“You and the big boy seem to be getting on.”

Silence.

“Guess you do have a type–”

“Why did you lock your door?”

Maybe if he was smart enough he’d be able to hear through the anger to the question she was actually asking.

Why did you shut me out?

We promised to allow ourselves to need each other–why did you break it?

In the dull silence, she heard him swallow hard. Maybe if he had that damned balaclava off his face she would have seen the way his throat bobbed. All she could see, though, were the hard set eyes as he stared in front of him, not even looking at her as he remained silent. He had been so full of words before, she mused, why now did they seem to be choking him.

Lyla wasn’t a young woman, none of them were. Even if their ages denied it, they had lived lifetimes of grief and pain that simply didn’t allow for the precious faults of youth to take hold. Those delectable turnings of emotions and imaginations of whatever it was that being outside of war allowed, Lyla and her ghost were deprived of them. And because of this, she knew when to walk away from things. So she stood up eventually, but when she moved to walk past him, he held onto her arm.

She stilled. Because of course she did. Because what else would she do when he was casting that silent plea out into the world around them? For all his faults, Simon Riley was a man hard to say no to. But she was hurting.

And when she was hurt, she hurt.

“You asked once why he and I can get on so well?” She turned to Simon as he looked at her, nodding. And perhaps if there wasn’t an anger clouding her gaze she would have seen the vulnerability in his. “Maybe because he’s not scared to fucking kiss me.”

The harsh intake of Simon’s breath caught her off guard.

“Did you let him?”

The question sounded so wrong in his mouth, to him, it felt like a poison wrapping around his tongue, sliding down his throat. The words felt foreign even in the air that distanced between them. Because why did he ask that? What right did he have to her, to ask a question like that? Something that sounded more like a demand than anything else. Did you let him kiss you. And maybe if he was bolder, the words would’ve sounded more like did you let him kiss what was mine.

Because she was his, wasn’t she? At the end of all things. His to hold at night, his to keep safe. His to kiss. But he hadn’t, and she was fraying, too, at the edges and the ends of all things. And Lyla would be damned if she broke herself waiting for him to piece himself back together. Simon Riley was a man unloved for the vast majority of the years he had lived, even more so, he was a man unwilling to do it. He had told her that, in so many ways, on one of the nights they had been lying in his bed together.

“So you’d never get married?” She had asked him, the pink ribbon around her eyes again as her hand traced circles and stars onto his bare chest. It was something Simon liked to do as soon as he got back, to shrug off his coat and his shirt and everything else he had been carrying on his back. It was something she liked to do, too, to lay on his naked chest and run her fingers through all the cracks and the scars and the valleys he made known to her.

It brought her a strange sort of pride, and comfort, to know that despite his body keeping score of all the knife wounds and the bullet holes and the punches and gashes and slashes, his body took the score of her soft fingertips, too. She could feel the way his stomach caved in when she touched a particularly sensitive spot on his side, she allowed the pride to settle in her gut.

“You’d have me as a husband?” There was an amused tone to his voice. His fingertips digging into her sides as well. His pride settled in his gut, too, when she shivered.

“Why not?”

“I’m a broken man, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay,” She snuggled deeper into his chest. “I’m a broken woman.”

Unlike the other nights, whenever she mentioned something so domestic, Simon didn’t keep quiet. This was something that had shocked the woman now laying halfway on top of him, with her leg bent over his and her entire front pressing into his side. “Would you actually?”

“Hm?”

Her head tilted up with the guidance of his hand, and despite not being able to see him, she could feel his eyes on her.

“Would you let me make you my little wife?”

The memory lurched from her when Simon’s current grip pulled her from it. And she stared now into his eyes. These eyes, these blue eyes, oceanic, rain-filled, grief-leaking.

“Do you think you deserve to ask me something like that?” Her voice seethed.

“You think you can come here and chase away the other boys like a fucking bully, like someone who owns anything here? You think you can rut into me and lock me out the next day?” She snatched her arm from him. But she remained still.

And then she allowed herself to ask something gentle. “Didn’t it feel good?”

“Yes,” he answered truthfully. “That what you wanna hear? That rutting into you felt good?” A sense of pride washed over her as he bent his head and leaned forward. “But don’t humour yourself too much sweetheart.”

Something dreaded took home in her heart. “It did feel good,” he said honestly. “But not because it was you.” He lied.

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leftingbadly · 2 months

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both. NSFW | godric of gaul, eric northman

A spin-off piece from Between Blood and Barren Homes where you, Eric, and Godric explore your new, developing relationship.

Pairing: Godric/Eric Northman x OFC/You

Rating: 18+

There are so many ways this could have started.

With a kiss?

With a push?

Maybe with anger, yes. Definitely with anger. But it was the sort of anger frustration was made out of, the sort desperation reeks of. You know?

Maybe Eric started it first. Oh, Eric started it first

One day when you’re in your room, and you’d come back from swimming, or you’d gotten out of the shower and the entire room reeked of you– your body wash, your hair oils and shampoo, your body lotion. God, Eric steps one foot into the hallway outside of your bedroom door and he can smell how sweet you are. He can hear you on your bed, taking care of your hair, he’s so attuned to you in that moment that he can hear the very strands of it moving

And he comes to you, because God, how could he not?

It hadn’t been like this at first.

He had hated you at first, as he did all things. But now…

He had told himself over the past weeks that you were just a means to an end, whatever it took to keep his Maker alive, whatever it took to see that Godric didn’t meet the sun– he paid your price, he kept you safe, he did it all

And in doing so, he fell in love with the woman that you are

And oh, the woman that you are

So he comes into your room under false pretences, and he tells you it’s dangerous tonight, because there had been a meeting held, and foreign vampires were in the area. And he looks at you as he says this, in his black tank top, and his cheeks are flushed and you can tell, you can tell, that he’d just fed. Because there was that look in his eye that he always got, a man satisfied, a man sated, a man ready to suck the blood out of the world– and he was staring at you

“What?” The woman asked. Her legs crossed, a bathroom wrapped tightly around her body. She had become accustomed to this, being so vulnerable around the place now. In a home full of vampires it wasn’t hard to be reminded that you were at the mercy of their wills.

“What?” Eric’s voice taut, snapping, despite the kindness he had been predicting all these weeks. He was on the verge of something he couldn’t name. A foreign wind blowing him off an unknown cliff. Towards you, towards you, towards you

“Despite me giving most of my attention to your Maker, as per your request, Eric, I can still tell when things are off with other vampires too. You know?”

His feet bring him forward towards you, as though your words are a lasso around his neck. Step, step, step– and there he was standing before you. Your neck craned up, up, up– fuck, how tall was this man?

“What do you see?”

There were those words again,

Often, often, often would you have heard it from Godric’s mouth

“Tell me what you see.”

It meant: tell me there is more to me than the monster I had made

It meant: tell me that you do see more man in me than that

It meant: Tell me you know that I will not hurt you

“What do you want me to see?” The woman asked. She was careful. She knew the dance. Unlike with Godric, one could not so easily tell Eric Northman he too wore his emotions in his eyes. That same glint, that same wound.

Eric remained quiet as he stared at you. His eyes fixed on the small bump of skin on your neck. You were right there, your throat was right there, but he couldn’t.

He swallowed hard and he stepped back.

“You’re taking care of Godric.”

But it meant: I see the way my Maker looks at you

It meant: I see the way you look at him

Because despite the man he was, oh, the man he was, Eric Northman would not feed or kiss or fuck the woman his Maker held so closely to him

But why…

Why was she staring up at him like that?

Why was she standing up?

Please, please don’t stand up

Fuck, she was walking towards him.

And why did her hand have to feel so soft? And why did the ghost of a heart thrum in his chest where she touched it? Fuck, fuck, fuck–

“You look like you could use some care too, in your long life.”

And what could he do?

What else, truly, could he have done but kiss you in that moment?

Gentle intention and hard lips. Your legs were wrapped around him before either of you knew it. And then changed, turned, Eric found himself on the bed in the next moment and you on his lap, facing away from him

He took pleasure in the way he had to crane your neck, exposing it for all its glorious divinity, his entire palm stretched over it as his hand held your chin and his mouth devoured yours

Saliva mixing, gooey tongue over tongue, he traced your teeth and everything else you would give him

There was a heat building up in the room as your body struggled against his, struggled for more, struggled for deeper, harder– fuck, Eric, your voice called out

“Do something before I lose my mind.” The whimper in your voice unravelled him. The sound of the hinges to your bedroom creaking, unravelled him even more.

He stopped kissing you, a string of saliva pulling between the two of you, as your heads turned to see Godric standing in the doorway. How had he been so lost in you that he couldn’t hear another vampire approaching?

How had he been so lost in you that he couldn’t feel Godric approaching? But there he stood, in all his glory, white linen pants and a grey sweater that dipped so, so deliciously down his chest. Collarbones peaked and tattoos displayed lifetimes of story and chaos. Godric stood as he stared, unmoved, unblinking. And the woman’s breath was bated, but there was a heat in her body and between her legs that wouldn’t stay sated for long. And Eric, oh, sweet Eric, Sweet boy, Eric.

He held in a breath, then exhaled three times before he plucked up the courage.

There was nothing left to do but this.

He had gone too far, he had been too brave. Now, he was going to have to be more bold. More daring. Makers had killed their offspring for far, far less. But here he was now and this was the chance he was going to take.

For a moment he could feel Godric’s wrath, Godric’s pain. For a moment all those months of doubt and discourse within his Maker on whether or not he should or could do anything to you came to a front.

Eric could sense it all now, Godric hid nothing from him

And a bright red monster reared its head, jealousy the colour of blood now

And he wondered for a moment if this was his end

And he wondered for a moment if Godric would spurn those centuries of love and faith between them

And Eric moved his hand on your jaw, and he turned her wide, open, wet mouth to Godric, and he ripped open her blouse with his other hand

A gasp left the woman, of course it did, as Godric stepped closer. The door closed behind him, and he stepped closer, closer, closer

Moments passed as he stared at her, and the cold air made her nipples hard, and the feel of Eric pressing into her back, and the look of Godric’s gaze pressing into her front– it was too much for a woman, she was just a woman, and fuck, she needed someone to do something–

Her back arched as Eric’s hand trailed ever so slightly, cautiously, waiting for Godric to accept the invitation

And he did.

Mouth dipped, fangs bared, Godric stared at the woman as though centuries of restraint were put to shame

He wanted to touch you

But first, he had to ask

Silence rang in the room.

But he couldn’t ask.

The woman’s wide eyes looked up to him, pleading

“Godric, please.”

Please.

Of course he would. Anything. Anything you could do or say or want from him, if you said that word, the entire world was yours. But you weren’t asking for the world. You were asking for a kiss.

“What is it you want?” Godric’s confidence grew. The trepidation in him sizzled out, and where he had initially mistaken your lust for concern, he leaned closer to recognise yours eyes’ true intent. “It seems you have your fill of man in my progeny.”

Your head shook, vehemently. Because for all that had happened between you and Eric, if Godric in this moment didn’t kiss you, you knew you’d go insane. Your hands lifted up and reached around that stupid, simple fucking sweater and you pulled him so hard he crashed into you. And his fangs slices at your lips, and your tongue, and your blood floated into his mouth and you didn’t care.

Because Eric was kissing your neck now

And Godric’s tongue was sliding over yours

And Eric’s hands rested where your gown once was and fuck, it was cold, and fuck, it was hot at the same time

Hands slid over your body as it danced with the sound of ripping fabric. You were naked before you knew it, Eric’s fingers inside of you before you knew it, your hips grinding into them as Godric held you still in his progeny’s lap, before you knew it.

He didn’t break the kiss, not even as Eric moved you further up the bed and Godric followed, lapping at the bloodstream from your mouth where his fangs had cut

“I want to taste her.” Eric’s request was simple, and you damn near died when Godric pulled himself away. And the woman’s eyes followed his, as it looked away from him to his progeny behind her head, and she could do nothing but grind and whimper as Eric stuck his tongue into his Maker’s mouth, stealing the blood Godric had taken from you.

They kissed until the blood was depleted, and then Eric turned your head for more. And Godric bent his face lower, lower than you had expected him to go, to place his mouth over the other set of lips that craved their attention. A gasp left you as his tongue slithered along your folds, cold hands holding them apart, and Eric swallowed those gasps whole. His hands never ceased their attack on your breasts, or your nipples, and the sensation of having two mouths on you, of having Godric and Eric surround you, of having the sheer power and the knowledge that if they wanted to, they could snap you in half with less than a thought.

The woman’s hand gripped into the hair of the smaller man, Godric groaned, the feel of having his hair pulled an unfamiliar and all but welcoming sensation. It had been so long since a woman had tempted him this much, and so long even still since he had felt so connected to Eric through the bond. The thing that linked them together as maker and progeny thrumming with life and blood and lust. And the woman’s body hummed with it, too, as Eric bit his tongue and gave her his blood as well. It was more than what she could handle, more than anything she could handle, and she found her body shaking and her legs wrapping around Godric’s head as she came down from her first orgasm. The first of many, that night.

But Godric was quick. Quicker than she had time to recover, he flipped her over onto his son’s chest and pressed his own into her back. His hand moved her head, turning her neck as his lips sought out hers. He wouldn’t let her go that night without a thousand kisses to her lips. But her head moved, her hand lifted up to grasp his hair again and she dragged it away from her mouth and placed it, to his shock, against her neck.

She felt his dick throb against her ass, and her eyes looked up to Eric as she looked up at him, a silent plea. A distressed beg. She wanted them–

“You want us both to…?”

Godric’s words died on his lips as her gasp overtook the sound of the room. Eric’s teeth plunged into her, not needing further invitation, and Godric’s eyes blared angry and violent and lust-filled before she pushed his head down as well and his teeth sunk into her, too. Her second orgasm overtook her then, and her body shook as the two of them drank from her in tandem.

“Please,” her words were barely a whisper when they finished. “Please. I need it.”

“Who, sweetheart?” Eric asked. His nose rubbing against hers, his tongue still licking his lips. “Whose cock do you want first?”

“Both,” her words were breathless as her head slumped. The desperation was making her tired, and she needed them to relieve her of the pain between her legs.

“Both?” Eric was amused. His eyebrows shot up at the gall of the human woman between them. He was about to interject on behalf of his maker, knowing that the smaller man wouldn’t want to put the woman through that much for her first time with them.

But Godric had been unravelling since he smelled her and his progeny together in the hallway

If he was being honest with himself he was unravelling since the first night he had met her

And fuck, she asked so nicely

How could he deny her anything?

And fuck, she felt so good and soft, and alive between the two of them

Godric’s voice beat out into the open air before Eric’s could.

“Hold onto his shoulders.”

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leftingbadly · 3 months

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OHHHHH A SPIN OFF SHOW OF MY FAVORITE MUSTVE HAVE GAY SEX VAMPIRES 🫶🫶🫶 WHAT A DREAM !! Also, I’ve been good! Just haven’t had the time to use tumblr, unfortunately :( But! Hardly stops me from rereading ur works and kicking my feet! Saw u wrote something for CoD and might just have to get into that 👀 That Simon guy looks pretty intriguing idk..hehe —Anon of Gaul

Hiii nonny:)) always pleased to hear from you. I hope the world is treating you kindly. And I’m super soft to hear my writing brings some reprieve !!! Honestly I want to start writing for so many more fandoms but my bloody laptop is fucked rn and I’m tryna get it fixed but the fixing is not fixing AHA, but we move. That Simon Guy is definitely worth taking a look at (or fifty)

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leftingbadly · 3 months

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snow burning. pt 2 | simon riley

After a disastrous mission that goes awry, Simon Riley and Lyla come to the agreement of sleeping in each other's beds to ward off the horrors. They are the horrors.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x OFC

pt. 1

Her eyes were covered by a thick, silk ribbon.

Where Simon Riley had acquired such an item was beyond her, but she tried not to let herself think about the acquisition too much. There were more pressing matters at present, matters which required the full use of her mind and her hands. Simon Riley’s face was between them, her hands, to be clear. Smooth skin, a freshly shaven face. She could feel from the rummaging and the adventuring of her fingertips that he had shaved the sides of his head, as well. A small patch of hair sat atop his head, longer than the rest, but still short enough to maintain– did he go to the store and buy the ribbon himself?

His body was slit between her legs, which pulled him in as close to her body as he would allow her to. His entire weight tried to crush her, but she was often used to heavy things on her, whether it was due to the tactical gear, being buried in God knows what during their missions, or even the small fact that this was a situation Simon Riley often preferred to have himself in these last few days– did he request it in the quarterly inventory restock?

On top of her, she could hear the gurgling of the man’s stomach. He had skipped meals today. Maybe he had been skipping meals all week. Her hand tightened in the short locks of his hair, and she reminisced of the moments hours before the two of them had found each other in his bed again, for however-many days it had been since they began.

He had been sparring with John Mactavish. Always John Mactavish, poor, wee old, John Mactavish caught between the fraying edges of Simon Riley’s slipping mind and Lyla’s hard gaze. That very gaze which watched the two men now, their arms grappled one another, thighs strained, feet dug into the earth like it was their birthright. There were precious few times where John wasn’t fighting his teammates, within the confines of comradery, of course. More so were the times that existed where John offered himself to be Simon’s punching bag. The Scot could take a hit, she had to give him that. More so, he could take a hit from Simon. And that, if nothing else, deserved respect.

She tried to remember the time when he had taken it upon himself to challenge the goliath from KorTac, but every time her mind tried to bring forth those images, her eyes shut and she pushed them away. To give John credit, he lasted a fair few minutes given the absolute size of the man. John was fast enough to evade for some time, but not fast enough.

A grunt from Simon caught her attention back to them then, her eyes widening as she noticed John had drawn first blood, signalling the end of their sparring. But Simon was angry. And Simon was fraying. And John Mactavish, the gorgeous little shit, with that proud smile on his face and his chest puffed in momentary, stolen glory, knew it too. He was on his back before he knew it, a puff of air escaping his body to refrain from feeling the pure force of Ghost. One fist landed on his cheek, then two, it was four in and a mouth full of blood from Soap’s end before the rest of the team finally jumped in. Captain John Price didn’t move, he rarely moved, but blessed Sergeant Kyle Garrick was there to save the day.

Lyla hadn’t said anything to either of them that day, not like she normally would have. There was a small voice in the back of her mind that told her saying anything would only fuel the dwindling flame. The small, minute dwindling of the flame. So she got up, and she locked eyes with her captain as she walked passed. And maybe if she spoke “John Price” she would have been able to read him as clearly as she could read everyone else. Maybe if she could read John Price she would have taken note of the warning in his eyes, of the injunction he seemed to be trying to impose on her. But Lyla was a stubborn girl, and she looked away. Because no one was going to tell her what to do– rather, no one was going to tell her to stay away from Simon Riley.

Which led her here, to his bed. Beneath his sheets. Beneath him.

“Do you think we would have liked each other if we were civies?”

There wasn’t a single pause between her question and his answer. “Can’t say.”

“Is that your nice way of saying no?”

“It’s my nice way of saying I don’t know what I’d be if I wasn’t this.” His answer was heartbreak, as was the stuff Simon Riley was made of.

The ribbon struggled against her eyes as she adjusted her head on the pillow, and she raised her hand to pull it tighter, further down onto her nose. “Is it coming loose?”

There was a panic in his voice, if she had ever heard a panic sounding Simon. Maybe if she had more energy she would have teased him for it, maybe, if she had more energy, she would have just ripped the damn thing off from her face and stared at him, straight into his eyes, make him face her like a man.

But she wasn’t so keen on another slap to the face-yet to be determined-at the very least she didn’t want to ruin their otherwise peaceful night. It had been a while since they had had a peaceful night.

“Worried I’ll see your ugly mug, Riley?”

“Worried you’ll fall in love with me, sweetheart.”

And so what if her heart skipped a beat. “Too late.” She sighed out, pressing his face further into her chest.

She could feel his entire body tense, and she had to sink in her cheeks and bite them as she tried to refrain from smiling. He was such… an easy man to make uncomfortable.

“Don’t say shit like that.”

“No?” Now, maybe, she was gaining the energy to tease. “What shouldn’t I say, hm?”

He pressed hard into her sides, and her entire body lurched up in shock at the sudden feeling of electricity shooting through her.

Now, this was why Simon Riley wasn’t a smart man.

Because when you had a gorgeously divine woman beneath you, barely dressed in anything at all, with her legs and thighs wrapped so tightly around you that you feared there would be an indent in your own waist later on– don’t make her lurch up.

More specifically– don’t make her lurch up into you.

“Fuck–” he gasped, because obviously. And his hands on pure, primal instinct, whether from an inherent understanding or, perhaps and more possibly, trauma, came to push her down and away from him by her hips. He lifted himself as much as he could on weak knees, his own core still throbbing at the sudden feeling of her heat pressed so tightly, so warmly, so fixed onto him.

“That was your fault,” she breathed out. Equally, obviously, flustered at having had felt him. “Simon–”

“I know, shut up.”

“You have to–”

“I. Know.” He gritted out. “Shut up. I’m concentrating.”

And this was why they were both idiots.

Because while both of them had very clearly admitted their attraction to one another, at the very least on the most primary physical level, they still deemed it the best idea in the universe to sleep together in the same bed, curled up against each other. For healing. Of course. To ward off the demons. Obviously. Except it seemed that tonight in particular, the demons seemed to be their very own selves.

Because Simon Riley was still hard, and he was still on top of her. And her legs were still, however loosely, wrapped around his hips.

“Do you want me to move?” Her stupid suggestion broke the air around him.

He grunted, because he was an idiot, and replied. “No, just…”

“Do you want me to list off really, really turn-off things?”

“For the love of God, Lyla, stop talking.”

“Stop talking?” She was offended, because with the silk blind fold on she couldn’t see the way he was looking at her. Because from her viewpoint she couldn’t see that her hair spread out around her like a crown, that one of the straps of her tank top had fallen off her shoulder, that her collarbone was on full display for him, that the baby-pink silk ribbon around her eyes and her open mouth did absolute fuck-all to deter his lower half. She didn’t stop talking because she didn’t know what her voice did to him, and he didn’t move because he didn’t want whatever it was about her to stop doing things to him. Because they were, as we’ve ascertained, both idiots.

“Simon Riley, I really don’t know who exactly you think–”

“Lyla, stop talking before I fucking stuff that ribbon into your mouth.”

Noted.

Sure.

That was a completely moderate thing to have said. To be fair, the man was fighting demons. And to be fair, she didn’t know what was happening at all to him. And in a completely idiotic show of weakness, once the woman beneath him had shut her mouth and the voices in his head became louder, Simon Riley made the outrageous decision to slowly, gently, painstakingly lower his hips onto her again, juuuust where he had touched her before.

“Can I…” but there was no question to finish it off. “Just… just a little bit…” and his actions barely constituted a request. And yet, for some reason, her body answered in full. Her legs wrapped around his thighs then, not higher, not lower. Lightly, just enough to let him know she was there, she was accepting, she was willing. Not more than that, to not scare him off.

Because yeah, maybe the reason for their problems was the fact that Simon hadn’t fucked her yet. And–

Lyla tried to contain the gasp her throat let out, but when Simon, oh the man that he was, grinded his hips just so lightly into her that she could barely feel the outline of him, maybe even the devil could have forgiven her for the sounds she made. Because he was gentle, because he was kind, because he was doing it like it was the last thing in the world he deserved. Her hand raised to take hold of his hair, to bring him closer to her so that she could kiss him.

And his hips circled, pressing deeper into her clothed core as his bare stomach met her clothed one. When he pushed back this time, she thought he was going to grind into her again, and her stomach tightened in preparation for the feeling.

But he moved back, and he moved even further back, and in the next moment she was left alone and cold. Shuffling sounded for a moment, and her vision came back. And Simon was putting the baby pink ribbon on the side of the bed stand and putting his mask back on in the same movement. And the last thing she saw that night was the view of his large, naked back, littered with scars and moles and everything else humans had that gave credit to a life’s existence, before the lights went out.

pt 3.

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leftingbadly · 3 months

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leftingbadly · 3 months

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Hey chat how do I become all the things I want to be while still being just a little girl

#yappingbadly #I want to grow up #but I can’t leave her behind

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leftingbadly · 3 months

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Shoutout to me who spilled coffee in my laptop rushing to my exam and now it’s having a seizure AHAHAHAHAHA (but not ahahaha at the end of the day 😎🕶️🤏😭

#yappingbadly

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leftingbadly · 3 months

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THAT ERIC AND GODRIC PIECE…BITING MY FIST RN I SWEARRRR ineedthem. Both. U blow my mind every time!! This fandom needed u BAD. We have so many sex scenes of Eric (thank god 🙏) but we needed them TOGETHER on screen. They soooo fucked at some point LMAO I WOULD TOO TBF but thank u for what uve done for us 🙏🙏 I hope uni is going well!! 🫶 —Anon of Gaul

hii nonny!! great to hear from you, have you been keeping well? as always, i want to give you a big smooch for all your kind words-- and i agree, we definitely should've gotten more eric-godric scenes because that entire dynamic is so intense and rich and PLSPLSPLS i am on my KNEES hbo for a spin-off series of their journey tgt

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leftingbadly · 3 months

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being in my twenties is going to kill me pls help sos 911 maydaymaydaymayday

#yappingbadly

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leftingbadly · 3 months

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snow burning. pt 1 | simon riley

After a disastrous mission that goes awry, Simon Riley and Lyla come to the agreement of sleeping in each other's beds to ward off the horrors. They are the horrors.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x OFC

Loving Simon was a lot like grief, and grief, she found, was a lot like walking through snow.

“You’re spacing out again.”

Her words drifted through the empty air between them. The metal spoon in her mouth muffled her words, and the creek of the chair shifting as she moved was the only response to her words she received. Simon Riley was a silent man outside the confines of his bedroom, beneath his sheets, and she found that whenever she would leave his room in the morning and see him in the common areas of base during the day, the shift was as jarring as the day it happened before. Over and over again. The man she knew at night, and the man she knew during the day, were polar opposites of the other.

“Focus on yourself, soldier.”

“Oh captain, my captain,” her begrudged voice mumbled, getting up from the table and putting her dirty dish in the sink.

Simon’s eyes followed her as well as they could without turning his head, her eyes were forefront facing and hard, not staring at him. And John Mactavish’s eyes followed them.

He didn’t truly know what to make of their relationship. Truth be told, neither did any of the other members of the team. The dazzling woman, codename Lyla, stemming from the English rock band “Oasis” had fallen on Task Force 141 like a meteor nine months ago. It had taken her one month to grate the skin of Simon Riley with her words, three months for that to develop beyond initial irritation and snapping words to, well, John wasn’t really sure what it was between them now. They snapped at each other less, they worked better together on missions, and that meant that the team worked better on missions, so no one could complain, not really.

The problem, though, was when that frail sense of ceasefire ended between the two of them, and it was back to square one.

“Alright, Simon?” The Scottsman asked. He received a grunt in reply as the other man stood up roughly. John could hear the grating of the chair against the hard, stone floor, he could practically see the splinters in the wooden furniture as Simon pushed it back with his massive weight and left the room. And took the thick, tension filled air with him.

Loving Simon was like grief in the sense that it never ended. You learnt to grow around it. You pushed through it. Because love, and grief, demanded to be felt.

Lyla walked fast. She was a fast girl, and more than that, she knew how to hide herself when she didn’t want to be found. So when she left the canteen with the unmoving head and trailing eyes of Simon Riley on her, she knew that there was only a finite number of seconds she had to her name before he would get up and follow her after. She knew this, because she knew him. Much like in the same sense he knew her. And because he knew her, he knew that if she didn’t want to be found, she would find you. And that meant that the only option Simon Riley had was to go back to his room, shower, and wait for her to show up. And so that’s what he did.

Because grief was a lot like walking through snow in the sense that it had to be walked through. In the sense that it was slow, and it was cold and it was hard. But much like walking through snow and walking back to his bedroom that night, at the end of it all, there was warmth. Simon shrugged off his jacket the same way he shrugged off his grief, and hung it on the coat hanger just beside his bedroom door. There, it would stay until he was ready to place it on his shoulders again.

At least, that’s what he thought.

Because unlike snow, grief did not melt. Grief did not wane in the sun or the wind or the breeze. Grief stood there, adamant and stubborn, and griefed choked, too. Grief waiting in your gut, in your stomach, wrapping around your ribs and throat like grapevines twirling on every surface it could find. Grief toppled you over and forced your chest to rise and fall and rise and fall and rise and fall and rise–

And that’s how she found him.

The door was open. It was always open, for her. It had been doing that strange thing for her since she and he had come back from a mission three months ago, it was meant to have been purely recon. Gather intel, get out. Simple. But nothing was ever simple in war, and they had been caught, and for a month after they had been stationed in a foreign country, on a foreign continent, with no aid or way to reach, well, anyone, really. And during those days they did what they could, and during those nights they tried to do more than what they could. The constant and continuous sounds of drones, and bombs, and rockets and every other god-forsaken piece of man-made machinery one could envision or not envision rained down on the areas surrounding them. Landing on homes, landing on hospitals, landing on schools. And they stayed there in a cave they had found amidst rubble and broken homelands, and they held onto each other.

And they held onto each other at night every night since.

So when she came to his bedroom that night, to try and stave off those envisionings again, she wasn’t surprised to have found him on the floor with his chest rising and falling. The black and white skull-face balaclava still set on his face, hiding him from the world. He had showered, that much she could tell, but he hadn’t managed to make it into the safe confines of his bed before the horrors had found him.

For a moment she stood there and watched, for a moment she wondered if he would have wanted her help at all. This wasn’t what they did. They didn’t help each other like this. This wasn’t part of the deal. What they did do was hold onto each other at night, what they did do was remind one another that there was at least one semblance of a life buoy, a raft, a lighthouse, that they could at least pretend cared about their survival. That was all they needed. And so she watched as his gaze turned to her.

You’re spacing out again.

She remembers her words from earlier. She remembers it as a warning. To him, it was a warning. Perhaps when Soap had heard it, there was nothing more than an observational lilt to her voice. But Simon had understood what she meant. And he had hated her for being able to pick him apart in such a sense. Because if he was honest with himself, he hated that he needed her in his bed to sleep. He hated that he had to hold onto her to find that minute amount of peace and ease the anxiousness of the world. And he hated that she only ever knew him enough to even be able to know when he was about to crash because he allowed her to know. And he hated that he allowed it.

And so she stared at him now, and saw that contempt in his eyes.

And he looked up at her as he held onto his throat, and begged her to help him.

Because this is what they did now. This is what they were going to do. She was going to step towards him, and she was going to place herself between his legs on the ground, and she was going to hold her hand over his mouth and nose and she was going to force him to hold his breath. And she was going to stare into those eyes that glared at hers, and her own were going to say to his; remember that this will pass.

“Three weeks,” much later, that was his response to her unasked question. “And two days.”

Three weeks and two days since his last attack. She made a mental note of it, but she didn’t know what she was going to do with that information.

A glass shattering brought her attention from the side of the bed, her side, always her side, where she had stepped out of her shoes. Simon was standing near the sink in his bedroom, the metal one that seemed to dent beneath the grip of his hands.

“You’re fraying,” her words were unhelpful to him. He knew he was fraying. “You’re making it worse by not talking about it.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to talk about?” His words were laced with an anger she was used to. It was the sound of a rifle firing on civilians, the sound of a bomb dropping on hospitals. It was the sound of Simon Riley breaking.

“I didn’t know stupid questions were on the itinerary for the night.” She shot back. Because this is what she did. This was what he needed her to do. To give him something to hate. To give him something to hold, after. When the hate grew tired. “Should we skip the cuddling and talk about your daddy issues next?”

He was on her before she knew it. Large body overshadowing hers like the moon to the sun, a total eclipse of the kindness he often showed her, during their nights. The lighthouse dimmed, and the buoy floated further away. His hand wrapped around her throat, but his other hand held the back of her head, slamming her down onto the feather pillows behind her.

“You really fucking piss me off,” he lied. “Do you want to die?”

“Yes,” her words, however, were truthful. Broken-hearted and small. This was what she was like to him. Here, in his room, on his bed. With her head on his soft pillows and his hand cutting off the circulation to her throat. There was nothing good about the way they were for each other, but it wasn’t about being good when it came to them. It was about survival. And this was how they survived.

He pushed off of her. His eyes never left hers as they fluttered from his left one to his right one. Simon never took the balaclava off. Not even when he slept. Not even when she had tried to rip it from his face one time. That action had only gotten her a harsh welt on the face in the shape of a handprint. It was okay, she deserved it. It felt good, to be frank.

“Are we sleeping tonight or not?” She was becoming tired with the way he seemed to be on and off tonight. But she was used to this. She had spent an entire month locked up in a cave with him, she knew how bad he could get. And she had willingly placed her soft body in his bed every night since. Granted, he never fucked her, but maybe that was part of the problem.

“I can’t tonight. You can just go back.”

But she didn’t move. Of course she didn’t move. An avalanche was not deterred by the sun. “Do you want me to hold you?”

He paused for a moment. Maybe.

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

“Get the fuck out of my room, Lyla.”

“I’m good here, thanks.”

And she dug into his blankets. And she made herself comfortable on the soft pillows he had placed there for her, so many months ago. And his body sighed in relief, glad she was not deterred by his callousness.

pt 2.

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