#Glacial Weapon Skins
Text
First Sight
Chapter 1 of 2. Part five of the Sassy series.
Reblogs, comments, likes, interactions, etc are cherished by me. 🖤
Simon Riley/female reader
5.9k words - AO3
Warnings-tags: 18+ Minors DNI, pregnant reader, PTSD, thigh riding, Simon talks you through it, praise kink, explicit sex, jealousy, possessive Simon, angst, tenderness, mentions of blood and violence, nightmares, childbirth, medical procedures, Simon is bad at feelings; Simon is learning how to have his feelings.
Simon has felt this before.
“And you are?”
“I’m her… I’m the baby’s father. We had her information updated two weeks ago, at the office. I’m listed as her emergency contact.” The doctor looks skeptical but taps a few keys on her laptop before she glances back to him.
“Last name?”
“Riley.”
“Sorry, Mr. Riley. She’s been my patient for nearly seven months, and I’ve never seen or heard of you.” Bloody hell. His jaw clenches together so hard he thinks his teeth might shatter.
“I’ve been overseas.” The lights and sounds are scratching under his skin, making him tense, priming him for a fight. “I came in on the ambulance with her... I have to be with her. She can’t be alone when she wakes up. She’ll be scared. She won’t… she has P-.”
“I am aware of her history.” The doctor snipes and his fist tightens, tendons curling until his hand becomes a weapon, not thing the of comfort it was a mere ten minutes ago.
“Look. I’m on her list. So you can let me back there or-“ She holds her hand up to silence him and the vein in his forehead pulses.
“I’ve already paged a tech to bring you to her room, Mr. Riley. It’s just going to be a few minutes.” She gives him a reproachful look before she says something about coming by to check on you shortly, and he lets out a long breath.
You’re somewhere else. Your eyes are trained on the e-reader in your hand, but they’re not moving across the screen. You’re not blinking. Your breathing is even, and deep, but your fingers are fisted in the blanket, and your gaze is burning a hole through the bed, through the floor, possibly right down to the core of the earth.
It makes Simon nervous.
Not because he is afraid of your PTSD.
He is afraid of you slipping away. Sometimes, you leave and come back a different girl, the guarded one, the one that hasn’t tried to forgive him, the one who is reliving the pain he caused her every second. The one who takes your place when you disappear right in front of him, who’s memories burn too bright.
He knows he may never be fully absolved in your mind, but you still show him mercy. You still let him in, still let him have you, except in the moments when you fall through his fingers like tiny grains of sand. Those moments may have been earned, but it doesn’t make their sting any less painful, and he struggles in throes of them.
“Sass?” He calls, cautiously, reaching for where your hand is clenched. His fingers graze the sheets, the softness of the fabric much like your skin. They must be expensive, he figures, the cotton luxurious against the rough scrape of his palm. He thinks he likes the color, the soft green that matches the chair and the trim in the baby’s room. “Glacial green,” you correct him every time he calls it light green, or blue green, or pea soup. It’s a natural tone, earthy, and you seem to gravitate towards it, always telling him you think the color is ‘soothing’ or ‘calming’. You have a few shirts and sweaters in the same palette too, and an old, faded sweatshirt that you used to wear when you were with the 141, worn out lettering stitched across the chest. It was too big for you then, always drooping below the flare of your hips, the hem stretched out and curled. Now, it pulls snugly across your middle while you lay in bed beside him, where the e-reader sits in your dainty fingers. He doesn’t know how you’ve done it, keep your fingers so velvet and smooth, even after your years in the desert. “Sass.” He tries again, louder, squeezing with the lightest bit of pressure until you blink.
“I’m here.”
“I know.” You turn your face up towards him with a sleepy smile, and he reaches for you without hesitation. “Tired?” He murmurs into your hair, your nose just slightly smashed into his neck.
“Mmm. Yeah, sleep sounds nice.” He finds the light easily, pulling the room into darkness with a flick of the chain, and returns to press his face to yours before succumbing to the pull of sleep.
“I mean, did you get a good look at her?”
“Shit. I’d bury my face in that ass. EOD is air force, right? Think she’s got a landing strip?”
“Dunno but I’d be coming in for a landing all the time if she was on my squad.” The table of privates laugh to each other, and Simon’s fingers curl around the bottom of the beer bottle in front of him. He briefly considers, for a moment, if Price would dismiss him if he broke it over one of their heads and then used the shards to slit the rest of their throats. Bleed ‘em out right there on the table.
He shifts on the stool. Johnny gives him a skeptical look. One of them, says something else. Sounds a little like ‘tight’ and ‘pussy’ strung together. Another one snickers.
He’s on his feet behind them before anyone realizes. The low drone of rage pressurizes inside his skull.
“Want to share what’s so funny, private?” The table falls silent immediately, all of them staring up at him, dumbfounded.
“N-nothing’s funny, sir.”
“Ya sure about that?” Johnny chimes in before Simon can say anything.
“The bomb tech, we were just… appreciating her. Saying how nice it must be nice, having something like that to look at all the time.” Simon can feel the heat of Johnny’s gaze on the nape of his neck.
“The bomb tech outranks you, private. You will address her as Sergeant.”
“Y- yes, sir.”
When he gets back to the base and little house the 141 is crammed into, you’re already asleep in your room. Sprawled across the shitty thin mattress, your shirt rucked up around your stomach, little boyshorts riding the curve of your hips. The scar from Belize is still shiny across your ribs, peachy and puckered. The sight of you safe and sleeping soothes the raw buzzing of anger in the back of his head.
His girl. His.
He’s already got his hands all over you by the time he gets his boots off, and you shift a little when he presses his face into the top of your ass.
“Simon?” you mumble. “Y’okay?” Simon, Simon, Simon. It’s always Simon with you now. You’re constantly stripping him bare with it, and he doesn’t even know your name.
He teases a hand across your skin, over the scar and up under the peak of your breast to your nipple, where he rolls the already hardening bud between his fingers. You shudder with a moan, shoulders twisting to turn yourself on your back, but he stops you. His teeth find the swell of your ass, and he sinks them deep. You squeak.
“Can you hold still?” He says, your body answering for you with a shiver. The bite woke you sharply, and you watch him out of the corner of your eye.
He pulls the underwear down your legs until they disappear, and then sinks his fingers into your cheeks. The glisten of your cunt shimmers, already wet, already waiting for him.
“Scoot back, sweet girl. Up on your knees.” You do as he says, shimmying down until you’re pressing against his thigh, clit ghosting against the fabric of his jeans, just barely. Your hips are shifting, slowly, and he knows you’re trying to get just a little bit more friction. He leans over you, gloved hand in your hair. “Now be good for me and rub your desperate little clit on my leg until you come.” You shake your head no and he rears back, pulling off his shirt and gloves, leaving the mask and his jeans the only thing on his body. He slaps you across your ass, just hard enough to watch the skin turn under his palm, and you jolt with a moan, cunt pushing back against his leg. “Do you want me to give you my cock, Sass?” you nod frantically. “Then ride my thigh until you’re coming on it.” The curve of a smile, a smirk, pushes at your cheek, and you start to move your hips, slowly at first, and then fevered, chasing your high while he watches. “That’s my girl, just like that.”
You start to jerk erratically, your face screwing up into the little pout and he knows you’re close. “You going to come Sass?” You mewl pathetically, mouth making desperate sounds and he watches you rub yourself all over him. “Sweet girl. That’s it, just a little more. There you go.” Your gasps reach a fever pitch, and he groans. “Ride it out, good girl. Come all over me.” His jeans are smeared with you, but he praises you, telling you how good you were, how much he likes that you made a mess on him. Once you come down from it, he strips and presses himself along your back, rucking the balaclava up to his nose to pull the skin beneath your ear between his teeth. He wants to mark you, hard. Leave an impression of himself on your body, brand you down to your bones. Tomorrow, when those fuckwit privates line up for brief, he wants them to know.
He sinks into you as deep as he can, little noises coming from your mouth as he splits you open on his cock, your cunt so tight it feels like it’s choking him.
“Si-Simon.” It’s his name, again. You’re flaying him alive with it. When you say it, it feels like he’s not wearing the mask, it feels like he is Simon, and not Ghost. He’s becoming addicted to it, consumed by it. It makes his head foggy, makes him do things that he’s never done, like approach a table of infantry and scare them out of running their mouths, or mark you like you belong to him. You cloud his judgement. You make him want things, things he doesn’t deserve, things he could never have. You make him soft, and desperate, and when you turn and look over your shoulder as he slams himself to the hilt, your gaze burns into him like you’re seeing him. Like you know.
“Please, don’t.” Your voice breaks as you beg, clutching the baby to your chest. Your face is bruised, nose probably broken, and tears stream down your cheeks. You’re trembling, eyes desperate as you plead. “Simon. Simon, get up. Please, get up.” He tries, but he can’t. He is beaten. His body is broken, bones shattered, organs bleeding out slowly inside him. The cool metal kiss of a barrel presses to your temple and you scream at him, for him, he’s not sure anymore. “SIMON GET UP.” His body weighs a thousand pounds, and cannot lift himself to help you, to save either of you. The gun cocks, and you close your eyes right before the finger on the trigger moves, the bang echoing across the room and your-
He jerks awake, immediately seeking the warmth of your body next to him in bed. When he feels you, his chest loosens, and you shift onto your side, cracking an eye open.
“Hey.” Your voice is thick with sleep, but still sweet as honey, and he takes your hand in his. Your pulse flutters under his palm. Strong. Stable.
“Hey.”
“Nightmare?” He nods.
“Go back to sleep.” You roll your eyes, flicking on the light that sits at your bedside table.
“I’ve been sleeping forever, I am practically sleeping beauty at this point.” You stroke through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. “Wanna talk about it?” you whisper, and he shakes his head. Yeah, Sass. Want to hear all about how I keep dreaming of your bloody corpse? Or about how I keep seeing you and our son being murdered right in front of me, over and over and I’m powerless to stop it? That’ll do real well for your stress level. Instead, he smooths his hand over the swell of your belly, where the baby sleeps, warm and protected, safe from everything out here that might hurt him. “You promised.” You needle, and the slight push is all that’s needed to relent.
“I keep… dreaming of you dying. Or being killed, in front of me. You and the baby.” You sit up a little and he immediately pulls the second pillow down behind the small of your back for support.
“Dying how?” He swallows.
“Someone’s holdin’ a gun to your head and you’re begging me to save you, but I can’t. I’m lying on the floor, bleeding out.”
“Sounds pretty scary.” There are a lot of things, that he hasn’t found the courage to say out loud to you yet. Promises and pledges, thoughts about being grateful and feelings of adoration. He wants to tell you how much he appreciates that you listen to him, that you validate him, but the words never come out, so he presses a kiss to your forehead before sliding down so his head is resting on the side of your belly.
The memory of the dream skips across the forefront of his mind, and he can still see you lying in a pool of blood, little boy lifeless in your arms. The blood, that looks just like the blood that covered the walls and the floor of his family’s house. His mom’s blood. Tommy and Beth’s. Joseph’s. The blood, that looks just the same as it did when he found you unconscious a few weeks ago, smells the same as when it poured out of the wound in your stomach in Belize. The blood, the blood, the-
“Simon.” He doesn’t even realize he’s breathing harshly until he hears you saying his name. “Hey, Si. Simon, it’s alright.” You stroke up and down his arm, tracing a faded pattern in his sleeve. “You’re here, in my house. In my bed. With me. There is no danger.”
“With you.”
“With me. And the baby. We’re here, together. We’re safe.” He turns his head, pressing his ear to your skin. Swoosh swoosh swoosh. The heartbeat soothes the frayed edges of his nerves, and the two of you sit just like that for a while, content. “Shit.” You groan, the sound a low whisper, and anxiously rub your belly. He waits for what he knows is coming, the pure, sweet melody that you hum when you try to settle the baby. The once guilty pleasure, when he would stand just out of sight so he could hear it, is now a full indulgence, as he’s able to lay beside you and rub circles into your skin while you hum softly.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, you gasp in surprise.
“Sass? What is it?”
“I… I think I peed myself.”
“Hey!” No. How did you find him so fast? “Simon, wait.” When you say his name, it jams into his brain, scrambling the signal, and forcing his steps to falter. It’s just enough for you to catch him. “Look. I know you’re mad. I know I fucked up.” You’re breathing heavily, probably from sprinting down the row of tents that he had ducked past, and you push your hands out in front of you like you’re trying to cage him in. “But I made sure Gaz was alright, and I still had a job to do! Those charges were my priority, I wouldn’t have split up otherwise. Simon, I understand-“ He cuts you off swiftly.
“You can address me by my call sign, Sergeant.” You startle. He looks away, looks anywhere else but your face, where your gaze waits to peel him open.
“What?”
“You will address me as Ghost, or Lieutenant.”
You’re guarded now, expression wary, but there’s still something hopeful in your eyes, something that’s calling him home to you.
He has to get away. Now.
You take an uneasy step forward, hand extended like you’re going to touch him.
“Simon.” You whisper.
He steps back.
Your face falls.
He’s tactical about it. The bag, the extra pillow, your shoes. A phone charger, the collection of snacks you’ve been hoarding recently, like a dragon hoards their gold. He remembers everything.
Almost everything.
His phone rings when he’s buckling his seatbelt.
“So, should I like, call an uber or are you going to help me get in the truck?” Bloody hell. He nearly beats his head against the steering wheel before he’s unbuckling and running towards the door. You’re standing in the living room, hands on your hips, unimpressed, with a hint of a smile on your lips.
“I’m sorry, I-“ you wave him off, reaching for his arm.
“Come on, you gotta boost me up.”
His eyes dart back and forth from the road, to where you sit, stone-faced in the passenger seat. You’ve been quiet since he pulled out of the driveway, the silence an uneasy thing that rests heavily between the two of you, and he reaches for your hand that lays limp on the seat.
“How’s the pain?”
“Not too bad.” You’re chewing on your lip, still lost in thought for a moment before you speak again. “Simon. If something happens…” his blood freezes.
“Nothing is going to happen.”
“We’ve never discussed it though. What to do if something goes wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Something has already gone wrong. Everything has gone wrong. It can’t get worse. It can’t.
“Well, if there are complications and we have to choose…” He almost pulls the truck over, his heart seizing in his chest like he’s been electrocuted. A million scenarios slam through his brain at record speed, flipping open in front of him like a picture book. Everything he’s imagined before, but worse. This time, it’s not mercs, or a stray bullet, or shadowed government assassins that take you away from him, but your own body, or a doctor, or-
No. He would not be without you if there was a choice. Not again.
“There is no choice, Sass.” His voice is gruff, and you palm your belly with a gulp. “We… I, would choose you. A million times. A million and one. There is no other choice… for me.”
“Okay.” You whisper. A tear rolls down your cheek before it’s hastily wiped away, and you turn to him with wide eyes.
“Okay.” He echoes, taking your hand in his.
You almost died. You almost died, and he wasn’t there. Johnny almost died, and you almost died, and he can’t stop thinking about the two of you wandering around trying to find the 141, trying to escape without a weapon, or comms, or anything. He can’t stop thinking about how vulnerable you were, how close you came to being dead. Being gone. Like everyone else. Like his family.
The feeling fills his body with ice. It paralyzes him before panic seizes his nervous system, pouring fear into every synapse flitting through his brain.
His family. You could have been lost, like his family.
He barges through the door of the office, eyes wild behind the mask.
“I need her gone.” Price looks up at him, perplexed.
“Who?”
“Sass. Transfer her. Put her on leave. Anything.”
“What are you on about?”
“I can’t… I can’t have her here. She’s fuckin’ with my head.” His chest feels tight, like there’s a thousand pounds sitting on his ribcage. It’s terror that is pumping through his veins right now, unbridled, and raw, threatening to wreck him where he stands.
“Ghost, calm down.”
“I can’t!” It’s practically a shout. He’s losing it. The empty echo of the dead radio replays over and over in his head. The image of Johnny, bleeding out, slumped against your small frame, the panic on your face, the two of you covered in blood loops repeatedly every time he closes his eyes. It melts into the memories of finding his family dead and then twists together, over and over until he thinks he might be hallucinating.
“Tell me what’s going on.” Price is standing now, voice calm, gesturing to the other chair. He’s not a loose cannon, not anymore, but it’s been a long time since he’s raised his voice at the captain. Guilt swells inside him.
“I’m fuckin’ her.” He paces in front of Price’s desk. “And it’s… She’s messing me up. Can’t think clearly.”
“You’re what now?”
“I’ve never… I’ve never asked you for anything-”
“Simon-“
“and I know this is unfair. She’s great at her job, Price I know that. But I have the seniority. And I need ya to do this for me.”
“I can’t just dismiss her. I brought her here, asked her myself.” He grits his teeth.
“Price… she….” His lungs are screaming now, his breath coming in short gasps but there’s no oxygen in this room. “It’s not… I can’t. It’s not safe.”
“Simon, sit down.” It’s an order, and he complies, slumping into the chair and cradling his head in his hands. “Now. Start from the beginning.”
“I know you’re disappointed.”
“You said I would be able to try.” You doctor is sitting on a chair at your bedside, across from Simon. She’s wearing a very serious expression, and you’re wearing your ‘don’t fuck with me face’, the one he’s seen time and time again, before and during ops. You open your mouth to argue with her again, but a contraction steals your breath, your nails sinking into his skin like tiny razorblades.
“Just breathe.” He soothes, stroking over the crown of your head until you fall back onto your pillow, tense lines of your forehead relaxing as your eyes close.
“If the placenta separates any further from the wall of the uterus during the rest of your labor, it could be life threatening for both you and the baby.” She doesn’t handle you with kid gloves, and you lift a lid to glare at her. He swallows the chuckle in his throat. Surefire way to catch a fist in the jaw.
“Fine.” The word is hissed through clenched teeth, and she pats your hand reassuringly.
“They’ll be some paperwork to sign, and then we’ll get you prepped. Nothing to eat or drink in the last six hours, right?”
“I’ve been in labor for the last seven and a half hours, so no.” you deadpan, before looking longingly over to your bag of snacks. The doctor glances at him with a gentle smile.
“Mr. Riley, you’ll need to change, we can… hopefully, provide you with scrubs that fit. We’ll also give you a surgical mask, and a cap. Sound good?” He nods in thanks as she leaves, and he turns back to you, pulling the mask down to his chin to rest his cheek against your palm. You raise an eyebrow at him.
“You’re not gonna pass out in there, right?”
“Me?”
“Well, they are going to pull my guts out.” What? You giggle, just a little, and heave a sigh. “But seriously. Don’t faint. I don’t think they have gurneys big enough for you.”
“I’ve seen plenty of guts, Sass.”
“Yeah…but not mine.”
Price announces his presence with a knock. “Heli’s almost here.” Simon says nothing. His elbows dig into his knees, fingers rolling the elastic band between his thumb and forefinger, strands of your hair wrapping around and around the tie until they become tight, little strings that make indentations. “Ghost.” He knows what Price wants. What he wants to hear. He still says nothing. “I did this for you against my better judgement.” Price says, like he doesn’t already know. When Simon looks at him, he sees the weight of their decision. The shame. The guilt. And he feels it, too. “You should say goodbye, Simon.”
His voice is rough, on the verge of a scream, or something worse when he finally speaks.
“I can’t.”
“So, when you get in the room, you’ll notice she’s lying on a table, and there’s a drape that’s a visual barrier between her chest and the rest of her body.” The nurse, the super friendly one that you said you liked, is talking him through what’s happening while he walks down the hallway next to her. Her shoes squeak a little bit against the linoleum, and he focuses on the pattern of the sound. Step squeak, step squeak, step- “Now, she can’t feel anything, but C-sections can be nerve-wracking, and she got a little anxious when we got into the OR.” He nods. Of course you’re nervous. You’re strapped to a table where they’re about to cut a hole in your abdomen. “She’s asked for you a few times, I promised I’d deliver.” She gives him a wink and pushes open a door. “Here he is!” She calls cheerily, and you turn to look, eyes finding his within a second, like always.
“Simon.” You wiggle your fingers towards him, and he wastes no time, sitting in the chair that the nurse pointed to and bringing your hand to the mask, right where his lips are.
“Hi sweet girl. You alright?” You nod.
“I think I’m a little high.”
“She had just a bit of midazolam, for the nerves.” Your doctor says from the other side of the drape.
“That’s alright.” He smoothes some hair from your face and tries to remember to breathe. Everything about this room sets him on the edge, and there’s a live wire running through his bones, all the way down to where his hand holds yours. There are too many people, too many lights, machines, and his skin is crawling, the desire to snatch you from the table and disappear down the hall repeating in the back of his mind, again and again. He can’t stop thinking about what could go wrong, terrible scenarios that leave you dead or the baby dead, or both. They push and pull at the logical side of his brain, fighting to get through, desperate to derail him, insistent and-
You smile up at him, all sweet, a little daft from the drugs, and everything feels quiet again. The tension between his shoulder blades lets out like air from a balloon, fast and easy.
“You ready?” He thumbs at a tear escaping from the corner of your eye. You’re looking at him, looking beneath the mask, kicking and tearing past the pieces of Ghost until you strike true, until you reach Simon. You always do.
He pushes his forehead against yours, and breathes you in, the stench of sterile hospital and all.
“Yeah, Sass. I’m ready.”
He’s pulling the balaclava back over his face when you bust through the door and ram right into him. He recoils, the reaction second nature, and his eyes find yours in the little bathroom mirror immediately. You step away, the room stretching too big all the sudden, the distance between his body and yours too far, and his brain stumbles over the realization. Something stutters in his chest, his breath catching when he looks at you, watching as you flail before you look away.
“Shit! Fuck. Sorry.” You glance at the wall, then the floor, then turn to run before he figures out how to make his mouth work.
“You’re alright, Sass. I’m finished.” You’re standing half in the hall, half in the bathroom, bleeding, and something twists in his gut. Blood and injury are not uncommon in the 141, but he’s surprised at how unsettled he feels when he sees the trickle of red on your shoulder.
“Get that cleaned up.” It comes out rough, like an order, and your throat bobs with a swallow.
“Okay a little bit of pressure and then you’re going to feel a lot of relief.” The doctor says and you nod, fingers pressed into his palm.
“Simon.” Your voice wavers.
“I’m right here. I got you.” He keeps his eyes trained on yours, willing himself to get lost in the hue of your irises, tuning out everything else in the room until-
A baby cries.
“Congratulations mom and dad!” Someone calls and the room spins. Mom and dad.
“Can I see him?” your fingers are still entrenched in his, the words watery and light.
“Breath sounds are good.” A voice says, and then there’s a squalling baby next to him. A baby. Your baby. His.
“Oh. Oh.” You’re in shock, he thinks. He’s not sure, because he might be too, and he blinks rapidly as you place a few fingers on the baby’s cheek. “Hi, Theo.” You coo and cry, smiling through the tears that dot your face. The nurse says something to you, and then she places the baby on your chest, where you cradle him with your other arm, pulling Simon’s hand up towards Theo’s back for support, holding it against his skin. You glance up at him for a second, teary happiness morphing into concern, and then back before your finger lifts from Theo’s cheek to his, swiping along his cheekbone. He presses your palm to his face with his free hand, over the mask, and closes his eyes for a second.
When you pull away, your fingers shimmer under the white lights of the operating room, and the tips of them shine with something wet.
His tears.
“I don’t see cabbage. What about romaine?”
“No. It has to be cabbage. Or kale! But I really prefer cabbage, and so does your kid, you know. Romaine is totally different.” You babble, and he stares at the heads of green leafed things underneath the misters, eyes scanning for the label that says cabbage.
“I don’t see any cabbage, Sass.” A woman who’s inspecting a shiny red pepper a few feet away from him looks over, curiously.
“It’s a staple food, Si. It never sells out; it has to be there.”
“It’s not.”
“Ask someone.” Irritation is bleeding into your voice now, and the idea of approaching a store employee makes his skin itch. Maybe he can just buy the romaine and ask for forgiveness, or go to a different supermarket. It’s not quite midnight yet, something else could be open.
The woman inspecting the peppers has sidled closer to him, close enough that he can see her face turned upwards towards his, eyes studying the balaclava before she clears her throat.
“Excuse me?” He turns, eyes narrowed.
“Who is that?” your voice rings through the speaker. “Is that a woman? Ask her where the cabbage is!” He pulls the phone away from his ear and blinks down at her.
“The cabbage is up here.” She says politely, pointing to the top row of light green, rounded vegetables. Nearly in front of his face.
“Thanks.” He says roughly, but she smiles at him all the same, while you call his name over and over on the phone. “I got it.”
“Yes! Oh my god thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah. Bloody lucky I love you.”
The line is silent. His heart lurches, thundering into a frantic beat that thrums through his entire body. His limbs feel numb, and he doesn’t say anything else, just holds his breath. He can hear you breathing, just barely, through the phone, but it sounds like you’re trying to hold your breath, too. Like you’re listening for him.
“Simon-“
“I still gotta get the potatoes. See you in a bit.” The line goes dead.
“Okay, sit here.” The nurse instructs and he forces his legs to move, makes his knees bend so he can lower himself in the chair. He can’t look away from what she’s holding in her arms, the infant, the baby that is his and yours. His kid. “Skin to skin is very important for newborns. It helps regulate their heartbeat and breathing and can help maintain their temperature.” She continues, motioning for him to relax against the backrest.
“Skin to skin?”
“Yes. You’ll need to take off your shirt.” He shakes his head. He can’t do this. You should be doing this. You’re his mother. He’s… he’s not you. Theo won’t want him, he’ll want you. He- “Mr. Riley? You don’t have to, but while we wait for her to get back, it’s a good opportunity for it.”
“What do I do?” The idea of holding Theo to his scarred chest makes him feel sick.
“Once you take off your shirt, I’ll put Theo in your arms and cover you both with a blanket.”
“I don’t think…”
“Don’t worry. I’ll show you how to hold him if that’s what you’re worried about.” Theo cries out, a sharp, shrill sound that draws her attention downwards before she looks back up at him with an expectant expression. Skin to skin is very important for newborns. He knows you would want him to do this. He knows that you would understand too, if it was too much, if he felt too exposed. But it’s important. Theo needs this. He needs… his dad.
He pulls the scrub top over his head, careful to keep the mask in place, and leans back slowly against the chair.
“You’re going to support his head just like this-“ she moves him into the crook of his elbow, positioning his little legs and arms so that he’s laying flush against his chest. “and his body will just rest right here in this space… and there you go.” Simon doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t move, he can hardly think. He doesn’t even feel her place a blanket over his body, curling it beneath where he cradles the baby. All he can see is Theo in his arms, so tiny, his eyes scrunched shut and small hand curled into a fist.
The lights in the room go dim, and he looks up, realizing that the nurse is by the door. “I’m going to give you some privacy. They should be finishing up with mom soon but there’s a button right there, next to the bed. The red one. Press it if you need anything and one of us will be here right away. Okay?” She gives him another encouraging smile and he nods.
“Okay.” When the door clicks shut, he finally lets out the shakiest breath of his life and reaches up to pull the surgical mask from his face. Theo’s eyes aren’t open, but his chest rises and falls, soothing some of the fear that has a grip on his heart. He gently touches Theo’s hand, and his tiny fingers curl around Simon’s giant one. He gets lost, staring down at the small boy. Looking at every single feature, his ears, his nose, the bow of his lips. He tries to memorize it all, the way the tuft of his hair sits, the creases of his skin around his elbows and knees, the soft pant of his breath. It fills him with emotion, so much he’s afraid it might overwhelm him, bury him beneath its weight. He knows this feeling, has felt it grow inside him since the very first day he laid eyes on you. Has watched it fight through a forest of dark and snarled roots, cutting and biting away at the things that have died and festered inside him. He knows it better than he knows himself now, knows the truth, cannot deny this knowledge that he would lay down and die for you, for Theo. He understands the pure terror that has blazed within him since that day in Belize, and he knows that he would spend the rest of his life, waiting in agony with bated breath, just to kiss you once more, or hold his child in his arms.
It terrifies him, but he knows its name.
He knows it’s love.
Simon leans down and brushes his lips across his son’s forehead, gentle and light, before murmuring to him as softly as he can manage.
“Hey, Theo. I’m your dad."
The next fic in this series is here.
#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#female reader#sassy series#simon riley#pregnant reader#simon riley x you#cod mw22 fanfiction#cod fanfic#tw pregnancy#peaches writes#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost riley#simon riley x female reader#dad Simon Riley
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Steel in Her Veins, Chapter: Ten
Read On: AO3 | Table of Contents | Next Chapter
Characters: Fem!Reader x Roronoa Zoro
Chapter Ten: Fight, Flight, Freeze
Eyeballs. Gleaming with an off-white sheen, red veins like half-wriggling worms bulging out of its moisture. Magenta, glowing and unprotected by the lack of eyelids, they gape at you in its darkness.
No one breaks the silence. In fact, you’ve forgotten about the samurai lingering a few steps behind you, how firmly his hands are clenching at his hilts, how alert and focused his eyes are as he slightly bends his knees into a defensive stance.
The wind blows through you with a rustle. The shadow garbles, making wet, whistling noises as it inhales.
“The fuck are you?” You demand, your voice echoing from across the thundering fields.
The entity simply stares.
You grit your teeth, eyes widening in fury, and instantly, hail splinters into the ground like earth-splitting knives.
“What business do you have here?”
Your voice, strong and resolute, fights against the flurry of wind, a wind that tries its best to silence you, to force you down on your knees and make you beg for breath. But you choke your words out, suffocating whilst air is fed down your throat, dishonouring its overbearing will.
Again, the entity simply stares. The only sound it makes is the moisture of when it rolls its eyes as it takes you in.
“Dumb fuckin’ ghost,” Zoro mutters, wiping the hail from his cheek with the back of his hand. “Don’t think it’s here to talk.”
“Then I’ll make it,” you hiss, slowly flexing your fingers into the air.
A cloud of icicles thunder into the ground in front of your feet. By a simple twitch of your fingers, it gains more and more speed, rolling across the landscape like a pathway of dominoes. It shoots itself forcefully into the earth as if beckoning to splinter through, to whistle straight down to the planet’s molten core.
And finally, as they thunder across the hills like an avalanche of death, they near their final destination; the looming torrent of darkness as it gargles idly in front of your home.
Your hand remains flexed out by your side, joints denying to bend, skin biting at your folds, as if the harder you flex, the more fury you unleash.
There would be only one reason in the world for you to slacken your hand in that moment, the most impossible scenario that would make you lose your senses.
And that’s exactly what happens.
From behind the polluted entity, a tiny figure begins to sidestep into your line of sight.
And your heart clenches. Your hand snaps, rolls and falls. The ice that once fell across the ground like glacial meteorites ceases to exist; instead, it all crashes down. Like a cascade of water, it misses the shadow and the figure behind it by only an inch.
Silence. Again. Everyone remains where they are, looking between faces, asking themselves unanswerable questions, and feeling conflicted feelings.
The entity garbles with a whistling breath. Its eyeballs roll their vision to Zoro, like wet snooker balls before they slither onto you.
“Are they familiar to you?” It finally croaks out – and even for talking at its normal level, the ground rumbles like a suppressed inflammatory cough, burning your very feet that it trembles on.
Gramps, unwavering in his stare, shakes his head once.
“Decades you’ve known of me, barely a thing you know about me,” Gramps muses, his arms folding behind his back. “My distaste for their kind is palpable.”
What? A surge of rage washes through you. You didn’t ask to be fucking protected, to be hidden, to be saved. You want to fight, not to fucking cower away.
“So be it,” the shadow gurgles. With a loud moan, completely disregarding you and the samurai, the body twists to Suki. “Then, shall we commence?”
“So be it,” Gramps echoes, dragging one hand into the air while the other unsheathes his weapon.
“Fight me!” You scream, charging at the entity. “You want his blood? I’ve got—”
A gust of wind slaps you across the face, sending you flying upright and into the air. You tumble, hitting the ground multiple times like a skipping stone, choking on the air that punches out of you.
The shadow, disinterestedly fixing its gaze from you to Gramps, continues with its conversation. “You hid yourself well this time. Or is this an unsuitable moment for flattery?”
Gramps, although choking out his words, forces to remain neutral. “Recognition, in any sense of the word, is not something I actively search for.”
It grumbles out a wet laugh, hoarsely croaking out a tremor across the land. “Then you should have remained in Wano.”
A streak of black fluid jets out from beneath the entity’s position, striking at Gramps like a wriggling, wet serpent. As it consumes the ground with its essence, the field that exists within its radius begins to be sucked of colour and life, wilting like dry corpses begging for sustenance.
Instantly, Suki faces his hand to the ground, and with a flex of his fingers, a gust of wind escapes his hand. He jets into the air like a bullet, only narrowly missing the all-consuming liquid as it burns all the life that it touches.
You gasp, the air in your lungs refusing to release. You gape at him, at his hands that exhale with wind, at his eyes that gleam against the mist. You gape at his body that floats in the air, the spinning tornado that holds him like a self-induced cocoon. You gape because he hid all of this from you.
Immediately, the entity springs up into the sky, meeting Gramps’ gaze with ease, and with a mist of translucent liquid that escapes its hand, it spurts out and tries to snap at Gramps’ face.
You scream, pushing yourself from the ground. You charge again, Zoro following you, your hand a blend of fire and ice, of blue and red, a bruised-like violet consuming your arms with every stride you take. You instantly gaze at the scrap-sword in your hands, looking over to the same ones by Zoro’s side. Fuck. This won’t do shit. This won’t do.
“Bushido!” you bellow, adrenaline rushing through you like poison. “Drop down!”
You flex a finger, a pathway of ice forming beneath Zoro’s feet, and immediately, the samurai lets himself go. Without question, he smacks his body against the glaze, letting himself slide all the way downhill to the workshop.
And, thankfully, he seems to understand what he needs to do; as he charges into the studio, you see a faint silhouette grabbing at the swords that were meant for battle.
So you propel yourself upward, a tower of burning fire screaming to reach the two figures in the air. And as you reach and reach and reach for them, your flames almost licking the entity’s back, you instantly get punched hard in the face.
A vigorous blow of air extinguishes your flames, and the realisation dawns— your head snaps to Gramps as you’re pushed down by the resistance of wind, surging back down to the earth. His hand, hovering in the air, is pointed in your direction, his eyes locked onto yours.
No. You can’t let this happen. Fuck. Fuck.
Falling at a furious speed, you desperately look to Zoro who’s now on the roof of the shop, three glinting swords fading in and out of your vision.
“Do something!” you scream with all your might, the resistance of the wind constantly battling against your desperation as you keep on dropping down.
The air trembles with anticipation as Zoro readies himself, a living tempest poised to unleash its fury. As the sword lays in between his jaws, his eyes flickering with fire, he flexes his arms, poises his body in a graceful tilt and--
Zoro gets punched right in his stomach.
The sword in his mouth is choked out into the air.
Gramps, with an authoritative gust, hurls him down onto the roof. The swordsman crashes against the tiles, a symphony of metal against ceramic.
“Stop this at once!” Gramps yells, glaring the samurai down from his position. Gramps’ hands tremble a little before he steadies them, the constant stream of power directed to you and Zoro eating at his strength.
Suki’s furious eyes rest on Zoro’s. A second passes. With a voice that can move mountains, he bellows from his chest.
“Either you let me fight this myself, or you make me fight with no hands. The choice is yours, bushido.”
Zoro rises, caught in the vortex of his internal struggle. His swords gleam in the fading wind as he stands, torn between his instincts and Gramps' demand. The atmosphere stills as Zoro, swords at the ready, bears witness to the unfolding confrontation.
Gramps, facing the ethereal entity, draws a deep breath. The air crackles with tension as he strides forward, his gaze unwaveringly locked on the seeping darkness.
The entity, silent and poised, readies itself for the inevitable clash. Gramps unsheathes his weapon—a blade that gleams in the dimming light. With each step, Gramps exudes power—an orchestration of elements responding to his will. The battlefield transforms into a stage, a tableau for a confrontation beyond the comprehension of mortals.
And Zoro simply stands there.
Trapped in the relentless grip of Gramps' wind, your frustration boils over, an unrestrained torrent of anger. Your voice pierces the air, a desperate plea that echoes across the battleground.
"Zoro, damn it! Don’t fucking listen to him! Do something!”
The dance of blades intensifies, Gramps and the entity locked in a cosmic struggle. With every clash, you feel the surge of power coursing through your own veins, a power you’re barred from channelling into action. You are merely a prisoner, powerless and obedient to the wind that imprisons you.
"Zoro, please!" You scream, panting and choking, your body scrambling to fight against the heavy boulder of wind. "Don't let him face this alone! Fuck, move! Fight! Fuck!"
Zoro, torn between what looks like obedience and instinct, simply stands there.
His swords, gleaming and perfectly clean, hang by his side.
As Gramps manoeuvres with unparalleled grace, you strain against the invisible bonds, yearning to contribute to the fight that could decide his fate. The entity, a manifestation of darkness, seems impervious to the pleas echoing through the air.
"Zoro, I can't just fucking watch!" Your voice trembles with frustration. “Do something! You fucking moron!"
The wind tightens its grip, suppressing your every attempt to break free. Gramps, seemingly aware of your silent struggle, maintains his unwavering focus on the entity.
With each passing moment, your frustration transforms into a visceral roar, a plea for Zoro to shatter the chains of indecision. The wind howls in response, a symphony of forces locked in an eternal struggle.
The battleground becomes a canvas, painted with the clash of steel, the ethereal dance of dark tendrils, and the unyielding force that binds you.
And Zoro simply just stands.
#one piece#one piece zoro#roronoa zoro#roronoa zoro x reader#zoro#one piece luffy#luffy#monkey d luffy#one piece ace#straw hat pirates#usopp#sanji#tony tony chopper#nico robin#straw hat luffy#one piece fanfiction#one piece fic#one piece fanfic#op fanfic#op fandom#female reader x zoro#zoro x female reader#zoro x fem reader#three sword style#zoro roronoa#zoro rorono x you#zoro roronoa x y/n#straw hats
51 notes
·
View notes
Text
So with all the nonsense over on reddit about stealing fashion I want to share Trynnt's main outfit because I like how it looks. And because it's silly to get upset about people taking your look. So here's every skin and dye below the fold. It's not my fashion it's OUR fashion.
Head - Reading Glasses - Grave
Shoulders - Shoulder Scarf - Hydra/Hydra
Chest - Requiem Gambeson - Deep Glacial Sky/Mithril/Midnight Fire/Pastel Violet
Hands - Requiem Gloves - Grave/Mithril/Midnight Fire/Pastel Violet
Legs - Light Corsair Leggings - Grave/Hydra/Midnight Fire/Darkness
Feet - Elegy Walkers - Deep Glacial Sky/Mithril/Midnight Fire
Mainhand: Bolt
Offhand: Silence of a Thousand Years
Back: Guild Backpack
Alt. Weapons:
The Juggernaut
Infernal Roar Warhorn
Frostblossom Staff
#gw2 screenshots#trynnt#guild wars 2#gw2#asura#the shoulder scarf really only looks good on Asura anyway bc of how it scales with a player model tbh
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
↳ SIMON “GHOST” RILEY, KYLE “GAZ” GARRICK // CUCKY. ⨳
CW// CUCKOLD, NAME CALLING, MEAN GHOST, CHOKING, RESTRAINTS, OVERSTIMULATION, DEGRADATION, FEM!READER, DENIAL, SPIT, ECT.
NOTES// originally it was Soap, but I love Gaz so idrc. (Strap in, this one’s long, but it’s good, it took forever to write at least, I hope it’s good)
He’s crude, overbearing, crusted in self indulgence and salted with ego. All that confidence the mask gives him goes straight to the groin. Such an illusive man, glacial and cold cut. You almost felt bad for all the brunettes he’s lazily bagged. Capping off a night of 141 victory, drink and comradely with a half-assed bar fuck not even Soap would dare to degrade himself too. You almost felt bad, almost.
The untouchable ghost, it excited you just to share a room with the mythical mammoth, and Gaz hated it. He hated the flirting, the way he weaponized his strength and size. His morally grey proposition, cynical stare and sharp tongue. But more importantly the smiling, he hated the smiling. The school girl giggles that bubbled out sitting next to him at a bar top. Like Ghost could ever compare to him. Whatever it was, Gaz needed this pissing contest to draw its final match. Ghost can’t compare, but he would love to see him try.
He’s made some joke about a fish and a tank, never mind that your watching the shifts in light and cloth his mask makes mocking his lips. Laswell’s no doubt speaking in tongue with Price somewhere to the back of you two. Soap followed something moving in the way a woman does to a corner you don’t want to find. And while there’s some lesson there to be had about trust and stranger safety, you’re more vexed with the weight of Gaz’s eyes in your spine.
He’s no better a man to get jealous, but nonetheless Ghost is your teammate, you’re just being nice is all. How nice of you to entertain Ghost a while and leave the freaks of the bar aside.
“See, I would laugh but I’m afraid to make any sudden movements, Gaz back there’s trying to explode my mind,”
“Hurt you? He would never,”
“M’ not worried about me big guy,”
He’s moving his shoulders in some way that resembles a laugh, now looking at the glass bottles to the wall of the bar. There’s some static pull soaking into the click of your joints, alcohol greasing down the joints. He throws the last bit of his drink down and turns back to you, tension fermenting in the cracks of your skin.
For a while he says nothing, arm on the bar facing you in a black hood, he looks from you to the floor aside the bar then back to you. He’s waiting, thinking, weighing just how much he’s willing to pay for the action he so desperately wants to take.
Ghost shoots his chin to the back rooms, turns and leaves without looking back, you follow. Never mind Gaz.
He’s leading you past the entrance, dodging around the set of bathrooms to an empty storage room and turning to meet you face to face. Another set of footsteps follow behind yours. But the door closes fast behind, the light is quick to fade to black and Ghost is quick to to butt into you.
At some point in the dark the balaclava was pushed past to his nose, that much you could tell from the skin that met yours. Your fingers are carding through polyester fabrics, feeling up the man before you. Gaz would be furious if he saw, but he can’t, shit, even you can’t see. He’s making quick work of your inhibitions, every nudge of heat sends about another thought to hell. Ghost just got confused, ran into the wrong room and bumped into you trying to leave, promise. That’s all this is.
Who knew the mystery of a man to be so breathy? Who knew him to be so hunched and strained, leaving exasperated bites into your clothes, a dull ache in every bit of skin. The gape in your mouth is holding back hushed words, hoping the knock of your skull and door isn’t audible. He must’ve gotten lost, mistaken you for someone else, it’s easy for accidents like that to happen in the dark.
“Hello?”
His head snaps from the hush of your neck, looking to the door and quieting, a stalemate begins. No one dares move, a deer caught in headlights. Not a soul could’ve caught the two of you, the bar’s empty, secure enough for Laswell to talk shop freely. Music occupied the empty space between bodies.
The thing from outside is knocking, the hits connect on the back of your skull.
“Occupied mate,”
“Yeah, I know that, cunt, unlock the fuckin’ door,” Gaz is trying the handle, Ghost watches. He’s speaking through his gums, biting back on his anger and throwing himself into the door. “I swear to god bitch when I get this door open,”
“You’ll what? Huh? Last time I checked m’ the one in here,”
Gaz goes silent, standing behind the door, wordless. Ghost could never compete, but Gaz would love to see him try. He’s back at it, dipping back down into your neck, you get more vocal, hoping the audience outside would be throughly entertained.
“Babe,”
“Shut up Gaz,” you snap back a response, caring only for the man in front of you. The lower half of your spines curving back, twitching about in Ghosts hold as he’s smoothing a hand over the raw plush of your torso. Grabbing the meaty bit of it and rolling it in his hand. He’s groaning into your skin, rubbing his face over it, pressing his other palm into the connecting door and moving into you. You would love to see Ghost try too.
“Nothing to say, Gaz? Fuck, baby if he could see you right now,”
A smile goes unnoticed in the dark, you’re fisting handfuls of his collar urging him impossibly closer. He parts a divide in your leg with his thigh resting the end of it to the door. He’s a giant, manhandling you at will, at any point he could’ve snapped you in half without a second thought, but he hasn’t. A colder grasp now palms you over, the older one snaking lower to pull the bit of cloth around your hips down. Your skin welts under the friction and you roll into the brush.
He’s holding the waistband back and using the front of his hand to rub you over. Glazing over the skin that’s dribbled out, lazily handling your upper half. You’d wish he’d do more, free his cock and start getting off atop you, refusing your release. Tell Gaz how good of a fuck you were, call him names and screw you so good you’ll never want your man again. If you try hard enough you can hear Gaz breathing from behind the door, softer than yours. Ghost latches to your hips, steps back and motions his temple to the floor.
“On the floor,”
You slip down the door, the ends of your shirt gathering on the small of your back. You can hear Gaz following, resting on his knees, the shell of his ear and peachy palms on the opposing side. Ghost is back to rubbing, his hand tenting the clothing. Your face pleads words unspoken, brows making crude ditches along the lush underglaze of your head. Dribbles of spit smear down the cracks of your lip, you bite back in hopes to make it stop. You meet is touch into your meaty under half.
“Come on, baby tell him how good I’m fuckin’ you,”
Your mouth gapes open in hopes to answer, tongue lying flat to make way for sound. But he’s striking the air out, forcing way around your thick neck. Lumps and hiccups of words go off, Gaz presses farther to the door. You’re flailing under him, coughing and thrashing, tears and spotty sludge glissade down. Ghost dips down, elbow angling and licks at the stuff of your chin. Leaving snail trails of sticky alcohol traced thick in its place, sighing into it.
“Come on, poor thing you look a mess,”
“Ghost,” Gaz pleads.
He smacks the chunky underside of your thigh, muscle rippling under it, the hit audible over your own cry.
“Yeah, go on, baby tell him how good you’re about to take this dick, come on,” he’s scooting farther into you, pushing your legs father aside by the knee. You choke, unable to find the air to speak. You wish he’d let you suck him off, lick the bottom of him. Wish he’d rub it all over your face, laugh at the size comparison and leave dents in your puffy red neck. Ignore your gagging and wrangle you by the hair, get messy and spatter spit all over the floor for someone else to find.
He’s unlatched from your throat, moving the lower of his hand from your waist to face. He uses two fingers to jut at your cushioned lips, parting them and smoothing the spotted muscle of tongue. He hooks around the base of it, gritty stings line under his fingernails and you gag around violating things. He tastes as he smells, sour, salty and bitter. He’s absolutely delicious and the taste is lessening with every gag. His eyes never leave you once, neither of your hips have known freedom. Trapping you in place, forced to take his fingers and humiliation.
The skinny cut blue jeans are next to go, he’s twisting the buttons loose and sighing into the release of his cock. What little spit that’s left on his hand polishes off the head, a clicking sound follows the movement of his sticky fingers.
“Gaz,”
“Sir,”
“When I fuck your girl, don’t you dare touch yourself, understood?”
“Yes, of course, lieutenant,”
Gaz is barely to a whisper, wailing responses into the door, unintelligible and muffled. You strain to hear his puffy breathing, the needy sway of his hips into air, refused of the ability to get off to it all. He’s mashing into the door, grinding into empty space and contorted so the strain of his jean seam chokes the knot in his pants. His feet push off the ground, the opposite end of the pathetic man to the front of the doorframe.
“Dirty bitch, you want your commanding officer to fuck you? Yeah baby? Want him to hear me milking you dry? Huh?”
Your clothes bunch about your waist, he’s stroking himself over you, dipping into welt of slobber and slick in between your thighs. He’s toying with you, so much so you forget to respond, hoping the pressure of his tease would ease up.
“Answer, slut,” Ghost repeatedly taps at the side of your face, hand bouncing off the skin.
“Mhn,”
“Go on then, ask, beg your boy toy to let you take lieutenants big dick,” your sputtering something resembling his request, choking on air and high toned squeaks.
“Words, bitch, I won’t ask again,” and your finally following through with his command.
He’s holding himself by the base, smacking the rest on you. The connect is auditable, gluey slick ropes along the underside of him with every crude smack. Then he’s switching, rubbing the reddened folds of you over, up and down. Your spine curves over the door, angling into the spot where you two meet. Pressure squeezes over your hole, he’s feeling it up, poking into it and rocking back. With every connect your whining into a twitch, biting on dry air. His fat tips inching in you, the rest of him flashes with slick.
He wrings your shoulders, legs propped under your thighs as he’s cracking you open with his dick. He’s gaping into you, restraining you by the the top and staring down. Simon’s scraping down the sides of your innermost velvet walls, finding a fast rhythm. You thud back into the door, crying over his groans.
“Take it, fuckin’ whore,”
Gaz is gasping into the door, cheek making indents in the visible condensation from his open mouth breaths. He’s flatting into it, tongue warming up wet spots, the bottom half of him sticking up and out.
“Please, Ghost,”
“Please what, dumbfuck?”
“Fuck her, please, fuck her harder so I can hear, please,”
You could imagine he’s tilting the corners of his mouth up, raising his light colored brows and running through the best ways to ruin you in this position alone. He repositions over you, scoots his knees father up and lines back up to excitedly snap into you. The force alone knocks wind out of your throat, it gets caught around your chattering teeth and picks up noise. He never lets up, muttering condescending words and breathing in heavily between full body spasms. Taps between your thighs hit echos off the walls, creaking the hinges holding the door.
“Come on big girl, take it,”
Your stammering into his request, lost in the clumsy squelching noises and vibrating guttural growls the foremost front man gives off. The base of your head rolls back into the wall, cheek muscles tighten with the action, tears drizzle down your waterline. The doorknob jiggles with every collide, it falls into a melodic rhythm. If only Gaz could see you. His legs spread, bottom half naked to the eye and you on your pudgy tummy and knees, Ghost behind. With his cock spread on your face, looking down at your lips underneath him. Hands nowhere to be seen, Gaz has again been refused the right to remedy himself, forced to moan into the ghosting nudges your nose gives with every thrust from Simon.
“Atta girl,” He’s driving it hard into the swollen, full base of you. “That’s it, pretty,” elbows crease as he folds to press you back with his chest, shifting his weight to lay on top of you and focus his might to the creaking in his legs. Ghost is losing himself, spasming, slobbering, groaning and biting. Off white ringlets of pre collect on the base of him, it flashes in the snaps of light. You’re stuck between him and the wimpish man behind you. His cock kisses the root of you, disgustingly jumping between punching and disconnecting from the innermost parts.
Bits of you wail for him to let up, the pressure climbing is overwhelming. It’s too much, it’s all too much. You’re wailing and itching to push away from his stabs and digging chin, but his muscle collars your arms. With every ram his shoulder digs into tender purpled neck, choking the best of you out. Whats left of your breath is used for keening lust drunk groans. The blubbering that leaves you is even worse than Gaz and he’s not even allowed to get off.
Your dying, passing, moaning out your obituary and begging for life. He’s suffocating, the lodge of your throat laces strain in fatty muscle. You can taste the sex off of him, lap at the salt in the air and writhe in the baking rut of his aggravated stuffing. He’s laid claim to every nerve ending in your body and words in a language you have yet to understand tumble from your flattened, rippled mouth.
“S’ too much,”
“Awe, pretty girl look at you, gonna cry? Hm? Like your lil boyfriend out there? Huh? Like a little bitch?”
“M’ gonna, gonna,”
“Come on hurry up then, give him a show to jack off to later”
He's so intense, heat throbs in your head and beats down thought. You wanted to see the look on Gaz’s face right now. Watch his sad fucked eyes turn up and fog over. You wanted to watch him struggle to ignore the mound steaming want in his pants, beaten hands map the inside of his tense flaring thigh, flirting with the outline of his hard on. Have Ghost warm a spot on the floor with your bloated cheek, his veined hand pressing you by the back of your skull. Let him throw you into a headlock, ruin your hair in singlets, mash your face together with his forearm and collet spit in the depressions of skin. Ghost would force you to look at Gaz as you took him, refusing to continue if you stopped singing praises of how good he fucked as you looked him down. And you would love it.
You shook into your undoing and he laughed, chest heaving as he rocked you through your earth shattering high. Even as you peppered words of mercy, begging him to stop in spite of sensitivity, he chased his following orgasm at a newfound speed. Nerves and tendons fried in the baked white hot rash of his forceful bashing. Tears made your round face cool despite his merciless writhing. Flesh riveting in the rocking motion. He’s choking you under him, damn near forgetting his own sheer strength in his mindless rutting.
Simons a slave to the pleasure chasing snap of his hip, clapping noise of flesh on flesh. Groaning through the cracks in seamed teeth and full cheek, he’s dumping fatty bubbles of milky seed over your crotch. Your eyes strain to see the fluid twitch milking the full heavy drops out of him as he tenses in shock. You can only hear him breathing out shaky croaks, collecting his thoughts once more and lining his back up straight.
“Please open the door,”
#ghost cod#ghost mw2#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley#kyle gaz garrick#kyle gaz garrick x reader#gaz mw2#gaz cod#simon ghost riley smut#simon riley x you#mw2#cod mw22#call of duty
259 notes
·
View notes
Text
i have more to add to this but this is all i got in me for now.
Scar hc.
there is a narrow scar that begins at the base of his jaw and tapers towards his right eye, from a fight where a fragmentum monster’s blade grazed skin, a blow he should have been prepared to evade. ❝ the young captain took a guarded step back as the weapon arched in a rising strike, the glinting blade does not meet its mark but the tapered point tears into pliant skin and his across his gaze blossoms a sanguinary spray of blood. ❞ if not for the inceptive move to avoid the strike it is likely that his sight would have been lost in that eye.
there are a myriad of scars that wreathe around his biceps and forearms and many of these are wounds sustained during battle or training.
there is a prominent one that extends from the top of his shoulder and past his clavicle. Its white, corrugation of skin is a remnant from a violent battle and devastating loss on the frontlines. ❝ the voices of his men rise above the keening wind, unease proliferates through their ranks as their fallen’s regal banners undulate fiercely. they were outnumbered, pushing back would only result in further loss of life. he raises his arm high and commands their retreat, their eyes linger upon him, relief and enervation coalesce as they withdraw high onto the glacial outcrop. Gepard’s eyes pass through his men, those who remain, naming them, acknowledging those who did not make it. when his eyes are cast to the barren white they hitch upon an arm protruding from the tundra. he does not hesitate, the swarming mass of darkness encroaching further into the land they had held for days and nights. he runs, unimpeded by the crunching of snow as it gives way underfoot, spindrifts of white erupt in the wake of his haste.
A firm hand grasps the man’s wrist and heaves him out of the snow, he’s still breathing, shallow, but alive. there was no time for relief to set in, as the cadet stumbles to his feet an eldritch monster bears down upon them. with earthwork forsaken at the peak of the escarpment the captain seizes its blade as it carves through the air, the serrated edge incising into his palm. Go, now. the man’s vacuous gaze looks up at him, gepard’s muscles scream with the force of the blow, pushing past the searing pain he holds that precarious position. The cadet scrambles out of the snow, desperately plowing his way up the steep incline, the captain’s narrowed eyes flick back to the monster. Aware that any heedless step could prove fatal he jerks his hand back, his pulse hammers in his ears, the blade swiftly cuts, pain swelling from the wound, his white livery stained red. A solitary, shuddering breath and he closes his fist, fingers biting into the ruined skin and he launches a blow for the monster’s chest, its carapace hide splintering, sightless eyes swiveling wildly. he presses a hand to the wound, the pain is so immense, white agony spots at his vision, as he begins the trek up that ridge two recruits clamber down the jutting rocks to help him to safety. ❞
training scars.
❝ again. the command is strident as it pierces through the air, his reaction is fluid, practiced, the blade that comes down upon him is intent on ending his life. that was what training with his father was like, a vow that if he allowed faults in his stance he would be punished accordingly. each clashing of steel is jarring, he meets his father’s strikes one after the other but with every ensuing collision of blades he becomes less precise, fatigue wearing at his senses. his father’s hoarfrost eyes narrow and it takes only a single, ruthless slash for his sword to clatter from his hands, the cut across his forearm is a gruesome sight. you let your guard down, foolish boy. his father’s contempt is far more excruciating than the wound itself, he presses his hand to it, the white fabric sousing in blood. you’re dismissed. his breath comes uneven and harsh, he lays back in the dirt for a moment, his fingers clamped firmly over the wound. he still was not strong enough. ❞
❝ scars in cadet training were like a right of passage, the others would parade them with a sense of accomplishment, as if they weren’t from poor parrying or heedless fighting. battle had been ingrained in him long before he was old enough to join the guard so his wounds were less frequent, always held significance. I beat you, finally. leo huffs proudly, gepard’s expression is withering, it had taken only moments for the nurse to patch up the gash on his arm but Leo had hovered the whole time as if he was engraving it in his memory. It won’t happen again, he responded, his brow furrowed and his mouth taut, it was hard not to smile when they were together. He swiped at Leo’s curious hands as they idly toyed with the bandage, he wasn’t going to get an infection satiating his interest. Leo laughs in that contagious way he often did and Gepard finds himself smiling in spite of his feigned annoyance. ❞
❝ Pain, it’s the only way he can steel himself, separating himself from grief and regret with every precise blow. his knuckles are smeared in blood, the training dummy shudders under the impact of his frenetic punches, the pain that shoots through his arm is the only alleviation he is permitted. he doesn’t allow others to witness his fraught state, opting to bandage the bruised and bloody skin in solitude. he relies on this, the familiar ache of training is liberating, for as long as his heartbeat sung high with alacrity he did not have to be picked apart by his anguish. that marred skin across the prominent ridges of his knuckles serves as a reminder of death he could not prevent and the pain it took to bury the torment that came from that ineptitude.❞
he has a scar that runs along the inside of his index finger on his left hand, it is narrow but deep, this one came from childhood.
❝ Serval’s eyes widened in horror, of all the things that could have transpired while her little brother was out of eyeshot. did it have to be this ? he was sobbing, the uncontrollable trembling of a child who knew he had done wrong. her tools were strewn all over the place and specks of blood dotted and smeared across a blueprint she had meticulously tacked to her work station. what were you thinking ? she doesn’t know if there even is an answer that would be any sort of salve. his tiny hand is clamped around his fist and blood is trickling down his hand, the neat, folded cuffs of his shirt are already stained. her father was never going to let her hear the end of this. she gathers his cowering form in her arms and whispers softly to him, it’s the sort of dulcet song that often disperses his fears, like any good remedy it takes only a few stuttering breaths for his crying to quiet out. see ? that’s not so bad is it ? he blinks up at her, his eyes wide and tearful, his bottom lip protruding apologetically. I was just.. I was trying to make something for you sis. For he had watched on in awe as she had taken apart and fixed up the radio the day before, she should have known his curiosity would not be so easily curbed by a don't touch this while i'm not here, but here they were. Serval patted his head, his blonde hair disheveled, it was another big sister remedy for affliction that found its way into her brothers life. Lets get you patched up before father sees this, I’m not mad gep, I’m just. She sighs, her hand resting on his shoulder as she steers him from the room and towards the kitchen where she hoped there would be bandaids. Don’t do it again okay ? not without me and he nods fervently which is a weight off of her shoulders. ❞
the scars on his hands are smaller than the others and they're very much a spattering of arbitrary marks while many of these are "self inflicted" they can also be from battle / training like this shit happens alot they're getting hurt alot.
he also has like many on his back and I want to write a drabble about that but i need 2 make soup now so later.
#back scars i need 2 write he also has some on his thighs there u go thats it there's just alot of them#not all of them are memorable but they're there#。 ‧͙*̩̩❆ ✧ study ‚ ʷʰᵃᵗ ⁱˢ ᵃ ʰᵒᵐᵉ ⁱᶠ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶠⁱʳˢᵗ ᵖˡᵃᶜᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʳᵘⁿ ᶠʳᵒᵐ / ʷᵒʳˡᵈ ᵇᵘⁱˡᵈⁱⁿᵍ
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
Rules of the Game- Chapter 19
A little of everything this chapter- fluff, angst and smut! Hopefully you find something you came for 😅
Usual tags (MINORS DNI), detailed tags on AO3.
Fic on AO3 here
Full chapter index here
Chapter 19- A Gentle Touch
You and Al both laid silently on the mattress together for a while after the reconciliation. It still felt a little strange, both a little hesitant after being detached for so long. And, of course, the elephant in the room- you were still technically a prisoner in this house, Al’s secret possession he was keeping from the outside world.
As the minutes ticked by, though, your bodies thawed, the glacial barrier that had formed between you both beginning to fissure. Your bodies melted into each other, entwining into one. His strong, protective body curled around your back. His arm draped softly over your waist, rubbing soft lines against your tingling stomach. His winsome, maskless face buried comfortingly in your neck, lightly kissing at your skin. Your grieving tears had all but dried, and springing from you both now was a warm understanding of your reinstated relationship.
The only thing dampening the bliss of this renewed connection was the ugly thought of the knife hidden menacingly below you (you'd made sure to recline on that side of the mattress, lest Al feel the tangible weapon of your deceit). You always had an inclination you'd pick the path of acceptance, and it was only your own stubbornness that had prolonged your icy detachment for longer than necessary. But still, you had needed a backup plan, in case you had chosen to try and fight or escape your captor. And now look what you had to show for it. The knife that beckoned to be taken from the kitchen now taunted you from its hiding place underneath your pillow. A blade of selfish betrayal that felt like a stab in the gut without even being wielded. You wondered what would be damaged more by its discovery- Al’s trust in you or your own skin- he would inevitably use the knife on you if he ever found out. He can’t find out- for both of your sakes.
Pushing these tainted recollections away, you allowed your hazy thoughts to drift back to Al. His reaction was not so surprising- he’d been trying for days and days to win back your affections. But the removal of his mask, the reveal of his unconcealed face- now that had stunned you. He had laid himself bare for you, but you had sensed it was a painful decision; he had looked so… vulnerable when he had unclasped the false visage and shown his true countenance to you in full.
The masks were not simply a way for him to play the part of that monster that he was trying to tame. He’d worn them every day, obfuscating his face during both his good moods and his bad. You figured his shame ran deep in his veins, even though not every part of him was infected by that beast. Your stomach twinged from the pity you felt for him. Did he want to hide from you forever? You, who knew him better than anyone else on this Earth? Even now, he’d shielded his visage from you, nestling into your neck and hair, holding you from behind- was that to avoid your intrusive glares? You expected him to don the masks again. Perhaps someday, he would abandon them entirely. But it would certainly take time for him to relinquish them, feel comfortable in his own skin.
You were correct in your assumptions. He’d started to shift behind you, giving you a soft kiss on the temple before you felt him turn away, hearing him buckling the mask into place and rising from your shared bed. You lingered on your side a little longer, allowing him privacy during this solitary moment. By the time you’d turned and sat up on the mattress, the mouthless lower half was in place and the devilled horns had returned to their usual spot. You hoped your smile would convey understanding of his need to wear them still.
“Sorry I have to go so soon.” You saw how mournful his eyes looked, wishing he could stay with you. Regretful that your reunion had to be cut short. “I’m already gonna be late for work, but we have time to talk later, ok dove?” The return of that affectionate nickname scintillated inside your chest.
“That’s ok. I have the books you gave me,” here you rose to stand beside him “See you tonight Al.” You stretched on tip-toes, planting a quick kiss against the smooth, expressionless mask, unsolicited but clearly not unwelcome. As if the touch of your lips might melt away the plastic, leaving his skin, his lips, free for you to brush against your own. It didn’t feel the most natural thing (certainly not as instinctive as kissing his real cheek), but if you were going to try and make this work you knew you’d have to push through the foreignness of your restored intimacy. Al clearly appreciated your efforts. His palm moved to your face, his thumb caressing the white scar on your cheekbone- that old familiar gesture so warm and reassuring now, his atonement paid for inflicting the scar a lifetime ago.
“Perfect. You’re perfect, Y/N.” With those sweet words still echoing in your ears, he tore himself reluctantly away and left, closing the door softly. You watched it lock with that familiar thud and click.
The basement cell you once thought of as claustrophobic, suffocating, suddenly felt all too large and empty in your isolation. Turning back into the room, your thoughts and your gaze directed themselves to that execrable knife. You stormed over to the wall where the broken black phone was bolstered, planting yourself down to fish out the knife from the top corner of the mattress. As you extracted the blade from the mattress’ stuffing like a rotten tooth, you cursed yourself for being so stupid. What the hell were you thinking? It wasn’t needed; you’d recanted your choice to fight Al, instead choosing the road that veered in the opposite direction. You had to get rid of it.
The only place you could think to hide it effectively was in the toilet tank. Wielding the knife in your furiously clenched fist, you stomped round to the bathroom area. Resting the knife on the toilet seat, you heaved the heavy lid from the tank with some difficulty, placing it onto the floor with a loud, echoing clang. About to drown the blade in the murky water, a small, sudden voice within you forced your hand to stay resolutely clamped shut. What if you needed it? You faltered. Looking down at the knife, its serrated edges, its sharp point, you understood the potential need for its continued existence in your precarious situation.
It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility to imagine Al flipping out, rampaging and foaming at the mouth due to some misbehavior on your part. And you thought it entirely possible that you might erupt in a similar fashion in retaliation to his crazed outbursts. You’d evidenced it before, and though you weren’t innately manic like Al could be, you’d been through enough trauma to know you could devolve into a wild animal just like him. In that (hopefully only theoretical) scenario, the knife could prove useful. It scared you, but it was a truth you might have to face.
You replaced the tank lid, huffing with exertion by the time you returned to the mattress. You forced the knife even further into the mattress’ innards, deep at the bottom. Testing out its new position, you found you were unable to feel it even sat atop where it lay. Al wouldn't be able to feel it, and he wouldn’t search, right? Although this room was a prison cell in nature, Al had no suspicions of hidden contraband within the walls of the basement.
It used to be your confusion and your turbulent emotions came from Al- his violent tendencies, his cryptic mind games. His seesawing personalities that kept you second guessing his every move, veering between silly and sinister in the same jagged breath. Now, your torment came from emotions you’d wrought yourself. Without the dark allurement of the knife on your mind, you thought about how truly easy it could be to slip into the rose-tinted world of your captor.
You knew you could forget things if you tried hard enough. You’d forced yourself to forget about the darkest side of Al- twice, in fact. And those things were more terrible than the secret you were harboring under your bed. You could forget the existence of the blade, forget your transgression of stealing it, forget the guilt caused by tricking him. Forget that slender temptation to one day use it…
If thoughts of the surreptitious blade fogged rain clouds in your mind, at least they were alleviated by sunny thoughts of Al. You were almost sure you’d made the right choice- look at the trust you’d built so quickly! He’d taken his mask off (if only for a fleeting moment). He had held you, and you had silently forgiven each others’ misdeeds, the pains you’d inflicted on the other (yes, you truly did feel bad about the emotional turmoil you’d subjected him to). There were some things best forgotten, locked up entirely, a closed vault in the back of your mind. It was up to a higher power to judge the sins of Albert Shaw, you had decided.
With this strategy in mind, you barricaded those thoughts from the forefront of your mind, allowing yourself to focus on only the pleasant parts of him, and you whiled away your lonesome day thinking about him. Every part of him you’d decided to embrace. You don’t know how you would’ve explained to anyone (Al included) if they’d opened the basement door to you touching yourself, thinking about your captor in the most shamefully lascivious way possible. How else might the lonely hours have passed otherwise?
When your next blissful orgasm came, it was from Al’s touch.
He visited you that evening after work, apologizing for leaving you for so long as he sat across from you at the bottom of the mattress. Clearly, he was elated that you’d given yourself back over to him, bringing you takeout pizza for dinner alongside the usual soda. He had worn the mask with the wide grin, obviously still guarded as to how much of himself he would present to you. But he hadn’t displayed that false smile in so long, it felt like a welcome reprieve from the unreadable blank slate he’d worn during your estrangement.
You could sense how nervous Al was as you ate, eyeing those little movements you’d come to recognize in him through your prolonged exposure to all manner of emotions inside his troubled self. Aside from not eating with you, his crossed legs bounced almost imperceptibly, but his hands gave him away- his thumbs rubbing up and down his fingers repeatedly as if strumming an invisible melody into thin air. Though you noticed, you pretended not to: instead you ate in silence, giving him small, encouraging smiles between bites.
Once you’d pushed away the box of crusts and crumbs, you looked expectantly towards Al. This would be it, right? The ultimate proof of your reconciliation. He gazed back at you, but looked hesitant. Did he think you didn’t want this? And did that thought make him question taking you in such a way? The idea that he had shown restraint was endearing, but felt foreign. That’s not who Al was. You felt a strange sense of pity that he hadn’t asked, or even taken what he saw as his. You would give yourself over to every part of him, each impulse and urge that ignited and burned within him. You’d just have to light the spark yourself.
You moved to a kneel and crawled forward on the mattress, stopping in front of Al’s sitting form. He didn’t move. Steeling yourself to stop your hands from trembling, you undid each button on your shirt before slipping it off your frame, exposing yourself fully to him. He remained still, though you saw his broad chest undulating underneath his own shirt, his quickening breath a signal that you were making the right choice, for both of you. Gripping his twitching hand in yours, you led it to the mark that bore his name, and his hand finally moved of its own accord, fingering the raised scar that read ‘Al’. Feeling that mark that symbolized your belonging to him, urging him to take anything he wished from you.
“I told you, Al. I’m yours.” Your breath caught in your throat, his touch sending currents of static from the scar’s surface to the rest of your yearning body.
The retraction of his hand fizzled out those sparks, until you realized he was moving to unclasp his mask- only the bottom half this time. Placing it on the floor beside him, he faced you again, the corners of his mouth only hinting at a smile. You both sat motionless for a moment, until he pounced. With an animalistic roar, he pushed your back onto the mattress, holding your wrists on either side of your head. But the growl he’d emitted, the hold he had on your wrists- it wasn’t dangerous, it was that playful side of him freeing itself from his initial hesitancy. His crooked smile gleamed down on you, and you laughed from deep within your stomach. You were his, and he was going to enjoy what came next. As were you.
He kissed your mouth first, hungry after so long away from you. You welcomed him, your tongues entwining and your amorous moans lost in the echo of the other’s. Wet kisses continued down your neck and chest as Al shifted down, his hands still securing yours, even though you wanted to touch him- his exposed face, his powerful chest, his hardening manhood you felt against your thigh.
He finally had to release your hands as he swiftly jerked down your sweatpants and panties, leaving your entire naked form exposed below him. As he lurched back up to kiss your mouth again, your free hands moved to unbutton his shirt instinctively, and he allowed you to fumble as he peppered kisses on your mouth, cheeks and neck. With the last button undone, he shrugged out of the shirt, freeing his huge torso and bulky arms. You were practically drooling at Al’s pendulous body hanging over your own.
His adept fingers slid into your wetness easily, and you jerked forward at the heavenly sensation of him, pressing yourself into his solid chest, hands clamoring and clawing at his back as he coaxed out your blissful orgasm. His fingers curled and pumped, his thick digits inside of you just like the first time he’d touched you there and made you feel that thrill that no-one else had gifted you before.
It hardly seemed fair that you’d had you fill (literally) and Al hadn’t, and your hand moved to free his cock, but he softly pushed you back onto the mattress.
“Not tonight, dove. It’s all for you.”
White dots danced in your vision and you allowed yourself to fall back into your pillow. His tone was deep and rich, sweet as candy and you feasted on his words, savored their deliciousness as you discerned the sound of his zipper- you were craving the same sweetness in your own core now. He slid in, and you once again melted at his touch, the pressure inside you joining the sweet caresses and magic touches he applied to your body- seemingly everywhere all at once. Too much but never enough. Your arms moved between his muscular arms and shoulders, needing every part of him, and your legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusted into you. It was slow and delicious like honey, both of you reaching your peaks in a lucious, shared moan.
He pulled out slowly, his nectar seeping shamelessly from your core. He rolled to your side and you both lay there together in your syrupy afterglow, chests heaving. Al made his usual gesture to thumb the scar below your eye, your cheeks candy-apple red at his touch. He kissed your forehead tenderly and you nodded your head into his chest. With scarcely a word between you, the reconnection felt truly complete, and you floated into sleep on a cotton candy cloud of satisfaction.
You awoke some time in the small hours, Al having already left after wrapping you in the blanket. You located your discarded shirt and panties and re-dressed (though Al had taken your sweatpants- obviously he saw them as too great an obstacle). It was good again, between you and Al. But a strange feeling clawed at you, like something was wrong. It wasn’t the knife- so what was this curious sensation that laced the sweetness of the night with a slightly bitter aftertaste? You pondered this a short while, although thoughts of Al helped lull you back to your candy-coated dreamstate.
The next few days breezed by in a pastel cloud of gentle euphoria. If felt like each spare moment Al had to spend with you, he did. The only exception was at night, where he’d lay with you until you drifted to sleep, melting into a starlit reverie in his arms. You’d wake alone, aware that he had kept himself awake to slip out only once you were in a deep, tranquil slumber. You wondered how long he’d watched your deep breaths and low moans as you lay in his arms. How many soft touches on your skin he’d allowed without your knowledge.
Being led upstairs more often was a welcome change compared to the old routine. You felt so invigorated being able to wash your body and change clothes more frequently- though it had become an unspoken rule that Al washed and brushed your hair during your bathroom rendezvous. He hadn’t shared the tub with you (yet), though it didn’t mean he forgot about pleasuring his little thing, the sight of your naked body too tempting to leave untouched. His hands swam through the water to your heat, the stimulation of your bundle of nerves at his fingertips was as thrilling and gratifying as ever. The sight of your writhing body, slick with water usually resulted in you being scooped out of the tub, Al easily slipping himself into your core as he licked your breasts and kissed your collarbone, thrusting up into you against the cold tiles of the bathroom wall.
The week or so after you’d decided to accept Al instead of fighting back was the nicest he’d been to you (and you to him) since you’d first arrived here- perhaps months ago now. So then, why did that gnawing sensation continue to pervade your thoughts? Why did something feel inexplicably…off?
Your relationship felt almost like before when things had been good, although there was a marked difference. Or, literally, an unmarked one. During your most recent intimacies, Al had been careful not to be rough. Not that you hadn’t adored his soft touches, how he reverently coaxed pleasure after pleasure from your body. But you had found yourself wanting. You pictured his nails raking down your stomach, his teeth digging into your delicate flesh, his big hands harshly gripping your hips as he thrust into you mercilessly. Where you once cringed at the marks he would inflict, there came a realization that you wanted Al to wreak havoc on your unbroken skin, for your body to play host to all manner of bruises and cuts and marks. Your mind flashed to that paradoxical alliance of pain and pleasure, two sides of the same coin. You craved, no- needed both, and so did Al. The clarity hit you all at once: you felt as you did about Al because of his dark, sadistic passions, not despite them.
But he hadn’t initiated that sinful game. You presumed he didn’t want to hurt you so soon after reconciling. After all, it was his frenzied rage, his untethered violence that had formed so much of the rift between you. But pain had always been a part of the game, and you’d agreed to play by his rules. It was how it worked, plain and simple. And you had followed the rules so far. If he played the game, took charge, it gave the illusion that the choice wasn’t your own at all: you were merely his thing, his pet that he could treat as he saw fit. You could kid yourself that you were a blameless participant of the game and slip into it guiltlessly. Your logic was becoming as flawed as Al’s, but you found yourself melting into acceptance like a candle yielding to a flame.
Your acceptance of these dark appetites had been a literal lifeline. Al had kept you because you satisfied his perversions. When your own gratification later came from those same perversions, he had promised to keep you safe, forever. You’d suffered enough that you deserved this hedonistic existence, didn’t you?
You were allowing yourself to block out any shame that accompanied these feelings, and it felt so tantalizing. If your thoughts of his painfully beautiful machinations were so electrifying, it would pale in comparison to the real thing. Your stomach twisted into knots that only his touch could untangle. Like before, when you had initiated the game, you would have to show him you were ready, willing to play Naughty Girl once more.
Al readied himself to leave you the following evening, having watched you eat and stayed a while to talk. It was mainly about you- as it usually was. He was particularly interested in your favorite things- books; movies; music. It felt nice to talk to plainly, reminisce about things you enjoyed- maybe Al was planning more gifts? In your enthusiasm to talk, you’d almost forgotten your plan. But as he gathered up the plate and cutlery and glass bottle on the tray and began to turn towards the exit, you jumped up, standing to attention. If Al was confused by your action, tilting his body to see what you were up to, his bewilderment was increased when you snatched the empty soda bottle from the tray.
His eyes flicked up to yours, the tell-tale pivot of the mask indicating his continued puzzlement. Without tearing away your gaze, you threw the bottle purposefully to the stone floor, unblinking and as expressionless as Al’s blank mask as the glass shattered into thousands of pieces at your feet. Like a petulant child throwing their toys from their stroller- though it would end more than just a light spanking. Al looked dazed for just a second after your insolent act before you perceived that black hunger obscuring his azure eyes, his pupils dilating widely in lustful awareness of your performance. He nodded curtly, adopting that low, guttural growl as he spoke:
“So, my naughty girl is back and wants to play, hmm?”
You stayed resolutely silent, your eyes boring into his, just as dark and wanton as Al’s. For the longest time, you pictured yourself as a foil to him, his dark nature contrasting with your innate goodness. That might still be true, but in this moment, you were his mirror image, a copy, his eyes reflected exactly in yours. You were more alike than you’d ever realized.
Al left swiftly, closing the metal door with the familiar thud. It was not followed by the usual click of the lock. He had accepted your devotion to the game’s continuation. You were his once more, completely at the mercy of him, to do with as he pleased. You’d never felt more alive.
She’d asked. Again. Al was overjoyed the first time she’d asked to play willingly, but after the shattering of the trust they had built before, he really was stunned.
He had been holding back, being purposefully gentle to ease Y/N back into the intimacy after such a sudden and prolonged disruption. If keeping her happy meant never playing Naughty Girl, he would have done it, or at least have tried to hold out for as long as possible. He hadn’t been reduced to begging, or (God forbid) him being forced to take it from her, willingly or otherwise. He hated this fact- that he might have played the game regardless. He’d had no need to control those urges before she came. It was who he was- The Grabber. He grabbed. Kidnapped. Killed. He wasn’t well versed in controlling his passions, until she came along. Tantalizing as she was, he would have been patient, imprisoning his own compulsions in order to satisfy the sweet prisoner in his basement.
He had adored the hours spent with Y/N since they’d kissed and made up, and some of his release had been allowed- he could hold her, fuck her, claim her as his. But it had fallen short, as if some vital ingredient was missing. He knew it. Even if she was satisfied, he hadn’t quite reached that peak. He hoped she wasn’t playing Naughty Girl for his sake only, placating him to keep him happy. Al suspected this wasn’t the case, that she wanted to fulfill her own dark little fantasies too. The wicked acts that she’d grown to crave by his hand- his lecherous little thing, his sweet Naughty Girl.
It all felt strangely familiar, sitting there in the kitchen. The déjà vu of her deliberate misbehavior, him waiting for her to ascend the stairs to her deserved punishment. Though he’d not coaxed it out of her this time. He’d let her lead- he never thought he would allow such a transgression- but if she’s willing to play, he doesn’t see the harm of her having a little control. With a purposeful disobedience: a broken bottle, a cheeky remark- she’ll give the signal to play, then she’s at the mercy of his command. That dark lust within him would always be ready to play, just as it was now. Al had missed the feel of the taut leather in his hand, fantasizing about all the ways he would service his dove, what pains and pleasures he would wreak on her body.
#the black phone#black phone fanfic#the grabber x reader#the grabber x you#the grabber#albert shaw x you#albert shaw x reader#slasher fandom
76 notes
·
View notes
Text
Impostors
The secretary hadn't thought they could hate Superhero more than they already did. Rage boiled under their skin, surely turning their skin an angry red. Their fists trembled, and their jaw clenched.
Superhero lounged on the couch in front of them. Like this wasn't Hero's apartment. Like whatever this was was a normal occurrence between them.
Ever since the secretary had been assigned to Superhero, they never met their employer. Only their sidekick, Hero. But something was wrong. Because Hero wasn't in their apartment. And though normally the secretary would assume they were having a late day at work, why was Superhero here and giving them a casual smile like they were friends?
"What did you do to Hero?" Their voice was icy, glacial. Behind their back, they readied a dagger.
Superhero raised a brow, that condescending smirk still on their face. "Why do you want to know?"
"Don't mess with me."
"Or what?"
The secretary revealed their weapon and twirled it warningly in their hand. "Or I'll send you to Supervillain nice and cold."
Superhero's eyes widened, shock filling them. A strained smile appeared on their face as if they were attempting to brush off the threat. "Nice try, but I know--"
Shling!
The knife flew through the air and embedded itself in the wall behind Superhero. The secretary bared their teeth. "I tried to play nice, but it seems you won't cooperate."
Superhero was touching the trickle of blood from their ear. Their expression was eerily blank. The secretary's eyes narrowed, their patience close to snapping.
Then, Superhero's face darkened, and their form suddenly seemed tall and imposing. Their voice thundered, "Who are you?"
The secretary readied themselves for an attack. In their mind, a single line repeated: I will not compromise this mission at all costs - the oath they took before going undercover.
Yet, the secretary couldn't care less. Even if this meant losing Supervillain's trust forever, it would mean nothing compared to the pain of losing Hero.
"You don't want to test me," Superhero said. "Who are you?"
"As if I would tell you. You ruined my life!"
---
Superhero couldn't believe the audacity of this imposter. How dare they walk around in the secretary's body? Their anger increased the longer they saw the person masquerading as their dearest friend.
"You don't want to test me. Who are you?"
"As if I would tell you. You ruined my life!"
Those words, coupled with the familiar voice and face distorted with an unfamiliar rage, made Superhero pause. Made them think and remember the biggest mistake of their life - the mistake that had cost dozens of lives.
The crushing guilt dampened their anger and suppressed it for long enough for Superhero to realise something strange.
"Why were you looking for Hero?" The question spilt out as soon as they thought it.
The imposter glared. The silence stretched until Superhero thought they would refuse to answer again.
"Hero and I have a bond someone like you couldn't even begin to imagine, you cold-hearted monster." The person's eyes were cold and flinty. Superhero flinched.
Monster. It rang in their mind, bringing back countless nightmares.
"What would you know about bonds?" Superhero spat. "All I see is a killer!"
"How ironic coming from you," they taunted. "Unlike you, my hands aren't tainted with red - no, drenched."
"Don't lie! You killed the secretary!"
They sneered. "The secretary you haven't even seen?"
"They're my friend!" Superhero shouted, close to their breaking point. "My only friend!"
"What a tearful act you have going on. I almost believe you." The pretender stalked closer, and their menacing aura filled the room. "Why is it so hard to get this through your head? I am the secretary."
No, Superhero wanted to say. They knew the secretary, and whoever this was - this wasn't them. But, for some reason, the words refused to come out of their mouth.
Taglist: @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @faeruine @a-sunset-outside-my-window @sketxhdragxn @kaiwewi @eri-would-like-to-not-thanks @those-damn-snippets @bownkboo
44 notes
·
View notes
Text
gold dusted hues of amber.
warnings! ╱ weapons.
author speaks! a short scenario I wrote, inspired by a romance quotebot.
amid the shower of cold rain, two figures lay on the wet ground. a yaksha and an archon's experiment.
their vehement gazes would land on each other's faces, their soft lips, their gentle skin, those pretty eyes—swirling in need with that inkling of hatred behind their hardened look as they settled on each other's visage.
breathing erratic. their forms quivering under the glacial liquid pouring from above.
one bears a spear of jade, pointed at the puppet's neck. the adeptus's grip on the stem of his polearm unrelenting.
despite this, the defiled doll would only reciprocate with a maddening smile. as if he wasn't just about to be pierced.
amber hues would stare at the marred tresses of violet that splayed on the floor, flickering to those mesmerizing amethyst pools that mirrored his own reflection.
crimson liquid decorates his pale countenance—a sight he has become accustomed to.
the conqueror of demons, for once, felt a serene sensation within his body. it was as if he had swallowed a star. though, instead of burning, he was blessed with a sense of comfort and gentle warmth.
scaramouche would study every curve of his nose, every furrow of his brow, and every breath xiao would take.
it was as if a painting had come to life. his body was like a shrine, one he would worship. a marble sculpture engraved with not even a single flaw—he felt the air in his lungs leave him.
he was beautiful.
an unknown emotion swirled within him, invading every crevice of his body like a drug. as if he had consumed venom that attacked his senses.
every strand of verdant green, every remark that left his rose-laden lips—everything. he would drink in every intoxicating drop, the mellifluous words becoming his favorite music.
it was sickening.
love, it was an emotion that was so very human.
he hated it.
he hated how he was so infatuated with the adeptus—infatuated with everything about him.
it was like an illness.
an illness that made a tender feeling rise from his chest, blossoming like a flower of enamoration and adoration. petals of love adorning his stone cold heart.
and maybe that's why he hated it.
love.
it was so human—and he knew that he'll only fall to the caprices and treachery of mankind if he had felt this way so strongly to another.
through feathery lashes, xiao looks down and opens his mouth. such bittersweet poison pouring from his lips, despite the desire laced in his tone—displaying such vigor and disgust toward the man below him.
" I can't stand you. "
his utterances would be hardened, the timbre of his voice strong, and without a single thought of hesitation nor regard for how his words would leave the man feeling.
though, even with such a threatening presence and the words that leave the yaksha—scaramouche would only feel as if his ears had been graced with gentle hymns and a precious melody. he would reply with his own poison, smirk giving no signs of faltering from his face.
" the feeling is mutual, but I will die if I don't kiss you. "
xiao would grasp his nimble fingers around the harbinger's neck, a flush of red adorning the delicate shade of porcelain white as his mind would replay the words declared to him like a broken record player.
the balladeer's smirk only widens at the rare sight of the famed and distinguished yaksha melting like putty in the palms of his hands, the vermilion tint across his cheeks an evident form of his embarrassment and fluster.
it was adorable, he would think.
@god-wept! do not plagiarize, repost, or translate.
33 notes
·
View notes
Text
Your Savior - Chapter 7
Summary: You leave for the mission to face your captors, and defeat them for good.
Warnings: Brief descriptions of torture.
Words: ~2500; more chapters on my masterlist.
A/N: I know I know, I keep saying this will be the last one but here we go again! At least I am pumping these chapters out!
Sunrise came too soon. Somehow, you had managed to get a couple of hours of deep, dreamless sleep after tossing and turning restlessly for most of the night. The mission was at the forefront of your mind – anxiety and dread of what could happen, what could go wrong. Laying with Loki in your shared bed was your only solace. The stress must have been seeping from your very pores because his hands started to card through your hair as soon as your head made contact with the pillow. Each gentle caress of his deft fingers conveying his undying love for you, willing peace to pass from his fingertips to your worried mind. The sweet soft strokes filled with such tenderness that made your heart swell and tears prick at the corner of your eyes. You kept your eyes shut. You didn’t need him to worry more than he already was.
After he cried in your arms last night, he presented you with a gift. A bracelet. It was a delicate thing, a thin gold chain with a solitary emerald gem in its center. Something simple that would not attract too much attention, but beautiful, nonetheless.
“Little Dove, I plan on being right there with you tomorrow. If I can’t be by your side, I will still be close by. You may not see me, but trust that I am there,” He said softly as he clasped the bracelet around your wrist.
“But..,” He lifted his eyes from your newly adorned wrist, to meet yours, “I always believe in being prepared. I enchanted this bracelet to not only always tell me where you are, but also to summon a dagger should the occasion arise.”
He pointed to the emerald, sitting proudly amongst the gold, “Touch this gem and the dagger will manifest in your hand.” He took your hand in his and his calloused fingers ran over his gift and the softness of your skin, making you shiver. There was a heaviness in the air. Even though Loki had resigned to the fact that were, essentially, allowing yourself to be captured by your torturers, it didn’t mean that he had to like it. His worry for you was still evident by the frown on his face, the crease in his brow.
You knew the tight lipped smile he flashed you was for your benefit only. A façade of ‘everything will be okay’.
“I figured that they may look for weapons when they take you. I think they will be less likely to take a bracelet.” With another wave of his hand, the clasp of the bracelet vanished, leaving a perfect, unbroken circle of metal. You leaned forward and gently kissed his lips.
Now, the sun was just peaking past the horizon, and you would do anything to make these moments with Loki last longer. Anything to delay the chaos that would be happening in a few short hours and remain in the sleepy haze of golden light with the god you loved. You snuggled into him, into his warmth and his arms that were already wrapped around you squeezed you impossibly tighter.
“Good morning, Little Dove.” He kissed the top of your head and you turned to look at him. The normally always perfect looking god looked tired. Very tired.
“Did you get any sleep?” You asked, reaching up to lightly stroke his cheek with your hand. Your heart fluttered when he leaned into it, his nose nuzzling your palm.
“I dozed here and there.” It was a lie, you knew, again for your benefit. “I am afraid we must get up. We have worlds to save, foes to vanquish.”
You chuckled despite yourself, despite the heaviness that lingered in the air like a suffocating fog of uncertainties and fear. Reluctantly you dragged yourself out of the comfort of your princes’ embrace and slipped out of bed. Loki soon followed suit. The two of you moved at a glacial pace, even though you knew you had to be at the Quinjet in half an hour. There was an unspoken agreement that there would be no rush to your inevitable capture by the Tartarus. As you both dressed, you shared sly looks and small smiles if only to maintain the façade for just awhile longer.
The bubble of the perfect delusion burst as soon as you were strapped into the Quinjet. The team was there, and Loki was by your side. Your mind was reeling, thinking of every possible scenario of what could go wrong. You didn’t realize you were breathing heavily, until Loki placed his hand on your knee and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
The plan was to land on the outskirts of the closet town, and you would literally wander in hopes that the Tartarus would take the bait, capture you, and take you back to their base. Loki would cast an illusion to look like a local to keep a close eye on you. Once you were taken, he will cloak himself entirely and follow you the whole way if possible, gaining access to the base and reporting back to the team vital intel. The team will then, in superhero fashion, bust in and save the day, and you along with it.
The ride in the Quinjet was very short, and very quiet. Outside of a few reminders of the mission objectives and plan, no words needed to be said as the tension was palpable. Not all the Avengers were there when you were rescued. They only heard of the atrocities the Tartarus was known for and the conditions they found you in, save for a few photos from the mission briefing. How you arrived at the Tower, as a skeleton and shell of a person was enough for them. Before you stepped off the jet with Loki by your side, the team all gave their well wishes. They assured you that you would be safe, and they would come to you if there was any sign of trouble and that all of this would be over soon. The bear hug that Tony wrapped you in almost made you believe him, but the experience you had with these people – these monsters – told you otherwise.
For the longest time, all you heard was the crunch of leaves under yours and Loki’s boots. The forest was quiet, empty. It felt safe, for now, so you reached and grabbed onto Loki’s hands, lacing your fingers with his. He looked at you and smiled.
“Everything will be okay, Little Dove. I promise.”
You sighed, your anxiety getting the best of you, “I just have a terrible feeling, Loki.”
He stopped suddenly, turning you to face him and placing his hands on your shoulders, “No one is making you do this, Little Dove. Say the word and we will walk right back to the Quinjet. No one will fault you for that decision. That flying vessel houses Midgard’s finest warriors. They can figure out a way to do this without you.”
You hummed thoughtfully for a moment, thinking over what he said. It was true. You were an average person, well, an average super soldier. Everything Loki had said within the past twenty-four hours started to swim through your mind. How you just discovered your powers, how you have no training. How you were walking into the wolf’s den. The pleading look that Loki was giving you was almost enough to make you turn tail and run.
But then you thought of all the people who died in cells with you. The thought that they were torturing people like you before you, and after you, was nauseating. How many people could be saved if you helped the Avenger’s now? How many people would die if you chose not to? You rolled your shoulders, reminding yourself of the newfound strength that laid dormant in your muscles. You could do this. You had to do this.
“No, let’s keep going.” Loki looked at you with nothing but admiration.
“My brave, sweet Mortal.” He leaned forward and kissed the top of your head, then each of your eyelids, and finally tenderly on the lips. “Let’s carry on then.”
When you got close to the town, Loki cast his illusion and transformed his face and body to someone you didn’t recognize, but the glint in his eyes was the same. On the outskirts of the town, you began to walk ahead of him, keeping your distance. You didn’t dare look over your shoulder, but you knew Loki wasn’t too far behind and it gave you a sense of ease.
Soon enough, you were in the town. It was the typical quiet, sleepy mountain town. The shops were quaint and there were a few people wandering about and exploring the shops. So, you did the same. First, you went into the bakery and indulged yourself in a sweet treat. Then you wandered down their Main Street, ducking into a book shop that you knew Loki would love. The smell of old, weathered, and well-loved books filled the air, and it reminded you of your room with Loki. Your fingers danced along the bindings of a row of books, soaking it all in. You didn’t know where Loki was, but you felt him nearby. The pull between soulmates was there, but it wasn’t agonizing. He was close like he promised, and it made you smile.
“I see you like our older collections. If you are interested, I have a selection of rare first editions in the back if you would like to see them.”
The shop owner’s sudden presence made you jump, clutching your chest. It was a middle-aged woman, with salt and pepper hair and a wide smile. Even though she seemed harmless enough, alarm bells were ringing in your ears. Every bit of your body was telling you to run, but the whole point was to get caught. They were looking for you, after all. You just hoped they weren’t smart enough to figure out the trap that you were laying.
“I would love to.”
She led you to the back of the shop, and to a large wooden door. The woman walked through it first, holding it for you as you trailed behind her. The room was as she described; a well-kept room with preserved first editions from various famous authors. There were a few titles that you knew Loki would like and it made you grin, making a mental note to come back to buy one for him.
Then everything went black.
The next thing you saw were flashes of light, making you wince, as you struggled to regain consciousness. Your head was throbbing from the impact that knocked you out and your back ached from laying on a hard surface. The ground underneath you…wasn’t ground at all. It was metal and you could faintly hear a whirring sound. You tried to stretch your arms, but they were clasped in front of you. Your ankles were also tightly bound. With a groan, you were able to fully open your eyes. Everything felt foggy, like everything was moving in slow motion. There was a stinging sensation in your neck, and you realized that not only were you knocked unconscious, but you were bound and drugged.
You turned your head and you saw faces above you. They were blurry, unrecognizable, but you could make out a twisted grin that made your heart race. Immediately, you tried to use your newfound strength to break your bindings, but you felt weak. No matter what you did, they would not break, and you whimpered in frustration. The plan was to get caught, but feeling so weak in the clutches of your captors terrified you.
The pang in your chest from being separated from Loki was strong, painful. He felt farther away than he ever has been, but you hoped that the pain still being there was proof that he was nearby. That he was keeping his promise of keeping an eye on you.
You rubbed your wrists together. The bracelet was still there, and you let out a shuddered, thankful breath before darkness took you again.
You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you woke up again. The stinging in the back of your head had subsided, but you still felt drowsy. Your head lulled to the side as you struggled to open your heavy eyelids. Now, your arms were by your sides and no matter how hard you tried; you couldn’t move them. You couldn’t move any of your limbs, and you couldn’t feel Loki. There was no pain, no feelings of separation – just a void of emptiness that settled into the depths of your soul. That realization is what finally made your eyes shoot open in pure terror. Loki wasn’t close by anymore. You were on your own.
All you could do was turn your head from side to side and you saw you were in a medical facility. Straining your neck, you saw needles poked into your arm that drained your blood into a hanging IV bag.
A figure in a white coat stepped into your line of vision with a demented grin, “Y/N, finally you are awake.”
Loki cursed himself for getting separated from you. He watched you go inside the bookstore, peering through the window, his illusion still in place, as you meandered about the stacks. The morning light was shining in through the windows and it casted beautifully against your skin. You were ethereal; a gift from the Norns crafted just for him and he couldn’t help but notice how much you had changed since he first found you. A broken woman, bones, and body as frail as a bird – his Little Dove – but with the spirit of a Valkyrie. The Tartarus tried to break you, but you came out on the other side and here you are – ready to face them and destroy them for good.
But then you were walking away and with a woman he did not recognize, a shop attendant he assumed. Soon enough, you were out of his view, and he lingered outside, his heart beating wildly in his chest. A few minutes went by and still you had not returned. Everything about this felt wrong. Loki went into the bookstore, a bell dinging over his head announcing his entrance. But no one came. He cooked around the stacks of books with cautious footsteps, but the store appeared empty. With one final look around, he summoned his seidr, concentrating on your whereabouts. Soon, there was a burst of green energy and a sparkling, emerald trail lead from Loki to a large wooden door and to wherever you were. To the average person, the magical trail of breadcrumbs was invisible and so, he followed it. Through the wooden door and out another door that led outside to a road at the back of the string of shops along Main Street.
Off in the distance, he saw a van speeding away – a green mist trailing behind it. In an instant, he took off in an all-out sprint after vehicle that had you.
“Faen!” Loki cursed, pressing a hand to well hidden, Stark Industries communication device nestled in his ear.
“They have her.”
----------------------
Unicorns 🦄:
@theawkwardavenger @nonsensicalobsessions @purplekitten30 @lostgreekgod @roguemetalmaster13 @huntress-artemiss @xorpsbane @ravenmailey @vbecker10 @lazulifoster @yautja-lover @ada17h @lokisprettygirl22 @theaudacitytowrite @lokis-little-love @themorningsunshine @strawberry-canyon @michelleleewise @80strashbag @roseeatta @asgardianprincess1050 @jaspearl31 @ozymdias @vickie5446 @itsybitchylittlewitchy @kittiowolf210 @nightshadelm @maeisonline @hikirstenhere @trickster-maiden @jazkidding @lulubelle814 @ilovefanfictions @mochie85
#loki fanfic#loki x reader#loki x you#loki odinson#loki fic#loki x female reader#loki#loki fluff#loki laufeyson x reader#loki fanfiction#loki laufeyson#loki angst#loki laufeyson fluff#loki laufeyson x y/n#loki x reader fluff#loki x reader angst#loki odinson x reader
51 notes
·
View notes
Text
Uncertainty riddled the youth's frame, worry permeated into his expression. His face didn't bear it well; he should have been smiling, laughing, as all children deserved. But within glacially-hued gaze was something else, the sort of look that would make people say things like 'that kid has an old soul' or 'he has wisdom beyond his years.' Whatever the case, he was clearly out of place in the rugged lands, skin pale, outfit both futuristic and from an era passed.
" ... hello... " a somewhat timid voice called out to the tall man, pausing to give a polite bow of greeting. Small hands gripped the edge of his shirt as he was clearly nervous. But he gained the inspiration to speak louder and more clearly., not seeing a weapon only displayed on the apparently holy man. " I'm sorry to bother you, sir. But I was wondering if you can tell me what town this is. "
@curseisms
7 notes
·
View notes
Note
1, 3 and 4 for your OC of choice? :D
@sleepyforestbeast
Oooh, okaaay. Gonna combine the best of both worlds then since the kid's been on my mind, you're getting a Transformers OC. XD
Name: Tripwire
Age: the equivalent of 17. He is baby.
NOW ON TO THE QUESTIONS!
1. are they associated with a certain color? what color do they wear the most?
Surprisingly, yes. Tripwire is associated -- to me, at least -- with dark heather green and the colour of pale green quartzite, which I've seen labeled as 'glacial green'. He's albino, and with Cybertronians having grey-toned skin and going through rapid depigmentation when they die, I didn't want to make him be pale silver. So, instead, his skin has a slight pale green cast to it, that matches the blue-greenish tint to his eyes when he's in shadow. They're pink the rest of the time. As for what he WEARS...well, his armour is the aforementioned dark heather green, but in hard light holo mode, he tends to wear green and grey/black, usually something with plants printed on it. He likes plants.
3. weapon of choice? any particular reason they chose their weapon?
He's my little archer! Tripwire is scarily good with a bow, and uses a lightweight energy bow that was designed specifically for him as a '5th' (equivalent) nameday gift from Hot Rod. Considering Hot Rod is also the one that taught him how to use said bow, and Tripwire absolutely hates the high-pitched sounds that blasters make (and as a tiny hovercraft ATV he is WAY too small for effective hand-to-hand against the much bigger bots), the bow was a very fitting gift for the just-out-of-toddlerdom Warborn. The handgrip/arrow shelf attaches to his arm, and when he needs to use it, he just pulls it off and clicks it on, and the upper and lower limbs 'grow' from the handgrip, along with the bowstring. The grip will also generate force arrows for him if he does not have access to real metal bolts, using his own electrical energy to create them. This isn't IDEAL, of course, since it drains him, but one does what one must. Damus upgraded the bow for him as he grew, so it would grow with him, and taught him how to aim for targets he could only feel, not see, as Damus' and Tripwire's energy abilities are similar enough that Damus could teach him how to manipulate his senses around electrical fields.
4. how crafty/resourceful are they?
He's a Warborn Cybertronian child, and like the very last generation before the War (Shockwave and Damus' generation) and *all* of the Warborn, he is an Outlier. By default, it means he's super resourceful, because society (and lack of it) was never going to help him survive. He was a toddler with Bee and Strongarm in the middle of a warzone. He knows what to do to survive by any means possible.
He is autistic, so his approach to being resourceful may not be what everyone expects, but generally, he gets the job done, and oftentimes better than how it would have been otherwise. He's very good with his hands, with making little things. Part of it comes from Damus being the adult he is most attached to, and since Damus and Shockwave are both Macgyver-pyros bad enough that they make Wheeljack and Brainstorm side-eye them when they're together...he's picked up quite a few things. He does enjoy making things, though he's found that he prefers making analog things, and in recent times, since discovering Earth and Cybertron's slow rejuvenation, he's found he likes working with wood. There's a lot you can make with wood that is easier for their limited society to deal with, since they don't currently have the infrastructure for a lot of heavy-duty metal construction (y'know, a planet basically dying and then being revived with pretty much nothing but dirt and ruins on its surface will DO THAT to a society), and he's secretly working on figuring out how to build looms, so they can maaaybe start figuring out textile production again, at least on a small, at-home scale.
#Transformers#Transformers OC#Maccadam#Yuni writes#Tripwire#musespam#Thank you so much for sending an ask in!
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
WIP bit 8
Thrawn’s bolthole is a rough, wild world. Cold, but of course the heat-seeking Chiss above all love hot springs and never colonize a world without them. The Chimaerans have taken to them enough to absent their usual body taboos and partake. The ritual is simple enough.
Strip off and put on the thong sandals, then take a towel and a small bathing kit in a bucket. Go to the area with taps in the wall and fill the bucket after removing the kit and putting it on a ledge intended for the purpose. Wet down and use the scrubbing gloves to apply soap - many of them attractively scented as the sensual Humans prefer - and scrub from soles to hairline. Rinse completely, then take the towel and follow the elevated pathway to the springs. The limestone has natural steps - hottest up top and cooler further down. Where the hot water mixes with the glacial melt river, it’s human skin temperature. That’s warm for a Chiss.
Ar’alani takes a spot under a heavily-scented evergreen and sinks in to her shoulders in water as hot as she can stand. Muscles unknot, and old scars ease in the heat. It’s her favorite spot, and also has the property of being perfectly positioned to hear what people in the other pools are saying without being seen. Most conversation is mundane - missions, reports, the complaining that has been part of military service since spears and slings.
Ah.
There she is.
Pyrondi comes wrapped in a robe, towel around her neck, to the pool two down. Back to Ar’alani, she removes her robe and Ar’alani’s stomach lurches. The Imperial officers are always covered up, their faces the only part of their bodies to show.
The woman’s scars are horrific. Of course, Ar’alani noted some scarring on her face - depressurization and space frost - but those were well-treated and only visible in hard sunlight. These others are punctures and slashes, still pink and warmer than ought to be. Now she knows why Pyrondi covers up even in the nest. Someone else comes on the path, and Ar’alani knows those steps. Thrawn comes to join his weapons officer, and when his robe comes off Ar’alani wants to weep at the damage - the skin is tender and regrown as if it was peeled off in bands
The two walk in together and the moans speak of pain relieved, and hot mud smeared on aching places seems to help. Finally, the two prop their arms over the edge, lay their heads down and-
Nonono don’t go to sleep!
But they do, with Pyrondi making soft Human noises of relief and contentment.
Ar’alani lifts herself out of her pool, gathers her things, and slips down to the pool cradling the twin idiots. She will watch over them as they have their nap, then when they awake she will bang their heads together until their two brain cells rattle in their skulls.
11 notes
·
View notes
Note
For the DVD commentary ask game:
Yes, it's more than 500 words, but I was about to chose the last passage of chapter 6 from "a question of time" when Sixty and Connor meet.
I love that interaction so much!💙
So, I would like to hear some of your thoughts, if you have the time and energy!
As Connor shifted his method of attack, Sixty’s body reactive instinctively. Instead of activating a firewall to prevent unwanted data transfer, it opened to mutual data sharing; a blue glow under the plastic lit their skin, bleaching it of what little colour it had, turning them ghostly.
In a rush, Sixty felt Connor's experience every bit as much as he did his own, heart racing, tense limbs, fear and anger backed by—
Absolutely nothing.
Red lines flashed across his vision for milliseconds at a time, forming a giant matrix that encompassed the room, swallowing him entirely, but he saw nothing beyond Connor’s face.
Sixty grabbed Connor again, harder, as the blue faded from their skin and Connor started blinking as he returned to himself.
“There was nothing.” Sixty’s voice was a coarse snarl. “I saw nothing in you. How is that possible?”
LED yellow and spinning, Connor seemed to recover more slowly than Sixty. His mouth parted and he breathed slowly, releasing warm air in the narrow space between them, eyes moving back and forth over Sixty’s face, something dark and active coiled in the space behind them.
“How have you—” Connor blinked again and let go of Sixty’s hand. “What did you do to Hank?”
Sixty had been so afraid that Connor would deviate him, to pass on his flaw with a light touch and a flash of static, that he’d ignored all other potential outcomes.
Connor’s face changed, hardening as he processed the fragments of memory he’d glimpsed. His initial wariness was back and dominating his features—he no longer seemed uncertain, nor did he seem content to wait and analyse. He leaned forward of his own accord, searching Sixty’s face for evidence of guilt, for confirmation of what he already knew.
A wrenching twist in Sixty’s chest followed the change. Where he should have felt gratified to see Connor so strongly affected, he felt trepidation, sensed imminent danger.
He shoved Connor away from him, throwing as much of his weight into the movement as possible. Anticipating the move, Connor stumbled backwards but caught himself before he fell, arms outstretched to maintain his balance.
Sixty’s hand ghosted along his waistband, reaching obviously for his gun, his priority haste over stealth, careless that Connor would notice so long as he armed himself first.
Instead of grazing smooth gunmetal, Sixty’s hand brushed something else, equally cold but smaller, its shape indistinct through fabric and brief contact. It stalled him, pulled him back to another place, a heavy tension—cold fingers and colder air, the last vestiges of frustration and pain, overtaken with small but soothing defiance…
Three gunshots shattered Sixty’s thoughts at the same time as his chest panelling.
Three bullets to the pump regulator and surrounding systems, close grouping, damaging the biocomponent far beyond repair and causing critical thirium loss in fewer than seven seconds.
Sixty allowed himself to fall backwards, feeling the warm spread of blood across his skin, the tightening in his chest. His collision with the floor knocked the breath from him and he closed his eyes; at the same moment his hand reached into his pocket to remove the cause of his distraction and found chilled metal—glacial, as if it carried winter with it.
Connor paused, gun raised, stance steady, watching him fall. He took a step forward, cautious and slow, weapon still trained on Sixty, who didn’t notice him at all; he’d let his head fall back on the floor and watched the lights blur and swim as the thirium flowing through his processors ran thin. His thoughts stalled and faded, one at a time, until he was left with only the feel of cold metal as he pulled his hand from his pocket and pulled it up to eye level.
Above him, Connor murmured something soft, but it was lost to him—his audio processors had already shut down and he focused his remaining energy on lifting his arm to see what had cost him his victory.
He tipped his head sideways as his fingers, clumsy and numb, dropped the object he’d pulled from his pocket. Blinking repeatedly to clear his vision, his eyes caught something small and dark and gleaming in the cold blue light, rolling in a wide arc away from his face. Sixty’s brow creased and his arm, losing strength, fell back to his side as he watched it rock gently to rest on the grey floor.
The black king.
my DARLING
(this ask meme)
for starters kisses your face I love you dearly
I have a lot of thoughts about these scenes with Sixty, and not all of my thoughts make it into chapters, so I'll try and expand around those. Also: warning for not-quite spoilers in case anyone wants to avoid upcoming stuff in chapter 7 - nothing I haven't foreshadowed, but maybe something you haven't pieced together (and certainly stuff Sixty hasn't processed).
this chapter was a MESS of a thing to write. I knew from day one I wanted an achronological chapter, a haphazard mix of thought and feeling that made about as much sense to the audience as the experience does to Sixty, but I had literally no clue if it would work in-text. It was going to start out more complicated but I simplified it for word count and clarity. I wanted to achieve several things:
first, Sixty hits a low
second, Sixty starts to lose what little discipline he has left and starts listening to his wants more than his mission, which alienates him from Amanda and leads us to:
third. because of the above, Sixty experiences consequences inside his closed loop, but they don't arrive in the way he expects.
four. for fun. Sixty realises (or starts to realise) that he’s been so preoccupied with the obvious (connor, the mission) that he’s missed something critical
sooooo in every instance, here and in previous chapters, I wanted sixty to forcibly cut himself off from Connor. he sees an uncrossable void between them but his perception is VERY skewed – he holds a contradictory view of Connor: Connor is deviant, so Connor is a failure. despite all of Connor’s failures, Sixty is still trying to match him, still trying to overtake him in Amanda’s eyes – and it’s complicated somewhat by him imitating Connor in the beginning. Here it manifests as Sixty expecting violence from Connor when Connor is reaching out to understand. This backfires horribly for two reasons:
Sixty misreads Connor, because his perception of Connor is so flawed he cannot make accurate predictions of his actions; his two-dimensional perception of Connor is just a reflection of how he’s afraid to be seen himself, an archetype of failure. Amanda uses Connor’s failure as a very effective motivator, in the same way we see Amanda use praise and disapproval to motivate machine!Connor in-game. Dumbass Sixty can’t see past who he thinks Connor is, and so Connor surprises him
Connor can SEE him now. Properly. He offered to take Sixty with him before and of course Sixty didn’t believe him, but it was genuine. Connor looked at Sixty and saw himself: a machine designed to accomplish a task, held hostage by his own mission. Sixty desperately does not want to be compared to Connor, even though he does it to himself compulsively…and this time Connor knows how different they are. Interface means he not only knows what Sixty has done but that he feels no remorse for it. Any chance of cooperation is lost completely.
Connor attacks, of course. Sixty takes this as more evidence that he and Connor are fundamental opposites, rather than the truth: he has set himself to be diametrically opposed to Connor and all of the problems come from his resulting actions, not some grand design from Amanda or CyberLife. He doesn’t hesitate in trying to fire back.
Naturally that doesn’t end well either. This time (compared to the other loops) Sixty isn’t too slow, or too angry – he hasn’t made a fundamental error that leads him to getting shot, he’s distracted by something else.
Okay so I have always been SUPER aware that in choosing to write a time loop some stuff is going to be crazy boring to read because it’s repetitive by nature. I’ve tried to weave interesting things into the narrative on purpose to negate that, and focus on different aspects in loops that are similar… and that also let me lay groundwork for the subtle shifts loop to loop. They aren’t quite the same. They do vary. For example, from chapter 3:
It wasn’t right. He remembered last time: there’d been two night-shift guards, bored and ill-mannered, who’d verified his identity and then waved them on without pause.
He checked the time and found there was fewer than two minutes’ difference between arrival times—they were later this time, but not late enough to explain the guards' absence. Instead of following Hank, Sixty looked over the partition to the desk below, searching for signs of recent activity: thermal residue from the presence of a warm human, a recently used coffee cup, an idling computer, anything. He found nothing at all. It didn’t look like anyone had used the space in hours.
Stepping backwards slowly, mind consumed with unanswered questions, Sixty followed Hank’s voice when he called out, though he didn’t hear the words. He remembered. He’d scanned his palm… Hank had reluctantly flashed his badge--
“Connor. What are you waiting for?”
Sixty fixates on change because change is threatening. It adds an element of unpredictability to his loops, and unpredictability has an unfortunate habit of leading him to die and restarting the loop.
This time he’s carrying something he shouldn’t have. He picked up a chess piece in the garden – a general fuck you to the universe for messing with him, a way to strike back and mess up the game he feels forced to play. I love that reactive, selfish, childish part of Sixty and wanted him to show it whenever possible – more so as the fic progresses, as he gets angrier and less concerned about showing it. Taking the king was tantamount to taking control, pulling something back in an environment that is entirely out of his control, a game that he isn’t playing, he’s just caught up in it.
Fun behind the scenes fact: I’m gonna gif some fic stuff because I cannot RESIST this kind of self indulgence, but the chess stuff came from this scene in Last Chance, Connor where I noticed a chessboard in the frozen Zen Garden. It’s never referenced in-game, but I wondered… was Amanda supposed to be playing? Who with? I want to know. So I’m taking fic-flavoured liberties and writing my own version.
I like to think of Sixty’s emotionality as a strength, when it’s not wild an unchecked… an asset he could use if he chose to follow in Connor’s footsteps and embrace deviancy. He wouldn’t, of course, because following Connor would be tantamount to becoming him, and that’s unthinkable. He unknowingly cuts himself off from all growth because to grow and develop means following in Connor’s footsteps – and Sixty can’t see any further than that, even though beyond that he’d be able to become his own person. I love the tragedy of him constantly getting in his own way.
This’ll be a theme for the next chapter, and is one of my favourite ways to interpret Sixty in fan works: because he’s a copy, because of Amanda’s influence, he's searching for his own identity. He makes the critical beginner mistake of defining himself against Connor, which of course doesn’t distance them from each other at all. He won’t be able to become his own person until he learns to move past Connor, which of course is REALLY difficult when you’re… reliving the same night over and over again.
ANYWAY. The shift at the end of chapter 6 isn’t a failure on Sixty’s part this time, it’s a paradigm shift because the game has changed. Something is different. The price Sixty pays for noticing this is another death, another loop. He doesn’t even have time to speculate on the meaning before he dies, he’s already being pulled back into the storm…
The point of the black king is for Sixty to have brought something from the zen garden with him, in a way that shouldn’t be possible. I’ve discussed this before, most notably in chapter 5:
When he came to a stop, he flexed his hands experimentally, testing the tendons and joints. They were fine—just fine—almost no different from how they felt in the zen garden. There was little difference between physical reality and a simulated one: his synthetic brain processed all stimuli in the same way, regardless of its origin, so when his sensors told him he experienced the warmth of the summer sun, he did so. When they told him ice crystals were growing in his joints, seeded by microscopic imperfections in the metal and plastic, he felt the grind and burn every bit as much as if it were happening to a physical body, not just a projection of one
For the same reason he shivered, the memory of the snow almost as strong as the sensation itself.
I wanted to discuss how android perceive reality. If you sense the world as so much data, how do you distinguish between different modes of being? Would reading data be the same as experiencing it? Would experiencing a virtual reality, like Amanda’s garden, feel the same as a real, physical world? Does “real” world even have a meaning in that kind of situation?
And, maybe most importantly for Sixty, how would you begin to tell the difference? Well, if you were smart and not distracted, maybe you’d steal something digital – a little object, something no-one would really miss, as a kind of test. If you woke up and it was still there… 😏
thank you SO so much for this kisses your face 💕 I love rambling about sixty and my convoluted plans for this fucked up time loop✨
#i started off with a simpler version of this fic in mind tbh#and now it's More Complicated but for once I don't think that's a bad thing#it's still just a thinly veilled excuse to put my favourite jumped-up string bean through various Difficult scenarios#but now I can explore some vaguely philosophical nonsense through sixty's ongoing crises........ and that's a bonus for me#time loop sixty#long post#asks#leelanys-world#fic stuff#writing stuff#ask meme#and now... back to drafting chapter 7 👀
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Descended from a lesser Wyrm, Lynians are a diverse genus that are a staple of hunting culture. Their sapience and high intelligence set them apart from other small monsters, and Lynians can become high-ranking leaders in the Hunter's Guild, or legendary hunters/handlers. They are often grouped into two categories- Beastbugs and Felynes.
Beastbugs are typically aloof from bug and hunter society. The species has yet to master fluency in Common, so Felynes often work as translators between Beastbugs and civilized insects.
The structure of their society differs from locale to locale, with solitary individuals found in temperate climates, and large nomadic groups in both hot and cold deserts.
As Beastbugs' main form of defense against predation are rudimentary weapons, they've evolved to have Mosscreep-like traits that allow them to camouflage themselves by attaching debris to their shell through their sticky saliva.
They are highly attuned to magic and soul through the fine fuzz that covers their moth-esque antennae.
Depending on where you are in the world, Beastbugs may have a name unique to the area- such as the Boaboa of the Glacial Wall, or the Shakalaka of the southern Patternlands.
Felynes, on the other hand have embraced bug society, and are commonly participants in it, especially in aspects relating to hunting and researching monsters.
The most "domesticated" of the species, Palicoes, can easily speak the common tongue, and have the rights of any other bug, although they are commonly infantilized for their small size and childish manner of speech. They are typically very chatty and loyal.
Melynx are incredibly similar to Palicoes- albeit they tend to stay away from hunting culture and keep to themselves. Their shell tends to possess high-contrast patterns in comparison to the more subtle and natural tones of a Palico's.
Grimalkynes are the closest of the Felynes to the original form of their Wyrm progenitor. Sporting bright colors, and a soft, supple shell, they are very flexible and agile.
Unlike all other Lynians, they do not have eyes, instead having an acute sense of hearing and strong Tremorsense. Their skin is able to secrete a liquid similar to the saliva of Beastbugs that allow them to climb with incredible speed.
Their culture is split between living among common bugs and continuing to live in family-groups in the wilds.
Although commonly passed over for roles of importance, it's always good thing to have a Grimalkyne by one's side.
#campaign: hollow hunter#hkrpg#hollow knight#hk#monster hunter#mh#crossover#felyne#palico#melynx#grimalkyne#boaboa#shakalaka#gajalaka#hollow hunter: bestiary#lambert commits a draw#tw eyeless
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Allure of a Heart
The wind whistled, carrying with it the rustle of leaves and faint droplets of rain, scattering across the window. In the hearth, the flames flickered and gnawed on the newly put logs, a sense of warmth growing in the room. A feeling he could only pretend to attribute to the dancing flames by which she seemed entranced, and not the brushing of their knees as they sat by the edge of the bed together.
This new...thing between them, this wave of want that waxed and waned but never left, he could barely understand it. He could remember the days past before this journey when he violently protected the distance, the thought of another's hands on him would leave his skin crawling as the pain of yesterday came rushing back. He could still remember when a few measly steps toward his person was enough to send a torrent of panic coursing through his veins. He mostly remembered the coldness he tried to become, a glacial wall with which no weapon could break.
He had forgotten that ice, once in the presence of such glorious light, had no choice but to melt.
And oh, how he yearned to be within reach of this light, the light that radiated so effortlessly from her. When had this occurred? Surely not in the beginning, in the midst of coarse words, misunderstandings, and an even harsher silence. Certainly not when she dared to suggest that he drink less and bathe more, and when he first refused out of spite. Did this hunger begin when he did indeed listen? When, despite the warnings in his mind, he allowed her to step closer? To look at him, to talk with him, and to respond likewise with kindness instead of fear and distrust? The kindness he swore he had lost, the grace he was so sure he had forgotten
How can ice melt without so much resistance? Why did his words change and soften?
He pondered but the urge to answer these questions was slowly fading. How could they not when she looked so lovely by the light of the fire, twisting and changing like the waves of want that crashed over him. It was hard to focus on anything else in this moment but her heartbeat, going to and fro with such a calming rhythm that all he could do was follow. Lean in. Drown himself in her essence.
"Can you hear me?" she whispered, her eyes never leaving the fireplace.
He was somewhat startled, only now realizing how close his face was to hers.
"Hear you?" he asked, hoping he had not fallen into a trance, omitting the context.
"My heart, I mean to say..." she clarified, finally turning her gaze unto him, "Are you listening to it?"
It felt odd and slightly invasive to admit to it, despite the fact that at one point, he almost regaled her with the knowledge that he could hear her, even smell her at all times. At the time, it was to frighten her off, to get her to see what kind of a monster he was and that he could always be lurking behind her. Now, it was simply too intimate, too embarrassing.
His lack of an answer was more than enough though, as she chuckled at his flustered expression.
"You do it often. I cannot help but wonder why."
"It intrigues me..." he replied slowly, "...it's also very loud."
"And yours is not?"
Without even thinking, he scoffed, "You think I have a heart?"
Something between a sigh and laughter came out of her mouth, a most wondrous sound that he did in fact begin to feel his pulse quicken and the hunger consume him.
"You needn't be so dramatic, Alucard," she gently poked his ribs, "I know you have one."
Silently and in a moment of boldness, he took one of her hands, gingerly placing it on his chest. At this, her eyes with alight with surprise, both at the coolness of his skin and the fact that he let her touch him in such a manner. There was a slight shiver, where or not it was on his part or hers, she could not say. All she could notice were his long fingers, wrapped around her wrist, and the faintest ripple of his muscles. But as the shock wavered, she quickly worried that he might be right; she could not feel a single pulse.
Her brow quirked up as she looked up at him, his lashes casting shadows over his eyes, golden and glowing with a fervor she could not decipher. A subtle grin graced his lips, a sense of amusement and satisfaction settling over his features. She had never seen him so comfortable, so playful.
"I told you."
At the sight of him smirking, she huffed, equal parts frustrated and relieved at his cheerful disposition. However, she was not satiated by this revelation, knowing within herself that he was only teasing her. She may not have studied medicine but she had seen him bleed, surely a heart must be the cause of it. Inspired by his boldness, she leaned in further, resting her head where her hand previously was.
That warmth, delicious warmth. That was all he could feel. This pressing heat bubbling, rising, flaring up inside of him. Spreading like wildfire across his face, speeding through his veins, pooling in his loins. A thousand thoughts passed him by, of concern, worry, and things a gentleman should never say out loud. He sat still, statuesque, yet everything within him seemed to be burning, screaming.
And his heart, that deceitful bastard, betrayed him entirely.
Looking up at him once more, her face blazing with mirth and the threat of laughter hanging on her lips, she breathlessly exclaimed,
"I heard it!"
As if to stop his pulse altogether, he held his breath for a bit, completely taken aback by her apparent elation at having witnessed this event. Any bravado had long dissipated, replaced by an overwhelming sense of awe and a slight hope that perhaps...she did care for his heart. That his heart was worth something, at the very least her interest.
It seemed the ice was melting fast...
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
Dnd explained Frost Giants
Gigantic reavers from the freezing lands beyond civilization Frost giants are fierce hardy warriors that survive on the spoils of their raids and pillaging. They respect only brute strength and skill in battle demonstrating both with their scars and the grisly trophies they take from their enemies.
Frost giants are creatures of ice and snow. Their hair and beards are pale white or light blue matted with frost and clattering with icicles. Their flesh is as blue as glacial ice.
Frost giants dwell in high peaks and glacial rifts where the sun hides its golden head by winter. Crops don't grow in their and they keep little livestock beyond what they capture in their raids against civilized lands. They hunt the wild game of the tundra and mountains but don't cook it since meat from a fresh kill tastes sufficiently hot to their palate.
The war horns of the Frost giants howl as they march from their ice fortresses and glacial rifts amid the howling blizzard. When that storm clears villages and steadings lay in ruins ravens descending to feed on the corpses of any creatures foolish or unlucky enough to stand in the giants path.
Inns and taverns suffer the brunt of the damage their cellars gutted and their casks of ale and mead gone. Smithies are likewise toppled their iron and steel claimed. Curiously undisturbed are the houses of moneylenders and wealthy citizens for the reavers have little use for coins or baubles. Frost giants prize gems and jewelry large enough to be worn and noticed. However even those treasures are most often saved for trading opportunities with other giants more adept at crafting metal weapons and armor.
Frost giants respect brute strength above all else and a Frost giants place in the ordning depends on evidence of physical might such as superior musculature scars from the bodies of slain enemies. Tasks such as hunting childbearing and crafting are given to giants based on their physical strength and hardiness.
When Frost giants of different clans meet and their status is unclear they wrestle for dominance. Such meetings are might resemble festivals where giants cheer on their champions making bold boasts and challenges. At other times the informal ceremony can become a chaotic free for all where both clans rush into a melee that fells trees shatters the ice on frozen lakes and causes avalanches on the snowy mountainsides.
Though Frost giants consider the menial crafting of goods beneath them carving and leatherwork are valued skills. They make their clothing from the skins and bones of beasts and carve bone or ivory into jewelry and the handles of weapons and tools. They reuse the weapons and armor of their smaller foes stringing shields into scale armor and lashing sword blades to wooden hafts to make giant sized spears. The greatest battle trophies come from conquered dragons and the greatest Frost giant jarls wear armor of Dragon scales or wield picks and mauls made of a Dragon's teeth and claws.
1 note
·
View note
Last Seen Blogs
andrewperrynj
Andrew Perry
jonerys-unites
Jonerys Fandom Unites
abasnaija
Abasnaija
panthyhouselike
題名未設定
charliespringisbaby
WILL CONTAIN SHOW SPOILERS!!