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kamaluhkhan · 4 months

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THE GRUDGE (or: the 7 things luke castellan hated about you)

read part two GET HIM BACK! (or: the 7 reasons you want revenge on luke castellan)

pairing: luke castellan x child of nemesis!reader (gender not specified)

word count: 8.5k

summary: luke hated your guts. he really did. he just hoped that no one could tell how, even after all this, you're still everything to him.

warnings/disclaimer: luke's POV. spoilers for the lightning thief and season 1 of pjo. some heated make-out sessions but no actual smut - MDNI / 18+. mentions of blood + death + alcohol. luke is 19 during tlt but i wrote this with him + reader being 21 by the end of this (this is important for the next part lol). anyways, luke + reader share clothes and lots of intense emotions they maybe possibly don't process in the best way. lots of ANGST - it's a greek tragedy fr!

author's note: welcome to my new hyperfixation! this fic is LONG but i hope she's worth it ♡

♪: the grudge by olivia rodrigo

(i. you have a sharp tongue)

fourteen year old luke was overwhelmed when he first stepped into the hermes cabin. it was loud and overcrowded and no one really seemed to care that they had a new cabinmate. the head counselor showed luke to an empty bed at the back, told him to get settled in, and left without another word. luke dropped his backpack before collapsing on the mattress. it was so thin that he could feel the springs dig into his back.

"you'll get used to it."

luke sat up to see you climbing through the window.

you had a band-aid stuck on your chin, chipped nail polish the color of blackberries, and leather combat boots that looked way too heavy to be wearing in the heat of summer.

“the shitty mattress?”

“i meant the whole chaos of cabin 11, and the way things work around here in general. if you can get used to the shitty mattress, all power to you.”

your tone was friendly enough, playful even. you smiled at him so comfortably it made luke nauseous.

“good to know.” he tried to smile back at you, but his heart wasn’t in it. “i’m luke, by the way.”

“yeah, i know. i’m —”

“y/n!”

you seemed entirely unfazed as the blond who called your name stormed over to you. you rolled your eyes, something only luke could notice, before turning to her.

“someone stole my candy.”

“i’m very sorry to hear that, maddy. gotta be careful around here.” your voice dripped like poisoned honey, deceptively innocent and sweet.

maddy was not having it. she huffed at you. “it was you, wasn’t it?”

“that depends. did you cheat at poker last night? again?”

some of the chatter throughout the cabin paused, heads turning to listen in.

“what? n-no!”

“then you have your answer, maddy.” you exaggerated a sigh, as though you had already won the fight and were annoyed that she came back for more. “now, if you’ll excuse me, i have a new camper to show around.”

chiron had already given them a tour, but luke didn’t protest when you grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the window with you. your hand was warm in his as you dragged him along to the corner of the cabin where a poorly made ladder waited for you.

“come on.” you started climbing, and only stopped to look down when you realized luke wasn’t following you. “best view of camp. trust me.”

a shiver passed through luke. trust didn’t come easy to him. he also didn’t particularly want to return to a stuffy cabin where all he would do was count reasons he did not want to be there.

so, luke followed you. he sat down next to you on the roof and looked out at the sun shining on his new home, but he couldn't help but be slightly bitter. the gods had gotten all of you into this life of endless danger and battles and monsters, and this was all they had to offer in return: a summer camp.

it just didn't seem fair.

there was something else he noticed then. what was it that chiron had said? camp half-blood was supposed to be a safe haven for all demigods.

“i don’t get it. there are only twelve cabins, but aren’t there, like, a million other gods?”

you straightened your posture then, and turned to luke with a newfound interest.

“camp half-blood only has cabins representing the twelve olympians. apparently, they’re the only ones important enough to have children worth recognizing, and they can’t even do that half the time,” you explained, impertinence laced throughout your words. it seemed like something you could never quite get off your chest.

every demigod knew that the gods didn’t appreciate sarcasm. they didn’t particularly like being called out on their bullshit, either.

you didn’t seem to care; you even rolled your eyes up at the sky, as if challenging zeus himself.

“anyways, that’s why the hermes cabin is so crowded. it takes in campers who are unclaimed or whose parent doesn’t have a cabin at camp. like me.”

“so, who’s your godly parent?”

you fiddled with the leather cord on your neck. it held a few clay beads like the other campers, but there was one silver charm he noticed only you wore — scales, by the looks of it. you clutched onto it.

luke realized that, despite your own advice, maybe you resented having to get used to the way things worked around here, and having to hide your resentment. maybe that was worse than having to sleep on an uncomfortable bed for the rest of your life.

"nemesis. goddess of revenge."

"that's....hardcore."

you scoffed and moved on to twisting the silver ring on your index finger. "a lot of people take it that way, and i think it scares them a bit.”

“so that’s why you’re extra nice to new campers, huh?”

“no, i was just in a good mood today.” you smirked.

“guess i was just lucky, then.”

luke couldn’t help but smile at your laugh — sharp, biting. you nudged your boot against his sneaker, which shifted you closer to him, shoulders practically touching.

“what people don’t understand is that it's more about balance, you know? you do good things, and good things happen to you. at least, they should. you do bad things and….” you pulled out an outrageously big bag of candy, dropped it between you and luke, and winked at him. “you face the consequences.”

“that makes sense.” luke leaned over to grab a handful of gummy bears. “like karma.”

“yeah. exactly.”

you bit the head off a red bear, both of you chewing in silence before you added:

“by the way, i’m sorry about your friend.” you swallowed and caught luke’s gaze.

chiron warned him that word would travel fast around camp about what happened to thalia, and luke had prepared himself for anything — anything but your reaction. there was no pity in your eyes; instead, there was a hint of rage, as though thalia had been your friend, too.

“she deserved more.”

luke’s eyes caught the glint of a knife strapped to your belt. he took another handful of the candy you stole, and he thought about the fire and fearlessness behind your words, and, despite everything, it felt right to be with you then and there.

“yeah,” he finally whispered back. “she did.”

we all do.

neither of you said those words, but the suggestion was there, and it felt like a promise.

(ii. you hold on to every stupid, little detail)

“slow down, tiger.”

your voice echoed throughout the arena, and if luke had been fighting a real opponent, it might have gotten him killed. instead, he just stopped mid-swing, sparing another straw dummy from losing its arm.

“left hand,” you noted as you walked past him towards a bench. “you, my friend, are in need of a break.”

luke loosened the grip on his sword. the only time luke fought with his non-dominant hand was when he had overworked the other. he must have switched an hour ago, but judging by how heavy his arm felt, it could have very well been two.

his curls were stuck to his forehead with sweat, his shirt soaked through. he could feel a dull pain behind his eyes, and luke was worried that if he stopped to catch his breath, he would pass out. or, even worse, have to face the reality of the shitty news he’d gotten early that day.

“come sit with me,” you urged. “you’re exhausted, tiger.”

luke bristled at your nickname for him.

sure, luke loved that there was something only you called him, a secret kept between you in plain sight, but it was also a reminder that it was harder to hide behind the hero act when you were around.

everyone else at camp figured the nickname was a playful attempt at calling him strong and charismatic. the truth was that luke once told you that his favorite cereal as a kid was frosted flakes and that he would dream of playing sports as well as tony the tiger. for better or for worse, like most things, you wouldn’t let it go.

case in point: if it was anybody other than you trying to get him to take a break, luke could have just brushed them off with a charming smile and continued swordfighting until his arms fell off, but in the two years since meeting you, luke had never met anyone as stubborn and convincing. like him, it seemed you were willing to fight and shed blood to get your way. luke was never really in the mood to make you bleed, even when feeling like he could burn the entire world down, so he usually gave in to your demands.

as soon as he sat down next to you, you handed him an orange flavored energy drink — his favorite. anything other than water was hard to come by at camp without the enchanted goblets in the dining pavilion, or the right connection in the hermes cabin. he ran out of his stash the other day, but you must have noticed and gotten one of the stoll brothers to smuggle more in.

“thanks,” luke said, ignoring the jolt of electricity that passed through him when your fingers brushed together briefly.

the two of you looked out at the sword arena, and all the straw dummies that luke had destroyed. you wait for him to take three big gulps of his drink before speaking again.

“i guess chiron and your dad decided you weren’t ready for a quest.”

luke exhaled sharply. “how did you —”

“the only time you’d skip out on capture the flag is if something really shitty happened.” you looked down at luke’s clenched fists, and that seemed to be all the confirmation you needed. “you promised annabeth you'd be there, and it's not like you to let her down."

fuck. he had completely forgotten that tonight was annabeth's first time as team captain. this entire week, she had been prepping a winning strategy. it wasn’t like annabeth needed him to win, but luke was her big brother, and he should have been there. you were right — he had let her down.

the realization made luke’s day go from bad to worse.

"i told her you were helping a new camper with an emergency. she didn't believe it, but she adjusted her strategy and we still won.”

“well, thank the gods everything worked in the end,” luke grumbled.

“don’t thank the gods,” you quipped. “thank annabeth chase for her brilliant mind, and me for covering for your sorry ass.”

when luke didn’t indulge in your usual playful banter, you moved closer to him and brushed some curls away from his eyes. your skin warmed his forehead, and the small gesture made him feel better than he had all day.

“look, i’m not going to give you some bullshit inspirational speech about how the gods don’t get to define what a hero is, or how you don’t need a quest to prove that you’re worthy of being one. we’ve each been through that before, and i have a feeling this won’t be our last time, either.”

“then why are you here?” the question came out harsher than luke had intended it to.

“because she’s trying her best to hide it, but annabeth is really hurt that you didn’t show up for the game. i figured the least you could do is suck it up, come to the campfire, and make her those signature luke castellan s’mores. you could probably use one, too, since you haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”

you were right, again. luke was exhausted, he was furious, but most of all, he was starving.

later that night, luke sat next to annabeth and vowed to make her as many s’mores as she wanted. you’d gone to sit with the hephaestus kids, trying to convince beckendorf and nyssa to join your cabin’s post-campfire party at the beach, even though they had to work in the forges early the next morning.

when chiron made his weekly speech, congratulating the winners of capture the flag and thanking the gods for keeping everyone safe, you and luke caught each other’s gaze from across the fire. you rolled your eyes and luke bit back a smile as you turned back to beckendorf. he noticed your knees were practically touching. did you sit that close to everyone?

luke was looking at you for so long that the marshmallow he was roasting fell into the fire, despite annabeth’s warnings. she handed him another one.

"you should tell her how you feel," annabeth said. "stop being a coward."

whether it was the smell of burnt sugar, the heat of the fire, or annabeth’s comment, luke started to feel dizzy. he did his best to shake it off, asking annabeth for a play-by-play of her strategy earlier that night, but he couldn’t quite get rid of the thought of you.

(iii. you don't care if your clothes are stained with blood)

“i just….i can’t fucking believe you, luke.”

“i don’t get why you’re so upset — you’ve never cared about quests before.”

luke was hoping to break the news to you after capture the flag. unfortunately for him, word travels fast around camp.

annabeth had the two of you scouting the east side for the flag, while she and some other athena kids took the west. you hadn’t found anything so far, which meant that you’d spent the better part of an hour bickering over luke’s choice of companions for his quest. a choice that included charles beckendorf and chris rodriguez, and purposefully did not include you, much to your fury.

before you could continue arguing, luke heard the sound of footsteps approaching. he looked over to you, and you already had your shield and sword at the ready.

a few red defenders emerged from the trees. one charged at luke, but you stepped in so he could deal with the other two. one of his opponents went down fairly easily, but the other put up much more of a fight. metal clashed behind him as you kept fighting as well. you might not have been as skilled a swordfighter as luke, but he knew that you could hold your own, at least until he was finished with the person in front of him.

luke parried his opponent’s strike, causing them to take a step closer. he was preparing to disarm them, just as he heard you yelp and stumble to the ground. it only took a millisecond of his attention, but it gave his opponent the opportunity to elbow him in the face. luke felt a crack upon impact, and pain radiated from his nose; he powered through.

he had to finish this fight, and he had to do it fast. you needed him.

his ears were ringing as he finally knocked over his opponent, kicking away their sword and keeping his foot on their chest. luke turned around to see you having turned the tides, the blade of your sword dangerously close to your opponent’s neck.

you locked eyes with luke, and you both understood — it was time to go. the two of you ran through the forest, as far away as you could before having to stop and catch your breath.

luke removed his helmet to get some air, and dropped his weapons. you did the same. you looked at him, brows furrowed.

“your nose.”

luke licked his lips, tasting blood. the triumph of winning that last fight overshadowed the ache of his potentially broken nose. in fact, he liked the image of a ruthless warrior emerging from the glory and gore of battle, that even though he did not bleed ichor like a god, he still had power.

you, on the other hand, didn’t look impressed. instead, you stepped forward and offered the sleeve of your shirt to wipe away the blood.

“you don’t have to —”

“i know you think you’re a badass walking around all broken and bloody, but you shouldn’t deny your admirers your pretty face,” you teased.

it was no secret that luke had numerous admirers around camp, a fact you loved to tease him about. he was sure that you relished in how flustered that made him. all you had to call him was pretty boy, and luke could be reduced to a blushing mess.

it was pathetic how much power you had over him.

“besides, i wouldn’t have gotten out of that last fight if you hadn’t taught me that disarming technique earlier. i owe you. it’s what we do. we take care of each other, right?”

he couldn’t argue with that.

a few moments of silence passed as you cleaned his face. something shifted as you worked, the flirtatious grin fading away. when you pulled away, your sleeve was stained a dark crimson.

“just tell me honestly,” you finally murmured. “why don't you want me to join your quest?”

luke was genuinely taken aback by the softness of your voice, now devoid of its usual fire. you wouldn’t meet luke’s eyes, but being that close to you, he noticed they were slightly glazed over.

he had expected you to be angry at his decision. he expected you to yell and argue and try to change his mind. luke hadn’t expected you to be so hurt. so broken.

he hadn’t planned on it, but luke decided to tell you the truth then.

“look, karma, if you come with me, my heart wouldn’t fully be in the quest. i’d be so caught up in….well, you.”

a pause.

“is that a bad thing?”

“not usually, no.”

you smirked a little at that, and luke’s heart skipped a beat. it also made his decision even clearer.

“but i need to be focused for this. i need….” he let out a deep sigh. “i need to prove myself. this is my first real chance, and i can’t fuck it up.”

you met his gaze and smiled brightly at him, your signature spark of confidence returning.

“you won’t.”

you reached a hand up to play with his necklace. luke hadn’t noticed how close you’d gotten until your fingers started tracing over those four clay beads. it made his entire body burst into flames.

“i’ve been wanting to do something for a while. and, aphrodite save me, it might be really stupid, but —”

luke took a lucky guess as to where you were going, and crashed his lips against yours. aphrodite knows that he'd been wanting to do that for a while, too.

he often got drunk on the adrenaline of battle, the glory of winning, but nothing was quite like the rush of kissing you for the first time.

it was messy and urgent, both of you aware that, at any moment, you could be interrupted. your noses were bumping together, teeth clacking against each other. the metallic tang of blood lingered on luke’s tongue, but neither of you seemed to care. you even bit his lip slightly, as if you wanted more. armor sat heavy and cold between your chests, preventing you from getting closer. luke had never loathed the protective gear more.

he made up for it by lodging one hand underneath your jaw, and snaking the other beneath the celestial bronze, beneath the cotton of your shirt, admiring how your pulse quickened under his thumb when he grazed the soft skin of your stomach. you tangled your hands into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. he groaned and felt you smirk against his lips.

luke had kissed a few people before, sure, but never like this: like a knife to the gut, and if you pulled away, luke would surely bleed out and die.

it wouldn’t be a hero’s death, in the traditional sense, but at least he’d die happy.

how many heroes could claim that?

when luke ran out of air, feeling like his lungs were burning, he had to pull away.

you glanced down at luke’s kiss-bitten lips, then back to his eyes. luke flushed under the intensity of your gaze.

“just promise me something, tiger,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

“anything.”

“come back alive.”

luke leaned forward and placed another kiss on your lips, this one much gentler than before.

“i promise.”

(iv. you love like a scar that won't fade)

the nightmares were getting worse.

luke woke up in a cold sweat, taking gulps of air in an attempt to steady his breathing.

“luke.”

your whisper did little to quell the pit of dread growing in his stomach, but it did enough to bring him back down to reality.

he was at camp half-blood (fuck the gods of olympus), in the hermes cabin (fuck you, dad), in a bed next to yours (fuck, if he could tell you what — who — was going through his head, he would).

“i’m…i’m fine,” he murmured back, voice catching slightly on the lie.

like clockwork, you shifted from your bed to his, slipping under the covers. it didn’t matter that it was a hot summer night, and the minute your legs touched his, he could feel himself starting to overheat.

your thumb brushed over the thick edge of his scar, up his cheekbone to the corner of his eye. it had been a year, living with this reminder. a reminder that he had failed, just as much as his father and the olympians had failed him.

luke tried to pretend that he didn’t come back from his quest as a shell of who he once was. after all, it was meant to be his shining moment as a demigod, meant to gain him all the glory and father’s praise he once wished for.

what a fucking joke.

every morning, luke would crawl into a different skin. he welcomed new campers and taught sword-fighting. he laughed with chris and his other siblings and strategized with annabeth for capture the flag. he would be the easy-going, charming, skillful senior counselor who respected the gods and honored them in everything he did.

again: a fucking joke.

nights were different, though, with you so close to him, you who could always see right through him.

every night, luke was a fourteen-year old boy again, with so much rage and resentment he didn't know what to do with it.

of course, you were always you - a bleeding heart underneath layers of armor. you didn't care about fate, or the gods, or the titans. you cared about justice, you cared about what was right and fair.

most of all, you cared about luke.

“you were screaming,” you told him, voice barely cutting through the soft snores and sleeptalkings of your other cabinmates.

“sorry,” he managed. looking at you in the dull moonlight, luke noticed the deep shadows under your eyes.

“it’s fine. you just….you scared me, tiger.”

your hand still rested on his cheek, and for a second, luke hoped you would kiss him, but you didn’t. instead, you told him to try and get some sleep, and sank further into his bed before closing your eyes.

for the hundredth night in a row, luke hoped you couldn’t hear his heart hammering in his chest as you fell asleep next to him.

since coming back from his quest, luke didn’t have it in him to suggest being anything other than friends, and you didn’t push it. there had been a few....moments between you, sure, but nothing more.

luke thought you might have changed your mind, because who would want to be with a bitter, worthless, wannabe hero? then again, that voice haunting his dreams…. luke could change that.

but, at what cost?

(v. you protect people as ruthlessly as a starving dog)

luke could hear you talking to percy jackson outside. though he couldn’t quite determine what was being said, as much as he tried.

you entered the bathroom and instantly caught luke’s eyes in the mirror. you were wearing your faded pyjama shorts with cartoon crows, and a flannel shirt that luke had a sneaking suspicion might have been his. you smiled at him before setting up at the counter, one sink between you.

“what was that about?” luke asked after spitting out a mouthful of minty toothpaste.

“oh, nothing.” you were searching through your toiletry bag for something, and seemed to come up short. “hey, do you have any extra dental floss?”

luke threw some over to you. as you effortlessly caught it, he noticed your knuckles, bruised and bloodied.

“what happened?”

you finished flossing and briefly examined your hands before pulling out your toothbrush.

“it’s not a big deal,” you assured. “some ares kids were picking on percy, and then they started pushing him around, like, really pushing him around, so….”

“....you decided to send them to the infirmary.”

you squeezed some toothpaste on your brush before continuing. “i don’t need you to lecture me about how i shouldn’t be fighting with other campers because i’ve been here longer and i should be a good role model. you know what a good role model does? not let kids beat up other kids and think the worst punishment they’ll get is no dessert for a week.”

luke watched carefully as you jammed the toothbrush in your mouth and brushed with such force, he was worried your teeth might dislodge. he knew that you would shed blood for someone you loved, and that you didn’t particularly care if you had to break rules in doing so, because you believed that what was written was not necessarily what was right.

in fact, luke loved that about you.

no, it wasn’t the fighting that luke cared about — it was who you were fighting for.

percy was a good kid, he really was. luke just didn’t want you getting attached.

“i wasn’t going to lecture you. i’m guessing chiron already did?”

you nodded and spat out what looked like a combination of toothpaste and blood. you rinsed your mouth until the water lost its pinkish hue. once you were done, luke continued his train of thought.

“i just didn’t realize you cared so much about him.”

“about percy?”

luke could tell that he didn’t have your full attention. you were packing your stuff back up, accidentally tossing luke’s dental floss into your bag, but he had more pressing matters to deal with.

“yeah. the kid’s only been at camp for three days, and you’re already acting like his guard dog.”

you finally turned to luke and glared at him.

“maybe. but percy’s sweet and he doesn’t seem like the type to put up with bullshit. he’s been through a lot, and annabeth seems to like him, too. as far as i’m concerned, percy’s one of us, and i’m not going to let anyone push him around.”

luke raised an eyebrow at you. “he’s sweet?”

“yeah. like, just now, he gave me some blue raspberry jelly beans as a thank you. said his mom used to work at a candy store. he also wanted me to apologize to you for him. he feels bad about beating you in sword-fighting earlier.”

you scoffed, like you resented luke for having to apologize to him on percy’s behalf. you definitely did not appreciate that guard dog comment. luke clenched his jaw, seething over what you had just said.

satisfied with his reaction, you gave luke that nauseating smile of yours, tilted your head towards the exit. a truce, because you never liked to fight with luke for too long, and a order, because you knew luke would always follow.

the two of you began walking back to your cabin in the warm mid-june air.

“i wouldn’t say he beat me,” luke huffed. “it was beginner’s luck.”

“sure, tiger. it was beginner’s luck that disarmed the best swordsman we’ve had in the last 300 years.”

you nudged luke’s shoulder with yours, but he recoiled from your touch.

“are you trying to make me feel worse?” luke tried his best to avoid snapping at you, keeping his tone measured.

“i’m just saying that maybe the kid has natural talent and that doesn’t make you any less talented. there’s no need to get jealous.”

luke resisted the urge to growl at your suggestion.

to be clear, he was not jealous. it’s just that luke had spent years of blood, sweat, and tears getting to where he was then, and percy jackson had just gotten to camp.

and, to be even more clear, luke was not jealous of how you were already defending percy with your whole body and your whole heart, the way you did for him.

by then, you reached the front of the hermes cabin. luke could already hear the commotion of what he would need to deal with as soon as he walked in. the burden of being head counselor, one he approached with an elastic smile that could snap at any moment.

you tugged on luke’s sleeve before he could open the door.

“hey. are we okay?”

luke looked down at your fingers grasping the fabric of a sweatshirt he was just realizing was yours. your nails were painted a dark red, now chipped after a week of wear. you had begged luke to paint his nails then, and once again, he gave in. he even started to like the purple you had chosen just for him, so deep it was almost black. the same color you were wearing the first time you and luke met.

he smiled at the memory — a real smile, no plastic — and then smiled back up at you.

“we’re fine, karma.” and he moved to enter the cabin. luke could hear the threat of an argument bubbling up, what sounded like a petty one over a prank gone wrong.

“wait.” you tugged at his (your) sweatshirt once more. “there’s something i wanted to talk to you about, about tomorrow night—”

“annabeth called a meeting during free time.”

“yeah, i know, it’s just —”

“she’ll run through strategy for capture the flag then.”

“one of the aphrodite senior campers asked me to the campfire,” you blurted it out, and luke decided to ignore the sound of a fight breaking out from behind the wooden door.

what in the name of hades were you talking about?

“they asked you out? like…like a….” luke didn’t even want to speak the word, scared it would make it real.

“a date,” you said casually, as if that one word didn’t rip luke’s heart in a million pieces. “i said yes.” an admission that took all those pieces and set them on fire.

sure, in the seven years since you and luke met, you’d each talked about boys, about girls, about dating and kissing them and going further. but there was something about this one that felt different. something about the way you told him.

“but, listen, i wanted to let you know it’s not —”

“good for you,” was all luke said through gritted teeth before someone started calling his name again, louder and more urgently, and he had to duck inside.

(vi. you taste like burning cherries and righteous anger)

your team had won capture the flag, of course. the biggest news of the evening, though: percy jackson was the son of the sea god.

he was a forbidden child, the hero of the great prophecy.

everything was falling into place.

all luke should be thinking about is kronos’ plan, and his role in it, and how a world without the gods of olympus was that much more in reach.

unfortunately, for the time being, he was so consumed by you.

you, from across the campfire, sporting cutoff denim shorts and fresh wounds from the game earlier. you, who had wrapped your knuckles in gauze, concealing their bruising, fixed the chips in your nail polish and stacked rings on your fingers. (for the record: luke had gifted you the one on your left thumb.) you, with dark lips that whispered too closely and laughed too loudly with a child of aphrodite— jordan li.

you hadn’t so much as looked at luke since congratulating each other on another win. when chiron announced his weekly gratitude to the gods at the start of that night’s campfire, you didn’t punctuate your resentment with your usual eye-roll or biting remark. you were too busy giggling at something jordan said.

luke wanted to be the one to whisper jokes in your ear. he wanted to be the one you left lipstick stains on later, along his jaw and down his neck. he wanted to be the one who kissed the blade mark on your shoulder and the bruises on your knuckles.

and yet, hours passed and it seemed that the thought of luke had never so much as crossed your mind. he found himself at an after hours party with a few senior campers on the beach. a lethal recipe: a poorly crafted bonfire, some contraband drinks and you in jordan li’s lap, playing with their hair and pretending luke castellan did not exist.

meanwhile, luke had katie gardner’s full attention. she was talking to him about the strawberry season, potentially leaning a bit too close into luke’s personal space, definitely flirting with him.

luke could have done a lot worse than the head counselor of the demeter cabin, who always smelled like fresh lavender, whose eyes were the bright green of spring grass and whose lips tasted like golden honey.

the problem was that luke only wanted you, and his eyes kept sliding over to where you were kissing jordan’s cheek, and he accidentally called the girl he was kissing by your name, which did not make her happy.

katie threw her drink in his face, told him to wake the fuck up, and walked away.

a chorus of gasps and chuckles erupted as luke stood there, diet coke and vodka seeping into his shirt. the commotion seemed to capture your attention, because you suddenly appeared next to luke, an empty bottle of cherry soda in your hand.

“rough night, tiger?” your voice, that nickname, made luke sick, his face twisting into a frown. you don’t seem to notice or care. instead, you switched your bottle with luke’s and took a sip.

“looks like you were having a pretty good time,” luke practically sneered. “where’s your date?”

“they went to bed.” you swallowed a mouthful of beer, grimacing at its bitterness. “gods, this is terrible. you and i should go on the drink run next time — we have better taste.”

“so, are you and jordan like a thing now?”

you gave luke a smile he didn’t quite understand, but made his stomach churn in ways only you could. “would that be a problem?”

“of course not.” he answered way too quickly for that to be true.

“let’s get out of here,” you suggested. “i think katie is about this close to strangling you with a tree branch.”

luke glanced over your shoulder to where green eyes glared back at him.

nowhere could luke find it in him to care. he wasn’t even sorry. he just shrugged, took the bottle back from you, took his first sip all night. luke almost gagged (because of course you were right, and the stoll brothers had better fake ids than they had taste) but he suppressed it.

“no. i’m good.”

biggest lie he ever said. like there wasn’t anger caught in his throat and jealousy swelling between his ribs.

“go find jordan,” he taunted. “kiss them, show them a good time! isn’t that the reason why you got all pretty?”

you narrowed your eyes at him carefully. your nostrils were slightly flared, and luke took a bit of pride in being able to rile you up.

“look, we haven’t really talked lately, and i think we should.”

“go find jordan,” he mocked once more. “almost all the aphrodite kids are here, and i’m sure you can be quiet enough to sneak into their cabin and if you want a quick fu—”

“luke.” you clipped his name, obviously getting to the limit of your patience with him. “if you want to stay here all night and be an asshole, you’re welcome to. you should know, though, that your happy-go-lucky hero mask is starting to crack and i don’t know if you could deal with the fallout from it shattering completely.”

you leaned in close and whispered that last part, very aware of the chattering that stopped and the eyes that watched the pair of you anxiously. luke was usually good at hiding that part of himself who wanted to burn the world down.

in ways you didn’t realize, you were right: he couldn’t risk revealing it, not now.

not yet.

“do whatever you want, castellan,” you spat out his last name, the combination of letters foreign in your mouth.“i’m leaving.”

luke should be proud of himself. he waited a whole two seconds before following you like a stray dog.

luke didn’t know if he’d ever felt you that enraged by him, and it horrified him. it also made him hungry for more.

“i’m not sure that jordan would want the two of us alone together at night,” he shouted after you, words echoing into the starless sky.

“gods, enough about jordan!” luke practically ran into you with how fast you turned around to confront him. “i was helping them with that stupid aphrodite tradition!”

“you….” luke faltered, all the snark leaving his body. “what?”

luke remembered silena beauregard once explaining the rite of passage to him: to prove themselves, a child of aphrodite had to make someone fall in love with them, and then break their heart.

“why…why would you agree to do that?”

you had reached the dining area by then, and you sat on one of the steps leading to the pavilion. luke stayed a few feet away, looking at you cautiously.

“jordan and i are already friends, and they figured a fake relationship would be the way to avoid anyone from actually getting hurt in the process.”

“you seemed so…so into it, though,” luke stammered, the memory of you in jordan’s lap, laughter bubbling from your lips, still fresh.

“it’s called acting, dumbass.” the camp didn’t rely on electricity, but there were enough torches around that luke could see you roll your eyes. “anyways, i was trying to give you a heads-up last night, but you wouldn’t listen.” you took a deep breath. “and, honestly, i didn’t push it because….i figured i should test a hypothesis.”

a hypothesis? you’d known annabeth for too long.

“what hypothesis?”

you hesitated.

“it doesn’t matter. fuck, this was stupid,” you muttered, and without another word, stormed through the dining pavilion, a short cut to the hermes cabin. your footsteps fell heavy against the marble, and luke’s not far behind.

“what hypothesis?” he asked again.

nothing but rushed footsteps.

“what hypothesis?” luke finally yelled.

third time was the charm, because you stopped in your tracks and faced luke once again. a fire burned in the bronze brazier, where campers were forced to offer up portions of your food to the gods at every meal. its roaring seemed to captivate you, and the flames danced across your face, illuminating all your curves and edges.

“i’m angry at the gods,” you stated.

this caught luke off guard. from the day the two of you met, luke knew you shared that feeling. you’d gotten quieter with your rage as you’d gotten older. luke supposed he got better at hiding it himself, as well.

“i’m angry at the gods for letting bad shit happen even if they can stop it, and for building this world in the fucked up way they did. i’m angry at your dad for the way he’s treated you, but — you, luke castellan.” you finally met luke’s eyes with a gaze so sharp, luke almost felt himself bleed. “i’m also angry at you, and not just for your bullshit tonight.”

your admission felt like a punch to the stomach, and luke was left with no air to breathe.

did you know?

“you haven’t been the same since your quest,” you continued, words slow and deliberate, the way you spoke when you were worried your voice would shake. “and i’ve come to terms with that in the past few years, but you….you’ve never tried to ice me out before. you’ve been acting distant since december, and it’s been driving me insane. do you realize how much i miss my best …..” you swallowed the word friend. “how much i miss you?”

luke hesitated, because what could he say? i know i’ve been distant, but i’ve been busy trying to start a war between the gods. sorry babe!

would you hate him, if you knew?

you had to have known that, despite the distance, luke missed you. for tartarus sake, in the last two days, he’d driven himself mad at you calling a fourteen year old boy sweet, and he was about to combust at the image of you dating someone else, with little care as to the collateral damage.

"you can't just avoid me, makeout with katie fucking gardner, and then….” you trailed off, hiding your face in your hands. whether it was to hide embarrassment or tears, luke wasn’t sure.

a smirk spread across luke’s face at the revelation that he hadn’t been the only one jealous at the bonfire that night. it lit luke up with the confidence he needed to not completely fall to his knees in front of you, beg for your forgiveness for everything he’s done.

“why do you care if i make out with katie fucking gardner?”

as he waited for a response, luke walked towards you until your back hit one of the marble columns.

“why do you care if i’m with jordan fucking li?” you clenched your jaw and looked right through luke. a clear indication that you wanted him to break down first; it wouldn’t be you who yielded this fight.

“because i want to be the one you’re with.” at that point, luke was so close to you that he swore he could hear your heartbeat. he reached out and played with the hem of your shorts. “why do you care if i make out with katie gardner?”

“because.” you drew in a sharp breath when luke’s fingers brushed underneath the denim, across the warm skin of your thigh. you closed your eyes. “don’t make me say it, tiger.”

the desperation in your voice made luke want to do unholy things with you, to you. luke knew you didn’t think of him as a saint, and you never expected him to be one. the reality was that you weren’t much better, either. what was essentially an altar to the gods burned bright next to you, but it seemed neither of you had ever cared less about it than in that moment.

luke would watch olympus fall. he would dethrone the gods and watch their glass castle shatter and find glory in a new world. in the grand scheme of things, he was willing to lose this battle.

in fact, he would have rather betrayed the titan lord himself than waste another second not kissing your lips.

so, he kissed you, and you kissed him back with such force, such hunger, it was ungodly.

no, you certainly weren’t a saint — but you were divine, in the most brutal, intoxicating way. in the way you shuddered when luke lodged a leg between your thighs; in the way you threaded your fingers through the belt loops of his jeans to bring him closer; in the way the metal of your rings burned through the skin of his hip, right to the bone, which made him shudder, and you smile triumphantly against his jaw.

the more he tasted your smirk flavored by cherry soda and the ashes of nearby flames, the more he felt your feral teeth against his neck and your wicked nails digging into his shoulders, the more you tugged on his curls, the more luke thought: maybe.

maybe you would give into your seething resentment, live up to those eye-rolls and snarky comments that got you in trouble with chiron, on the edge of hot water with the gods. maybe you would join the titan army. maybe, just maybe, this time, you would follow luke.

and yet — maybe wasn’t enough if it meant he could lose this. luke wouldn’t risk it, not until he kissed every battle scar and bruise on your body, and you did the same to his.

“wait.”

it was the last thing luke wanted to do, but he complied. he took the opportunity to appreciate the chaos he created: your shirt in disarray, your lipstick a mess, your chest heaving and desperate to catch a breath.

“i promised jordan that we’d keep up our charade for a week, two at the most. do you think we could keep this…” you tightened your fist around the fabric of his shirt. “a secret until then?”

luke responded by pressing his lips to yours once more, because there were definitely worse secrets to keep.

(vii. you wouldn’t hesitate to make him bleed)

luke had just left percy jackson to die.

he should be leaving camp, now, but he needed to see you one last time.

the universe works in mysterious ways, because you were out on a run through the forest, and you crossed paths before he even had time to wonder where you were.

“hey, tiger.” you smiled as if this was a regular afternoon. the two of you would teach your afternoon activities, sneak away during dinner so luke could kiss you in that spot that made you gasp. “wanna join me? i was just wrapping up, but i could be convinced to go longer.”

for a second, he was tempted to. very tempted.

“i don’t have much time.”

you seemed to notice luke’s sullen mood and you dropped your playful demeanor.

luke explained: the messages from kronos in his dreams, him stealing the lightning bolt and helm of darkness to start a war between the gods and framing percy. the plan to destroy olympus that luke had pledged his life to.

percy was surprised at what luke had done, and luke could imagine that the rest of camp would be, too. luke was the golden boy of camp half-blood, everyone’s big brother.

you, on the other hand, didn’t express any sense of shock.

“luke.” you said his name like you weren’t quite sure it was poison. “i’m going to give you five seconds to tell me that you’re joking.”

five seconds of silence passed. you took a few steps back from luke.

“i….i should have told you sooner.”

“yeah,” you scoffed. “you should have. but, you didn’t. did it feel good, having the titan king whispering sweet nothings in your ear? all the lies about how this war is the only way to get the glory you so desperately want? it’s fucking delusional.”

“it’s not delusional—”

“yes, it is!” you glared at him. “you’re on the wrong side of a war you made the mistake of starting.”

luke straightened his posture, thinking about how hypocritical you were being.

“isn’t this what you’re all about? revenge, karma. your mom will probably join us, too. don’t you want to see the gods finally get what they deserve?”

“not like this. i can’t believe how desperate you are, to believe that kronos is going to make everything right. it’s pathetic,” you spat. “i’m not saying the gods don’t deserve to be taken down a notch. their fucking obsession with power and glory….it’s sick and twisted, but i don’t think your titan king is any better. i don’t think you are any better.”

“it’s time that the gods fall. this is the only way, even if it isn’t perfect,” luke countered. his voice was firmer now as he absorbed your anger. your mother was the goddess of revenge, but you clearly didn't understand the sacrifices, pain, and blood that was required to make the world a better place.

luke just needed to convince you.

“we’ve talked about this for years,” he continued. “nothing is balanced! there’s no justice here, for anyone. we can build a better world where we don’t have to burn our scraps and throw ourselves at monsters to get attention. we can fight together like we always have. y/n, i love—”

“don’t,” you snapped. “don’t you fucking dare. you should have died on your quest.” your voice laced with venom. one hand gripping the knife you always kept on your belt. “that dragon should have fucking sliced through you and saved us all the trouble.”

something pricked in the back of his throat, down to his stomach.

“you don’t mean that.”

“i do,” you promised. “at least you would have died with all of us thinking you’re a hero instead of the traitor you really are.”

you grabbed your knife, took a fighting stance.

“i’m not going to fight you,” was all luke could say. he noticed your hand tremble, and you tightened the grip on your knife to prevent emotion from slipping through your invisible armor.

in that moment, you have could slice through luke, and it would hurt less than everything you just said, less than the murderous look you were giving him, like he was just another monster you wouldn’t think twice about sending to tartarus.

luke didn’t even have a chance to unsheathe his sword before you charged at him, but he quickly had you pinned to the ground, the tip of your own knife pointed at you. he hesitated. the blade pressed harder against your cheek than he intended, enough to break the skin and let a few droplets of dark crimson escape.

“please come with me,” he pleaded. you didn’t answer, but you did seem surprised by the softness of his voice.

a few moments passed, the celestial bronze still between you. luke waited for you to see his way, to yield to his proposal.

you didn’t. instead, you took advantage of the situation. you wrapped your leg around his and flipped your position. in the process, you regained possession of your knife. without the hesitation that held luke back, you sliced through his cheek, deep. luke bit his lip to suppress a groan, tasting blood. your gaze set his whole body on fire as he waited for your next move. that was when you glanced down at his camp necklace, and the new clay bead added to commemorate this summer.

a turquoise trident.

“percy told me he was on his way to see you,” you realized. “what did you do?”

luke didn’t answer. he knew then that a choice ran through your head.

and it stung, just a little, watching you sprint away through the trees in a last ditch effort to save percy’s life.

there was a small, pathetic part of luke that wanted you to choose him, even if it meant you would have plunged the knife into his chest.

#this is my baby fr #really feeling the tragic hero vibe down to my core #will prob do a part 2 from reader's POV!#ofc inspired by get him back! bc nemesis!reader....#percy jackson #pjo fanfic #pjo series #luke castellan #luke castellan x you #luke castellan x reader #pjo x reader #luke castellan angst #luke castellan imagine #percy jackson and the olympians #luke castellan smut #saf writes #Spotify

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inklore · 11 months

Note

I took this concept from your inpso tag and adapted it but:

Roman Godfrey + choking you and whispering "you're mine." in your ear as he pounds you into the mattress. bonus points if there's blood.

LOVE YOUUU

playful poison

— roman godfrey x (f)reader

word count: 628

warnings: eighteen+ content, rough-ish p in v, choking, jealousy, dirty talk, mentions of creampie and blood.

note: me writing roman godfrey smut in 2023? embarrassing but hello i cannot be responsible for my actions when men are as beautiful as him ok.

Maybe it was childish of you to love the thrill of the game. No matter how one sided and deliberately rigged it was. The threat of the outcome ending in something gruesome or with your lungs burning from a fight that you started the minute you decided to bat your eyes at some sorry sucker at the bar. The thrill that shot through you when Roman’s eyes would scan the room with neutrality, his entire body growing stiff, an undeniable tick in his jaw, when his eyes fell upon you.

Upon the little scheme you had devised.

A scheme he knew all too well—a game he only allowed you to play on nights when he was in a good mood.

And thankfully for you, he was in a good mood tonight. A giving mood.

A mood that wouldn’t end in a screaming match but rather the reason you kept the game going. The outcome of a move you already had planned and hoped for even before your chess pieces had been put on the table.

“You’re mine.” His teeth graze your ear as he whispers the words with harsh restraint. The hot breath from his mouth heats your already hot body to something sweltering. Something that has you gripping his sides harder. “You know that, right? Your constant need for a reminder has my patience wearing thin,” he whispers, barely holding the bite meant to be within them. His thumb rubs the skin on your neck before he tightens his grip around your throat.

A gasp pulls from your lungs before he closes them completely. His hips languid and slow as he fucks you. As he takes his time to drive his cock into your aching pussy.

His teeth nip into your neck, “do I need to repeat myself?” Your body arches into his when you feel the light nick of a fang. “Do I need to drain you of everything until you’re begging for the life only I can give you? Do you need that reminder?” The swivel of your head is barely able to make the same impact as the whimper you let out does. “You do look so fucking pretty covered in your own blood, though,” he grunts.

The heat of his other palm grips the back of your thigh as he pulls your leg further up his body, driving his cock deeper into you. The head of his cock pushing against that part of your walls that makes you cry out until your throat is hoarse and you’re not sure if it’s pain or pleasure—or the lack of air getting to your lungs from the hand around your throat—that has you spineless and weak beneath him.

If there are two things you know for certain about Roman, it’s that he uses fucking as a tactic to get what he wants and to punish.

And with the harsh rut of his pelvis, the relentless pounding, you know that he’s getting off on your pain. Of your oversensitivity, of the need that he’s giving on the same stroke he withholds from touching and hitting the spots that would have you coming on his cock.

You haven’t earned it yet.

You know he’s thinking. That he’s testing you. That he’s playing a game with your pleasure, the same game you played with him earlier. The same game both of you are used to, but your body still has yet to not ache and mewl from the torment of it all.

“I can feel your cunt gripping my dick. You know what to say to get what you want. Or should we keep playing games, and I fill your hole and leave it dripping, and wanting for something you don’t deserve because you don’t know how to behave?”

#roman godfrey x reader #roman godfrey smut #roman godfrey #bill skarsgard x reader #roman godfrey imagine #bill skarsgard fanfiction #roman godfrey x you #roman godfrey fic #hemlock grove #bill skarsgard smut

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prettyboysdontlookatexplosions · 1 year

Text

joanna robinson on the prestige tv podcast said "often when we talk about wanting them to escape people will come back and say, like, but they're horrible people, why are you rooting for them? and i'm like, i'm not rooting for them. i'm rooting for the idea that the poison doesn't have to drip through. that there is some choice you can make or some freedom you can have in all of this if you realize it in time." and i was very struck by that as a very lovely articulation of a disconnect that exists in the ways people talk not just about succession but about all kinds of fiction, and as something i certainly relate to a lot. and to be clear i don't think when she says she's rooting for that that she means that's what she thinks the show should do or that the show going elsewhere (which is where it's going) would be a flaw or a mistake. like i am not, in fact, rooting for this the way people root for sports teams (probably. i was born missing the brain cells that allow a person to root for a sports team so i am hypothesizing here). it's about, like, this is the empathic desire that this narrative (succession and also other things) stirs in me, it touches on a particular part of my own humanity that is inescapably animated by this impulse. it has nothing to do with what i think should happen artistically or how i would analyze the show morally if i wanted to (which i don't, because it's Pretend), but it's not right to say that it's separate, either - part of the pleasure of watching the show is having that part of myself activated, and part of the pleasure is also sick vertigo between that desire and the moments where i do react viscerally to the characters' monstrosity, and part of the pleasure is also the friction, increasing by the minute this particular season, between that hope and its gradual decimation onscreen. but like, yeah, i do care about my pretend children the roy sibs, because they are pretend and i don't have to weight caring about them against anything else on earth, but also because since they are pretend, the reason to care about them is because they connect me to something i have emotions about, which is, well, several things, but the one i'm thinking about in this post is the idea that maybe the poison doesn't have to drip through, or to mix sources for metaphors that there are ways to close the portal. and, like, i don't think that's where the show's going, but the places it's gone and the place it's going are only interesting to me because of the tension they create with that wish. if it weren't for that, i... would probably not find the show interesting enough to watch, and if i did i certainly wouldn't be so motherfucking obsessed with it! lmao.

#succession

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throneofsapphics · 6 months

Text

the ebb and flow of fate part 3

(part one) (part two) (part four) (part five) (epilogue)

Cazriel x f!Reader

Summary: Then they looked at each other, some sort of silent communication passing before their expressions shifted back to neutral as they turned to examine the surrounding area. As they turned their backs on her, right when she wanted them most. A tear finally dripped down her cheek.

Warnings: injuries, blood, poison, references to past sa, death, angst

Word Count: ~5.2k

A/N: sorry this took so long!

She paced back and forth in her bedroom, wearing a track in the wood. Overreacting.

How does she fix this?

Wait. She paused. This isn’t her job to fix it. If they’re going to act like misogynistic, overbearing males and blame her for her sexual assault, she’s not going to give them the time of day. If they’re going to blame her for that, they don’t deserve her friendship..

Tears filled her eyes, as she turned to gaze at the mirror. Her hair was dull, skin pale, eyes almost … haunted. This wouldn’t do. A few deep breaths later, and she came up with a plan to get her life back.

You can explain it, a soft feminine voice whispered in her ear. It might have been Azriel who said the words, but she knew Cassian believed them as well. They betrayed her in their own way, and she wouldn’t run to them pleading.

If they really cared, they’d ask. She replied silently. The voice hummed.

Her mind came back to Azriel’s threat. Don’t leave Velaris. She could play by his rules for now. Maybe even take a bit of revenge in her own way.

She went out to Rita’s that night, reconnecting with a few of her friends. Lights flashed overhead as they danced, matching each other shot for shot. Thank the mother she has good tolerance.

That night, she took out a piece of paper and tried to focus her blurred eyes. Play by the rules.

One male looked at my ass for a secmpd.

A female tolded me i’m preeeety.

Is that a danermeous situatomn? According two you it isss.

She frowned down at the sheet. The words were barely legible, but he’d understand them. Play by the rules. A laugh left her as she folded the paper into fours, filled with messy creases.

She stumbled out of her room, kicking her heels off before she left, still wearing the short and tight dress from earlier in the night. Her feet carried her down the hallway, the world swaying as she walked.

She heard him, and slid the paper under the door, making her way back to her room as quickly as possible.

Azriel opened the door, spotting a drunk y/n trailing down the hallway, holding onto the wall. He knew she’d gone out, but how much had she drunk? He crouched and picked up the messily folded paper. Her scent combined with alcohol flooded through him. This couldn’t be good.

He closed his eyes after he read over the words. This is how she’s going to play. He should’ve known. A male looking at her ass. A female telling her she’s pretty. No threats, the bargain mark didn’t prick at him, but she was doing this to make a point.

“Fucking brat.” He cursed under his breath.

“Who?” Cassian asked from across the room, crossing to meet him at the door. He wordlessly passed the paper.

Something between frustration and amusement crossed the other male’s face. “We should frame this.”

“We’re not exactly on speaking terms with her.” They’d ignored each other for weeks now, and he knew Cassian was aching to speak to her - to clear the air and get back to their tentative friendship. But, she didn’t seem to give a damn. Going out of her way to avoid them, even training with Mor. If she wanted to play that game, he’d gladly participate.

She’s the one who all but broke their bargain. He doesn’t owe her any apologies.

Why didn’t you leave? His own words echoed, the broken look in her eyes took over his mind. She knows him well enough to know he didn’t mean that. He wouldn’t need to actually explain that, right? It could open up conversations none of them are ready for.

Weeks passed, a few more notes - none of which got any kind of reaction from his bargain tattoo. The male had only sent one letter - in response to a strongly worded one sent by Rhysand. A half-assed apology he didn’t let her see. It wasn’t genuine, and maybe she was better off leaving this in the past. Part of him questioned if he should be making those decisions for her, but he was busy enough with work he could push that down.

Two months had passed since the … incident, and she made her way down the hall. It was a day off for her, and she’d spend it out in the city, going through the various markets. Some fresh air would do her good - sun on her skin, and time away from the confines of the library. Her hair had some of its shine returned, her skin not quite as pale as before, and a bit of new life breathed into her eyes. She felt more like herself than she had in months.

Of course, she still missed the two Illyrians. But - they made zero effort to approach her, and she returned in kind.

She paused outside of the doorway to her cousin’s office. Three heartbeats. A new shield she’d experimented with hid her sound and presence completely, and their voices escaped into the hallway, clear as day.

“Why are you avoiding her?” Rhys asked. She should leave, right now. Eavesdropping couldn’t lead to anything good.

“Avoiding who?” Cassian hedged.

An exasperated sigh came from Rhys. “Y/n.”

“We don’t owe her anything. She’s nothing to us.”

Rhys snarled, she felt his power even from here.

“Azriel,” Cassian said in a warning tone.

Nothing. She left now. The damage was done. At least she knows exactly where she stands with them.

In her distraction, the shield dropped and her heavy footsteps echoed as she broke into a run.

Cassian whirled as he heard the footsteps. How had he not detected her approach earlier? Rhys’s power was still rumbling through the room.

“I didn’t mean that.” Azriel said quietly. But, she was too far gone to hear that.

“We need to find her.” Cassian fought to ignore the pure dominance rumbling from Rhys - the overwhelming power threatening to bring him to his knees. It abated, slowly.

“I don’t think she’ll want to see us.” Azriel countered.

“Tell me what the fuck happened between you.” Rhys all but ordered.

They exchanged a glance. “You know about the letters.” Rhys nodded. They’d only shown him what she’d hidden and he could put the rest of the pieces together.

“We … said things we regret.” At least he does, he can’t speak for Azriel. He’d seen her in the kitchen that day, and turned his back on her. There was more that happened Azriel hadn’t told him about. As much as he pushed, he was a stone wall - revealing nothing.

“Why haven’t you fixed it?” Rhys carefully watched both of them. His brother’s eyes were almost black, and he saw the tentative leash on his power, threatening to break free and destroy anything posing a threat to his family - even if it’s them.

“She hasn’t made an effort either.” The words came from Cassian. Suddenly, he felt … childish. Holding onto a grudge like this, foregoing friendship and something else that had built. He should’ve been the better person, to go to her and try and get both sides of the story - to let go of a stupid grudge costing him so much. Azriel was still quiet next to him. Rhys didn’t say a word, only studying the two of them.

“Fix it.” It wasn’t quite an order. “Before it’s past the point of return.”

Were they already there?

Alarm crossed Rhys’s face, eyes glazing slightly. His hand reached for the knife at his hip. He knew that expression - danger.

“She left Velaris.” Rhys stood, shoving his chair back. “Find her.” That was an order.

It had been months since the last threatening letter arrived - but immortals could be patient. A trap could be laying in wait for her, anywhere. Azriel was still trying to sniff out how they had eyes on her movements outside of Velaris.

“Any idea where?” Cassian asked.

“I’m locked out.”

He cursed under his breath.

“I have an idea.” Azriel sighed, as if the situation was a mere annoyance - a fly fluttering around his head. Cassian fought the urge to snarl.

“Be quick.” The worry in Rhys’s tone set him on edge. Azriel tensed as well, but grabbed on to his arm and winnowed them, traveling through the world through his shadows.

The sleeping mountains. She’d told them they’d been used for healing in the past, and explored them before as part of her research, he and Azriel in tow occasionally. A pit settled in his stomach. A sense, tugged against his consciousness. One he’d never heard before, a soft and feminine voice pleading; find her.

Clear mountain air filled her lungs as she winnowed to the first place she’d pictured.

A sparkling, turquoise lake lay before her - dipped beneath two peaks. A lake for healing. One of the few places she could find complete peace. Where her thoughts seemed to float away, worries became insignificant, silence became healing. She settled herself on the edge of the lake, watching the water ripple across, tossing stones once in a while. The dew from the moss soaked into her dress, coating her legs as she kicked them out, resting back on her elbows. The midday sun was a warm glow on her skin, pleasantly heating her body.

She tilted her chin up towards the sky, breathing in the fresh, clean, nearly untouched air. She let her mind drift, let the sounds of nature around her float in, acknowledged any thoughts - and let them go.

The temporary peace was bliss, weights lifted off her shoulders - she felt her body calm for the first time in weeks, maybe months. Almost like a drug, she was high on the absence of how her mind went quiet for once. No memories beating against her mind, rattling and tightening her throat.

Like everything, it was temporary as she heard the beat of wings. Loud in the way he was announcing her presence. The familiar scent hit her a second later, and her jaw clenched. Rhys had set up some way of notifying as she left the city. Boundaries, she needed to set some fucking boundaries.

He spotted her, propped up on her forearms - legs stretched out in front of her, the sheath of one knife. One. outlined under her dress. The midday sun set an ethereal glow around her, as if the light itself was drawn to her. Beautiful. She was beautiful, magnetic, and he hated how it drew him in. That wasn’t quite enough to abate his anger as he landed a few feet behind her, the slope set him a few feet above - towering over her prone form.

“I didn’t know you were this stupid.” Cassian seethed. Any earlier thoughts of mending bridges disappeared. Her fists clenched as she stood, slowly turning to face him, but she didn’t meet his gaze - her eyes moved behind and a ring of white shown around them. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. In the split second, before he could react, a familiar wave of magic, her magic, shoved him to the ground.

He was rolling, back on his feet - moving. He spotted Azriel landed ahead of him, no doubt his shadows whispering to him. It passed in minutes. Flashes. And it was over. They needed to leave now, the carnage and prisoners tied in front of them could be dealt with later. The archer, now dead, had come from the trees nearly one hundred paces away.

It took a few seconds for him to realize her magic hadn’t joined the fray.

A pained cry came from behind him and he swirled to see her, the tail of an arrow sticking out of her thigh as she fell to her knees. An arrow meant for his head. A string in his chest tightened, tugged, and his face went slack.

Look, a voice had whispered. Beyond. Not at Cassian, she knew that. Her eyes scanned the horizon, magic starting to curl under her skin, reacting to a danger she couldn’t see. Treeline - the leaves shifted in the opposite direction of the wind, a small zing - her magic acted on its own, shoving him to the ground as a blur shot through the air. There was no question about it, no chance she could let that happen to him. Not only because he came after her, but she physically couldn’t let harm come to him.

The ash arrow that would’ve gone through his head, lodged in her thigh. Magic left her at once, an empty stillness left behind. Azriel had landed as well, him and Cassian moving into action faster than she could think. Don’t look don’t look don’t look she chanted to herself, and palmed the knife sheathed on her thigh, a pained noise left her - it had gone right through the fabric and as she moved it she could feel it. Not lodged, directly through her leg.

A pained and pathetic noise left her as she fell to her knees. The wood was slick, not like blood - something thicker. Hands shaking, she reached her opposite arm across to try and grab the knife - cut the arrow and get whatever the hell it was out. Wrong wrong wrong, her body seemed to scream.

A hand gripped her wrist, Cassian’s face pale and raw. “Out,” she screamed, “I need it out.”

“Hang on a second,” he murmured, examining it. Her body was barely holding her up, but if she fell backwards it would only push it further into her - push whatever was coating it around into her bloodstream. Azriel was there as well, shadows swirled around her wound, examining. Two shields had surrounded her, tinted blue and red.

Magic ripped shredded through them like paper. She knew exactly who that was, it sung to her like a familiar sound - echoing the magic she normally could reach.

Her sister shoved Cassian out of the way, falling to her knees in front of her.

She bit the inside of her cheek harshly enough she tasted blood.

Azriel’s hazel eyes met hers as he stood behind her sister. Something like grief, pain, and a hint of anger flooded through them. The normal cold mask had disappeared, replaced by raw emotion she’d rarely seen from him. He staggered a step back - his eyes going wide, pupils blowing. His expression mirrored Cassian’s from before. Then they looked at each other, some sort of silent communication passing before their expressions shifted back to neutral as they turned to examine the surrounding area. As they turned their backs on her, right when she wanted them most.

A tear finally dripped down her cheek. .

They turned their backs, again. That pain was more than the physical. That pain struck deep into her soul. He’d meant his words. If a friend was so easily discarded, were they friends in the first place? She was nothing to them, just as he’d said. At least she knows exactly where she stands with them now. The air is cleared.

Mor’s frown followed her gaze - right at the two Illyrians, undoubtedly seeing the tears filling her eyes. She turned to her sister and saw the questioning look on the blonde’s face. She shook her head. Not here, not now, not ever. The last few months proved she didn’t need them. Want is different than need, and want she can overcome. As soon as she was well, she’d drag her sister back in the training ring. Luck or fate had him there in the nick of time, but she couldn’t rely on that.

Mor had cut through part of the arrow with her magic - her hand now reaching to slide the arrow out, instinct guided her and she snatched Mor’s wrist.

“Don’t touch it,” she snarled.

“It needs to come out,” She replied, expression cautious. Gods, she wants it out … but a sense, something tickling at the back of her neck, tells her it’s a bad idea.

“Pois-” she tried to force air into her lungs, tried to override the panic, but her sister's eyes had widened in understanding. Had the arrow been intended for her? Or designed to down whoever was in her path?

“Just nod or shake your head,” Mor said softly. “Can you feel your magic?”

A shake of her head. Mor’s mouth tightened and a small shield surrounded the wound - even as her sister’s magic seemed to recoil against it.

Cassian had to turn away from her, had to dig up every semblance of self control he could muster. The bond snapped for him and Azriel at the same moment - but he could see it in her eyes, it hadn’t for her. If he didn’t turn away right then, he would’ve done something abnormally stupid. Maybe Mor knew, because a shield had thrown up around the two of them, blocking out all sound and access. It’s likely Rhys was the only person who could break that down, or tear it away. Sometimes he forgot just how much power Mor has, of what the female was capable of.

Rhys winnowed in, with a few quiet words he’d explained what he saw. Azriel stood next to them, one eye on the males still unconscious and bound a few paces away. They turned back in time to feel Mor’s shield drop. She met their eyes - and he could read the panic as clear as day. Her brown eyes glazed for a moment, before she winnowed out.

“What?” He demanded. Rhys paused. Azriel had gone stiff next to him.

“Some kind of poison.” He said under his breath and winnowed. Take care of this. House of Wind he spoke into their minds. Another clear order.

She awoke to her sister pacing at the foot of the bed, burning a hole in her carpet. Y/n was laid on her side, arrow still poking from her thigh.

“Don’t touch it.” Mor said, spotting her hand reaching for it. She withdrew it quickly, tucking her hand up into her chest.

Normally, her sister's anxiety would increase her panic, but this time she calmed, like she needed to be the strong one now. Rhys came back with Madja, and she forced herself, promised herself she would keep her mind steady and centered. The lack of magic felt like a missing limb.

The healer hovered over her, magic running different diagnostics as she asked questions she could barely answer. Mor explained what she could, still moving back and forth.

“Good call.” Madja said to y/n, “keeping it in place.” She smiled weakly at the praise.

“Getting the poison,” Rhys flinched at the word. Madja hadn’t explained exactly what it was yet, and probably for good reason, “is going to hurt.” Like hell. Her eyes had a silent question, do you want them here? She gave a slight shake of her head.

Madja turned to them. “Both of you out. Keep a shield around here. Do not enter until I say so.” Their faces tightened, but they didn’t dare question her, only shooting a nervous glance to y/n. She nodded at them, looking more confident than she felt.

“I can’t use any pain relief,” Madja talked her through it. She had spent hours watching the healer before. “I don’t know how it will interact.”

“Do you know what it is?” her voice was hoarse and each word hurt like hell. Madja’s silence was an answer enough. She handed her a piece of leather. Y/n steeled herself, and dug her teeth into it.

Her voice was hoarse from screaming by the end - like whatever it was was fighting to stay inside and she felt each droplet leaving, but the healer said she could only get what was clinging to the arrow, what was still clenched to her muscle. Anything in the bloodstream would have to come out the natural way. She’d moved quickly to get it inside a vial - out of the air and before it could make contact with anything. Because of that, it had to go slowly, in all it took around an hour.

“Now the easy part,” she gave her a reassuring smile and yanked the arrow out before she could protest. Her teeth clenched, but soothing magic ran through the wound, stitching it back together. After what felt like an eternity, she helped her move to sit. Rhys must’ve asked her mind-to-mind, because the door swung back open the second she was situated.

Then - more diagnostics, more notes scribbled in between. Madja’s face was too neutral.

“What was it?” Mor asked.

“Bloodbane.” The two winced, although she knew they suspected it. She did, for certain, given she couldn’t feel her magic still.

“How long?” Y/n asked.

Madja clicked her tongue. “One week at least. It was a heavy dose,” she shot her a tight glance. “Once it wears off, you’ll need to be cautious. Your magic will come back in a flood.”

“We’ll take necessary precautions.” Rhys assured her.

She winced as pain echoed up her thigh, radiating through her body, and waited for the other shoe to drop. Madja clocked her movement, and slowly added, “there was a small trace of modified hemlock.”

Silence filled the room, and she could’ve sworn the temperature dropped. Modified? Madja, if she was unnerved, didn’t show it. Hemlock could kill in the right amount. “With the dose and the alterations, you can expect to feel sharp pains, perhaps just in your leg or body. Luckily it wasn’t a full dose.” Luckily. She supposed Madja was right - compared to the normal symptoms of that particular poison, she’d be grateful if that’s all she experienced.

“What can you give her, for it?” Mor asked.

From the brief studying she’d done on healing, and the books she’d read - y/n already knew the answer. “Nothing.”

Madja sent her an approving nod. “We won’t risk any interactions. Nothing for the pain, no drugs, no alcohol.” Maybe this was the Mother’s way of scolding her - of calling her a dumbass.

Madja clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Try to keep activity to a minimum. Drink plenty of water, let it run its course. I’ll come by twice a day for the first week.”

She grimaced. If Madja’s insisting on coming twice a day. She’d be lucky if any of them let her leave the bed.

The healer gathered her supplies and began to take her leave, Rhys walking her out.

Azriel had escorted the leftover soldiers to Hewn City as he flew back to Velaris. Flying faster than he ever had, he realized - like the winds were adapting around him, encouraging him to move faster - faster.

He landed on the balcony, Az a second behind him. “She didn’t …” his words trailed off, seeking confirmation. He shook his head. Maybe it was the ash arrow, blocking her magic and keeping her from realizing.

“No.” He responded quietly. “She didn’t.”

“Do we tell her?” Gods he’d thought about finding his mate before, thought about it a lot over the decades - they all had. He supposed it was some primal instinct in him, always searching for that connection. As soon as she’d taken the arrow for him, her magic working instinctively, he confirmed his suspicion. But, suspecting and feeling it snap were two very different things.

“Not now.”

Madja and Rhys’s conversation drifted through the open doors.

“Keep a close eye on her,” she was telling Rhys, intending for the two of them to overhear. He noticed Azriel’s shadows swirling around him. “The Fae Bane,” he shuddered, “is significant. One week is the minimum.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I don’t know exactly how they modified the hemlock.” His fists clenched, some of that deadly rage returning. “But the intention is pain without permanent physical damage. Expect sharp pains, depression, nightmares, and possibly hallucinations.”

“We won’t leave her alone.” Rhys promised her.

She gave a nod. “No alcohol, drugs of any kind, tonics, or pain relief of any kind. Even if she begs for it.”

Begs? Would she be in that much misery? His chest tightened. As mad as he might still be at her, the thought of her in agony is worse.

“Understood.” He replied, as if he’d heard this before. Maybe Madja was sharing it for their knowledge too.

“I’ll keep looking into it. I’ll be back in the morning” Her careful eyes fixed on them, nostrils flaring. “I need a word with these two.” She fixed a look at Rhys, who gave a quick bow and strode back inside, not bothering to look at them.

“I’ll keep your secret,” Madja murmured quietly as they approached her. She’d scented the bond - on them? Or y/n as well? Nothing flew past her. “I’ll trust you two to take care of her. She won’t be herself.” Her words felt like a warning and a plea.

“We will.” Azriel answered, in that cool and voice of his. Cassian was nearly trembling with built up anger and those protective instincts - ready to tear apart the entire house, kill any threat - perceived or real. “Tell me everything, please.” Azriel said mildly.

Madja, of course, picked up on it too - and gave them all of the details she could; in layman’s terms. Depression, nightmares, pain. He picked up on those three - the ones she put the most emphasis on. And instructed them to hide anything that might slow down the healing process. Although, he got the distinct sense the house might do some of that work for them.

She left them with one final word of caution; “I cannot guarantee how much she will remember - if anything.”

Rhys, as if sensing the end of the conversation, strode back through the doors. “I’ll take you back,” he said to the healer.

Minutes later, Rhys returned looking drained. “I’m sure Madja explained everything to you.” In more detail than he could know. “I’m not going to force you to babysit her, but your assistance would be appreciated.”

“She doesn’t need a babysitter.” Cassian countered. Azriel noticed with a hint of amusement that he’d bristled and come to y/n’s defense.

Rhys only raised his brow, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. Azriel, so far, had refused to process just how close they came to losing her. That’s something he could think about later. “For the next week or so, she does. We can’t leave her alone.” Azriel read through that; he’s terrified of what might happen if they do.

“I’ll keep eyes on her,” Azriel said with a soft menace. Like hell he’d let anything hurt his … his and Cassian’s mate. Even herself. Even if he still was pissed at her. He kept the neutral mask firmly in place, but part of him felt a bit ashamed at the relief in Rhys’s eyes. He’d harbored some doubt they would help.

“We’ll work things out.” A rotation, he figured. They all still had jobs to do, duties they had to keep. Rhys or Mor would tell the priestesses she would be off for the next few weeks. Perhaps she could bring some work for her to do here, if she had any moments of lucidity.

Gods, he had no idea what to expect - and that put him on edge more that he’d let on. Azriel worked on knowing everything, that was his nature.

“Can anyone else help?” Cassian asked, but he could sense the doubt in his voice.

“I don’t trust anyone else. Except Amren.” Something pricked the back of Azriel’s neck. He knew Amren wouldn’t harm her, but something about her always made him uneasy.

Madja hadn’t oversold the side effects. Not at all. When they entered the room, minutes after their conversation with Rhys. Mor was already wiping a wet cloth against y/n’s forehead.

Pale and wan skin, fists clenched and eyes squeezed as her leg seized. The scar was red and angry. A contrast against the rest of her skin, marring the otherwise untouched flesh. Reflexively, he looked at his own hands. Cassian, putting on a much better show than him, sauntered up to Mor and snatched the cloth from her, nudging the female out of the way. Her eyes dug into his back, but she promised y/n she’d be back later, shooting each of them a warning glance.

They had the gods-damned audacity to show up, acting like everything is perfectly normal. Like they hadn’t torn her soul in half this morning. The day had been too much. So much happening in such a short amount of time, maybe two hours if that. Words, words were too difficult as she clenched her eyes shut - a pain, one she wasn’t sure was phantom or real - ripping through her thigh.

A gentle hand ran a wet cloth over her forehead, she hadn’t realized she was panting. The bed dipped, and she blinked her eyes open to see Cassian sitting next to her. Worry radiated through his features. Where she could usually feel his or Azriel’s emotions … nothing. Maybe a side effect of her magic disappearing.

“Talking can wait until you’re feeling better.” He offered. An olive branch. She didn’t want it, so she turned her head away from him. One finger gently pressed against her cheek, dragging her attention back to him - frowning. “If you’d rather talk now, we can.”

She slapped his hand away, gritting her teeth through the pain to cross her arms over her chest. “Why bother?” Her voice was bitter. “I’m nothing to you.”

Did they both say it in Rhys’s office? She couldn’t remember clearly. Everything was blending together, memories blurring in and out.

He blinked twice. “That’s not true.” Her eyes slid to Azriel, and he gave a short nod. There was some sort of emotion in his eyes, one she couldn’t read. That pissed her off more.

“It doesn’t matter.” She muttered. Not now, she told herself. It’s not something she can talk about now. There’s too much to process. What happened earlier …

“You’re not in your right mind.” Azriel cut in. Her jaw dropped and her eyes rolled. “Why did you go off on your own?” His voice almost sounded pained. Cassian cut him a sharp look, hissing in warning.

“I’m a free female.”

“Nearly a dead one. If we hadn’t been there - the arrow still would’ve hit you, and you’d be gone.” Maybe he learned something from the soldiers already. Did he forget she saved Cassian? Well, he wouldn’t have needed saving if she hadn’t left. Her head shook, those thoughts were useless.

“Not the time Az,” Cassian snarled, standing abruptly and shoving him towards the door. Azriel’s shoulders tightened, and he strode out the door, shutting it softly behind him. Uncomfortable silence filled the room.

“You should sleep.” He finally said.

“Then leave.”

He let out a low edged chuckle. “I wish, but you’re stuck with me princess.” I wish. The words had the effect he wanted and she willed the tears away as she turned on her side, facing away from him. This might be the most miserable week of her life.

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gatorbites-imagines · 7 months

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Kinktober day 10

Miguel O’Hara + Aphrodisiacs

Reader is a scorpion variant cuz I love scorpion. This is shorter than yesterday, but i hope yall still enjoy.

Kinktober 2023 masterlist

You were an abnormality, having been picked up by a sudden portal and sent to a different dimension in the middle of a fight with your original spiderman. You were similar to most versions of scorpions in the fact that you gained your powers from chemicals and radiation, but where other scorpions wouldn’t survive without their suits, you were just fine.

You got uncomfortable at times, like your skin didn’t fit quite right, but a good full body scrub with a rough sponge made most of it go away. You had a theory it had to do with the fact that scorpions changes exoskeletons at times, and your accelerated healing factor might make your skin thicker than it should be, leading to you rubbing up against things and scratching when it got uncomfortable.

You still had a suit that you went around in, as you yourself didn’t possess a tail, though you did have poison and venom in your own body you could trigger through your fingers and mouth. Apparently producing your own poison was rare in scorpion variants, as none of the colourful spiders that came at you expected it when you clawed at them.

The big red and blue one with the elbow spikes definitely didn’t expect you to bite him, but he bit you first, so acting on instinct you struck the closest thing, which happened to be his wide shoulder. Your poison and his venom seemed to mix strangely, as you didn’t go limp like others, but you did become loopy and distracted, your body feeling hot and uncomfortable, somewhat similar to when your skin became too much.

Miquel was as affected as you, his body heating up as arousal brewed in his body, but he was better at hiding it under his suit than you, as your helmet left the lower half of your face exposed. The spiders were able to bring you to HQ, all assuming you weren’t all there because of Miguels venom, which was somewhat correct. You didn’t even pick up on them joking about your sharp canines, or how they seemed to be dripping enough venom to run down your chin. They all seemed a little tense when they saw the venom hit the floor and sizzle like acid though.

For one reason or another, Miquel seemed as feral as yourself though it could be hidden in the way he normally prowled and was standoffish to the people around him, but the feeling in his abdomen kept pulling his attention to you. Miguel could feel his tongue tingle with the deep need to taste you, something deeply instinctual inside him almost roaring to have you, one way or another.

Neither of you were completely sure how you got from one place to the next, maybe Miguel made some excuse to want to check out your poison to find a cure, as he wasn’t the only one who had been slashed with the stuff, though he was the only one bitten. But before you knew it, you were alone in the place some called Miguels cave or office.

Miguel gripped the edge of his desk, trying to collect himself, but his attempts were ruined as he picked up the sounds of groaning behind him. Snapping his head around he felt the heat inside him flare and his crotch ache, there you were, laying on the ground, the upper part of your suit completely gone as you rubbed against the floor like a cat in heat.

You felt so hot and uncomfortable, and the tightness of your gear wasn’t helping, your skin felt raw as you rubbed against the cold floor, but it wasn’t enough. Your head swam as you started clawing at your torso, dragging your sharpened nails across your skin, only serving to make your state worse as more of your poison mixed with Miguel’s venom.

Miguel felt the last of his will snap as you groaned, snapping your jaws upwards like you wanted to sink your teeth into something or someone. Before he could comprehend it, Miguel found himself above you, his suit flickering out of existence as you tore off the bottom of your suit. You were both too desperate, feeling almost high, to even fully get anywhere, as you two rutted against each other.

You found yourselves biting each other, only shooting more of your poison and venom into the other and making you both burn even further, your torsos covered in a slick mess of cum and sweat as you kept grinding and rutting. Kissing only seemed to make it worse, as you both got to taste the others venom from the source, both of your minds clouding even further and narrowing down to the act of getting off.

It became a blurry mess of limbs, spit, venom and other bodily fluids, but at some point even your shared evolved biology seemed to be worn out from the act, even though your bodies clearly wanted to keep going. Even as everything started going dark, your hips were still moving, grinding aching lengths together and lips sealed together in a poor desperate attempt at a kiss.

Lyla tsked as she watched the two of you pass out in a gross pile of limbs, both still twitching and tense from the mixture of venom and poison clashing in your bodies. She was never gonna let Miguel live this down, ever, but she made sure to note down your dimension number in case Miguel needed an outlet like this again.

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deadtired-highkeyenergetic · 8 days

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Friends...for now

Summary: Unable to sleep, you slip out of camp for a breath of fresh air and find Astarion struggling to tend to his wounds.

No matter how many times you toss and turn, sleep continues to elude you. Staring up at the ceiling of your tent, you groan in annoyance at the throbbing sting of the wound in your arm and sit up, checking the bandages. The blood hasn’t soaked through the cloth, so the sting is probably from the medicine Halsin applied earlier to accelerate the healing but it doesn’t make the feeling less annoying. It does make you less worried about your wound, however, so you decide to take the chance and slip out of camp into the quiet still night, breathing in the fresh air.

You relish in the peace and quiet, something that had been hard to come by as of late with how rowdy your companions could be but you would never trade them for the world, you enjoyed their company far too much. Among them all, Astarion in particular had caught your eye, his facade of confidence and sensuality a far too familiar mask, hiding the quiet strength that you respected greatly. The vampire spawn was an enigma, ruby red eyes letting on far more than the honeyed words that dripped from his lips. The way his words always managed to make your heart flutter, the silent gestures of gratitude whenever you helped him that made you giddy, it made you feel like a teenager hopelessly in love.

Maybe you were in love with him.

You shake your head, dismissing the thought. What Astarion needed right now was a friend, not a lover. He needed to know that people could care without wanting anything in return, that there could be intimacy in non-sexual acts, and that he could be his own person.

Once your hear is cleared, you head to your favourite spot to get away from the hustle and bustle of the camp, only to find a certain someone already sitting there.

“Oh, hello there darling. Come to see me? I’m touched, really.”

“You’re in my spot,” you snort, making your way over. “How’s your back wound?”

“What back wound?” He smiles.

“The one that’s dripping blood all over my favourite spot?”

“Ah, that one. You have to be more specific next time dear. It’ll heal in time, don’t you worry your sweet self.”

“Let me help you with it.” You take the medical supplies hiding behind the rock the both of you are leaning on and start preparing the materials you need. Astarion stares, first at the medical supplies then up at you when he realises its the exact same supplies he haphazardly stashed away upon hearing your approach.

“I don’t need your help,” he hisses. “I can take care of myself.”

“It’s poisoned, you’ll need more than this to get rid of the poison.” You take a couple of herbs out. “Halsin said to ground these into a paste and then apply the paste to the wound before bandaging it.”

Astarion scowls, glaring at the leaves sitting in your open palm. Of course the druid would go around poking his nose into other’s businesses. He tentatively reaches for the leaves, then pulls back when he realises he has no idea how to ground them into paste. You then pull out a mortar and pestel and start grinding the herbs while he watches quietly, observing your every move. Once the herbs have been sufficiently ground, you slide the mortar over to him.

“There, all done. Next time you want to use this spot, just let me know in advance alright? Then I’ll know not to disturb you.” You grin, pushing yourself to your feet. “See you back in camp.”

With that you turn to leave, but his next words stop you in your tracks.

“Wait, Y/N.”

You turn around.

“Could…could you help me treat the wound. I can’t exactly see where it is,” he admits nervously. He’s still uncertain about letting you touch his back like that, but you’ve never meant him any harm, he could let you see him all exposed, right?

“Sure.” You seat yourself next to him and he turns around, the moonlight casting a glow on his scars. This is the first time you’ve been able to properly see them, the markings permanently etched into his pale skin and your own back throbs at the thought of the pain he must have gone through.

“I’m going to wash the wound first then apply the paste, alright?”

He nods wordlessly, biting down on his lip when the pain flares up once more the moment water contacts the wound. You murmur an apology before gently applying the paste on the wound that is quickly turning an ugly green. You feel him flinch as your finger makes contact with his back, a small trembling in his shoulders and pause, unsure if you should continue. You could just leave the wound like this, the paste would work its magic, removing the poison while his vampiric healing took care of what remained. A bandage was more a precaution to ensure the wound didn’t get infected, but if he was going to remain here for the rest of the night he wouldn’t risk an infection.

“Do you want me to continue? I could just leave the wound as it is right now and it’ll heal.” You voice is gentle, soft, not like the rough and grating tone Cazador speaks in.

“Continue. Please.” He whispers the last part but you hear him all the same. A small smile flicks across your face at the trust he’s putting in you and you continue, bandaging the wound neatly. He remains as still as possible while you work, with the occasional flinch when you accidentally pull the cloth a little too tightly but a quick apology soothes everything over and soon you’re done.

“There. All done.” You pack the remaining supplies as he pulls his shirt back on, turning around to face you.

“Thank you.” He inclines his head. You smile in response, “welcome!”

He sits there in silence for a while, unsure of what else to say. He wants to express more than gratitude, to tell you that you’re the first person he’s ever let touch his back, his scars, that he’s been afraid of letting anyone near him, fearing that they will hurt him, that you’re so many of his firsts, and yet words elude him, lost to the night’s breeze.

It’s only when you check on your own wound that he finds something to say.

“Would you like me to kiss it better?”

You laugh, the melody carrying through the crisp night air. “Why thank you for the offer, Astarion, I am rather tempted to accept it but alas, the doubt that kissing it wouldn’t help in the slightest has overtaken the temptation.”

“You wouldn’t know unless you tried, love. What is there to lose?” he smirks, back in familiar territory.

“My dignity perhaps?” You chuckle.

“There’s no one else around, only you and me. No one will know but us, it’ll be our little secret.” He leans in closer and winces at the twinge of pain from his back.

“Don’t strain it,” you frown, concerned. It’s when you look at him with that look in his eyes that his undead heart skips a beat and all he can think about is how much you care for him without wanting anything in return. You lavish both time and energy onto him, far more than the others and yet you’ve never asked a favour of him. He keeps trying to pry your ulterior motive from you but nothing ever gets revealed, meaning you have none, which only makes him even more confused.

“Y/N.”

“Yes?”

“Why do you concern yourself with me so much? What is it you want from me?”

“Hm? What I want from you? Nothing, honest! You’re my friend, it’s only natural I should care for your wellbeing.” Friend, nothing more.

Friend, a foreign word to him. He’s never considered anyone anything more than a tool, a way to protect himself and everyone has done the same to him, using him for their own gains, their own purposes. Yet here you are, shattering everything he’s been used to and showing him something he never once considered. Maybe having a friend wasn’t so bad, it meant he could do things he never could’ve done alone, it meant feeling a little less alone in the whisper of the night. Most of all, it meant he could spend more time with you, listen to your voice, have you all to himself.

“Hmph,” is all he says out loud and the two of you continue to sit in silence, watching as the moon bathes your surroundings in its silvery light.

Friends for now, perhaps something more in the future.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion bg3 #baldurs gate astarion #astarion romance #astarion x durge #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion ancunin #tavstarion #durgestarion

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tojisun · 2 months

Note

hey hey hey. don't mind me, i'm just a friendly little nit who's come to bring you my brainrot of the day.

i don't know how often you write him, but - just hear me out - gaz with a mommy kink. i feel like he's the type to have lost a lot of his non-military contact with women, including maybe his own family, so he's really just desperate for feminine approval. but the poor baby is too afraid to tell anyone about it because he doesn't want his partner to think he's weird or something like that. :(

so when he comes home from an op, off his rocker from desperation, he accidentally lets it slip while he's practically fucking them like a dog in heat. what he doesn't expect is that they don't mind, and it just melts his brain to nothing.

friendly neighborhood nit, over and out.

I TRIPPED AND FELL AND PASSED OUT READING THIS OHHHH MY GOD!! my friendly neighbourhood nit i hope u know im kissing u on the mouth rn. THANK U FOR THIS BECAUSE- BECAUSE-

i was- i was trying to find this lil slip of a thing i wrote of gaz with a sugar 'mommy' and how it just makes sense... not necessarily an older partner but a mature partner yk? a partner who pampers him and spoils him; who treats him like the king he is, and he is left trembling, aching, his desire bloating-

gnawing on a rock rn !!!

god.

thinking about the way gaz is fucking you so desperately, humping his cock along your walls, muffling his moans on the crook of your neck because his little secret—the shame that he's always carried—is dripping from the column of his teeth, poisonous as it slithers on the tip of his tongue, and kyle wants to–

he wants to–

"fuck, kyle," you whimper, your moan drawing his name out in that delicious way that makes him buckle. he knows tears must be pooling into the corners of your eyes, surely staining the silk pillow sheets, and the image that forms in his mind makes him groan, deep rumbles of his pleasure reverberating from where his chest is pressed on your back.

kyle has you on your knees, gentle and tender, but the slide of his cock in your cunt had him snapping—his restraints are thinning, the fog in his mind gaining strength.

it feels like torture. like pinched pleasure.

it feels like kyle is being edged even when he knows he isn't. because his cock is rutting along the warm press of your walls, being milked for all his worth, and yet–

it's not enough.

the first sob startles him more than it startles you, but kyle is too far gone, mouth agape, letting drool stain the soft caress of your shoulder. he feels your walls clamp down harder on him, your slick gushing along the twitching length of his cock, drenching his crotch, and kyle feels the need throbbing from his gums—

"god, mommy."

the fear that shoots through him is instant, snuffing the peaking elation of his pleasure. apologies gather on the base of his throat, choking him, cutting his air supply short.

messed up, he thinks to himself, already slowing down, pulling away. i fuckin' messed up–

"where's my baby goin', huh?" you croon, desire heavy on your tone.

you turn your head lightly, not enough to meet his eyes but enough that your voice is no longer muffled. "mommy didn't say you could stop, sweet boy."

kyle's body locks, his arms buckling, leaving him to stumble, all of his weight bearing down on you. his cock hits somewhere deeper at the sudden action, snug along the grip of your wet cunt. then, kyle cums, ecstasy razing through him as he mewls, his eyes shut close at the intensity of his pleasure.

he doesn't notice that he's humping your pussy as he shoots his warm cum into your cervix, stuffing you whole. like the good boy that he is.

"mommy, so fuckin' good f'r me. so good f'r me," kyle babbles, words slurring and incomprehensible.

white noise fills his senses, his eyes met with an explosion of blinding static. he is deaf to your squealed moans, not realizing the litanies of your own praises dribbling from your spit-slicked lips until the explosion of his pleasure peter into a quiet simmer.

shame curls in his heart, only for it to be snuffed out because you say, "my perfect boy. s'good f'r me. s'beautiful f'r me."

prickling feeling envelops the backs of his eyes, his body trembling at your continuous reassurances.

you coo, "always makin' me feel good. always pamperin' me. y'r the loveliest boy, kyle. my lovely boy."

kyle hides his face on the back of your shoulders, stifling his sob.

"thank you," he says, voice a quiet tremble.

"shh," you say, breath hitching at his aborted movements, feeling his cock still hitting your sensitive parts. "won't you make mommy cum now, lovie?"

"f'course," kyle replies, heart still wavering because–

how was it all so easy when it comes with you?

he knows you and him will have to talk about this later—semantics need to be smoothed out, establish boundaries. make up rules for kyle to follow.

he shivers, cock twitching with new interest.

"'of course' what, darlin'?"

kyle breathes in sharply at what you're asking. then, "f'course, mommy."

you hum, a happy titter. "good boy."

#anon #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz x reader #kyle gaz smut #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #cw mommy kink #female reader #ask #suns

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bg-brainrot · 26 days

Text

The Night They Slept Together

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Summary: Tav pines, and their relationship with Astarion shifts ever so slightly. (They literally do just sleep)

Tags: 2nd person POV, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Pining, light hurt and angst, Astarion is Bad at Feelings, coping with feelings, act 2, pre-confession

A/N: some light angst as Tav comes to term with their feelings but we already know where they end up, so it's okay, right? :D

Word count: ~2.1k

Your tryst with Astarion should be over by now.

It was supposed to be a one off moment of passion, a way to destress after all of the danger you’d thrown yourselves into. He’d asked so easily, you’d agreed just as readily– a quick celebratory moment after defeating that goblin camp, when your spirits and libido were running high.

The second time? Well, that was easy to write off as well. You’d just fought off an entire creche, moving through it like a pair of practiced assassins, a synchrony you haven’t felt since– well, you’re not certainly you’ve ever felt so in sync with someone. Either way, it was another easy nod to his sly, questioning look.

You’d had similar excuses for your first night in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, for the handful of midday, afternoon, midnight romps since.

It’s just a way for us to cope with the situation at hand, nothing more, nothing less, you’d told yourself.

That is, until you’d realized that it wasn’t just that. Not to you.

Oh gods, I love this insane vampire.

The night you’d realized that everything had changed.

What had begun as a distraction for you both, had turned into a poison– one slowly working its way through your system, incapacitating you piece by piece at the thought of another night falling into his arms, sinking deeper into the throes of an impossible love.

After all, what is this other than convenient? And if you continued to be a mere convenience to him, well, you doubt that this would end well for you. It’s high time that you cut off the source of this poison before it festers too far. Before it grips your vulnerable, aching heart.

That’s what you’d told yourself, but you’re finding it so much harder to cut off the source when he’s standing right in front of you, waiting for you with a smirk toying along the edge of his mouth, an eyebrow raising suggestively as his voice lowers to a sultry invitation.

You’d come by his tent to say goodnight. Maybe, ‘Good job today.’ Any excuse to see him really, but now you’re met with a challenge.

Astarion’s words don’t make it much easier either.

“Oh my dear, you look positively wound-up after today’s bouts. Care for a little… unwinding?”

His voice drips with promise, with want, with a feeling that echoes through your own traitorous core. But, like a sweet that’s overstayed its welcome, it seems too tacky, hardening into something utterly indigestible.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” you ask, eying him carefully, fighting down your own building desires.

“Why shouldn’t it be?” he asks, a raised brow lowering in uncertainty.

You hesitate, unsure how much truth you’re willing to part with. Certainly not, ‘Because I may have accidentally fallen in love with you.’ And you don’t want to shove him out of your life unceremoniously either. Just… to slow down, allow your heart time to adjust– to get over him, if need be.

After a pause that goes on for a second too long, you finally settle on, “It just seems as if we’ve already had plenty of ‘fun’, don’t you think?”

Astarion’s small smirk drops, a dark look entering his eyes as he registers your words, how they directly counter his own from your first night together. How they fall between you with the full weight of rejection. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown shy now, darling?” he says, voice a bit sharper than what you’re used to.

You’d known that trying to slow down wouldn’t be easy, but his downturned lips make you want to take back your words, dive back into the intoxicating miasma of his cold embrace. But you also know that if you don’t stand your ground now, you’re liable to fall too far too fast.

“Not shy per say,” you respond, measuring your words carefully. “Merely wondering if that’s what you want.”

Astarion seems no more placated by these words than your earlier ones. “And what makes you think I wouldn’t want this?”

Fear born of your heart, insecurity born of your nerves, damned logic born of your head– there are really so many reasons he wouldn’t want this, wouldn’t want you. But you don’t want to be too transparent, not when this adventure could all be over very soon. You say as much.

“Well, our days could be numbered.” Then your lips continue. “Perhaps there is someone else you would rather be unwinding?” The question slips out of you, an unbidden, unwelcome concern courtesy of the fear building in your chest.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, response quick, tone biting. His lips are pressed in a tight line, the muscles in his neck tense as he clenches his jaw.

Gods, you’d known your heart would lead you astray. Here you are, facing an Astarion unlike any that had made a home in your bedroll. An Astarion made of sharp edges and cutting words. Expression closed, mouth a tight line, you find his change in demeanor aggravating. You bristle at his accusation. “No, Astarion. I don’t want that. If I did, I wouldn’t be here, speaking with you. Though you’re making me regret doing that much now.”

He tilts back at your words, leaning back on the heels of his feet as if thrown off balance. “Then why did you even come over? To reject me then to–to taunt me?”

You had meant to do none of that. Really, you’d only come over out of habit, to see him, to… spend time with him. But it’s hard to say so without being entirely too forthcoming with your feelings. You wish that you could put your feelings into words, however it’s your burden to bear, not his. He has more than enough on his plate between the Absolute and Raphael’s deal.

So you shake your head at him. “I didn’t mean to reject you, Astarion. I hadn’t come here for sex at all.”

Once more, he asks the question you do not want to answer. “Then why did you even come over?”

You could lie. It’s as easy as breathing for you– it’s how you and Astarion had grown so close so quickly. You should lie, you tell yourself. But one look into his crimson, pleading eyes and the lie dies on your lips.

He looks hurt. So genuinely confused at your presence in front of him, deeply convinced that you could only be here for one thing and one thing only. And you know then that you can’t lie.

“I wanted to see you,” you say, the honest words tightening your throat on their way out, You haven’t told him how you feel, but you may as well have, with the way the words sound utterly, sinfully soft, a secret lost on the cold wind of the Shadow-Cursed night.

“You… wanted to see me?” he repeats, tone losing all of its edge, losing any of its structure at all.

You nod silently, uncertain if more words would help or hurt the situation.

To that, Astarion only blinks. His mouth opens, head tilting in that cautiously inquisitorial way, as he asks, “And then what?”

There was no ‘and then’ in your mind. Merely the need to see him, spend time with him, even after spending an entire dark, dreary day with him. But you suppose he wouldn’t understand that if you said it. So you need to come up with something concrete, a reason to be here beyond words…

“I was wondering if you wanted to share a bedroll tonight. To sleep,” you say, infusing enough confidence in your words that you can hardly note the nerves. You expect Astarion wouldn’t notice them at all.

His defenses noticeably drop, his shoulders sagging in relief, and a sigh escapes him as he shakes his head at you wryly. “Well, why didn’t you just say so, darling? I understand that not everyone has my stamina, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

You want to roll your eyes, defend your honor as it hangs on by a thread, but you’ve narrowly avoided disaster and you’re not proud enough to ruin that. Instead you play into the role, ignoring the dull twinge that twists through your heart. “I wasn’t sure you would be so magnanimous,” you say, giving him the slightest bow of your head. “I should have known.”

“That you should have,” he says with a breathy laugh and he sounds almost… relieved?

More than anything, you want to ask him, why? Are you relieved that my feelings have stayed silent? That this thing between us remains uncomplicated? That you don’t have to find yourself a new distraction?

But your questions stay just as buried as your feelings do.

Your damnable feelings, which seem to threaten to burst out each time his eyes linger too long, with every touch you weren’t expecting. It must be a talent, holding them in as you do now.

They stay hidden as he extends a hand to you, inviting you into his tent with a warm smile and a, “Shall we?”

You keep them dormant as you follow, tucking your head into the now-familiar red structure, narrowly avoiding the mess he’s left inside.

They almost slip to the surface as he pulls you down onto his lap, and a heat rises between you as natural as steam from a hot spring.

It’s an invitation, of course. One last effort from Astarion for something more tonight, for you to be won over by his beauty and charm. But there’s nothing to be won over because you are already his.

You wish he could tell, from your drunken declarations, from the way you’ve made a second home in his arms. Maybe he can tell, but refuses to acknowledge it– you could hardly blame him if that were to be the case. But you also can’t blame yourself for barely holding back.

Even now, seated in his lap, staring into his mesmerizing red eyes, you’re not certain you could trust a single word that comes out of your lips. So you throw every word you’ve ever known, could ever know, to the wayside. And simply kiss him.

You press your lips to his slowly, contact feather-light as you balance on his thighs. Bracing yourself with a hand on his chest, you lean in, locking your lips together fully.

They move together easily, dance partners on a familiar dance floor, to a practiced tune, but when you think of all of the things you wish you could say, an urgency rises in you– a deep-seated need to tell him how you feel, even if only through this.

So you kiss him harder, your hands holding him all the tighter. You kiss him with every word unspoken, every intangible feeling rising in your chest, every single ounce of you that he’s already won, if only he were willing to claim it.

Astarion moves to deepen the kiss, placing a hand on the back of your head, the other on the small of your back, not understanding where your desperation comes from. Misunderstanding your intent altogether.

Of course, what was I thinking? you wonder to yourself as you pull away, panting lightly. That some magical kiss could make this man realize my feelings, could make him love me back?

But you’re not in some copper novel. This man harbors no hidden feelings for you. Only a deep need to lose himself, and you happen to be the person he’s chosen to do that with.

So, despite the confusion in his face, you crawl off of his lap. Despite the way his hand trails along your side as you lay down, you don’t get back up. You merely say, “It’s getting late, we should get some rest.”

Astarion murmurs his agreement, but you can hear the reluctance in his tone, see the bewildered expression on his face as he lies down, all of his clothing still covering his body.

You could laugh at the absurdity of it all, how unnerved he is, how deeply your chest aches– gods, this didn’t go well at all. But you don’t laugh. Only a sigh escapes you as you wrap your arms around him, as you press your body to his with all of the affection you cannot contain.

His arms stumble, they falter, but they find their way around you as well. An awkward embrace from a man who has no clue how he’s arrived at this point.

It’s difficult at a moment like this to remember that you shouldn’t love this man. That there are a dozen reasons to tamp down your feelings, a dozen more to run away. This was never supposed to be more than a single night of fun.

But, face tucked into the crook of his neck, hands clutching his loose shirt, nose filled with his carefully curated scent– you can almost pretend that this is real.

#astarion #astarion x tav #fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x reader #rogue + rogue #astarion fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion x gn reader #astarion x gn!tav #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion is bad at feelings #spawn astarion #hurt comfort #lightly angsty #mainly pining

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shinsocest · 2 months

Text

No. 002

Notes: Another reupload with some minor little touch-ups ♡ but I'm feeling some spark lately and just waiting for my attention span to take it easy on me and give me a fighting chance

Warnings: fem!reader, humanoid but definitely monsterfucking ♡ voice kink with a touch of hypnotism, blood, good ol' size difference

“Won’t you turn around?”

His voice makes it feel like the bright summer sun is still warming your backside even though night fell long ago.

“I want to see your face. Please?”

Your breathing is labored, your pulse roaring in your ears so loudly that you can’t hear your own steps, the crunch of leaves as you keep your eyes glued to the forest trail. Not that you can tell, but the forest is silent save the voice behind you. It’s as if the very trees are holding their breath in fear, or sick anticipation.

It’s agonizing to ignore the voice that seems to trail only a few steps behind you at all times, and it’s only the words your grandmother had drilled into your head all your life that keep you from turning around.

Don’t look behind you. If you must enter the woods, never look behind you, not even for a second. Or you’ll never be seen again.

“Come now, you must be curious. I can tell—you want so much to see me.”

You shudder at the purr in his voice and how he seems to be looking into your mind, plucking your thoughts for himself.

“I’ve seen you, you know. You’re in this forest all the time. Always during the day. Always so careful.”

Your footsteps falter before you right yourself, chest growing tight as your breathing goes shallow. You move faster, but his voice never gets any farther away.

“You always leave before the sun sets. Always. So tonight makes me wonder, maybe you wanted to meet me.”

Why does he have to sound so human? You’ve heard the stories from everyone; the hushed whispers from frightened women that carried farther than they think, the low rumbles of worried hunters that found their way to the ears of everyone in town. You know what he really is.

“Fur as black as night. Unnatural the way it stands like a man.”

“I heard they’re yellow, the eyes of a true monster. The stuff of nightmares.”

“Claws that look like they can rip through bone if it so much as touched ya.”

“The teeth of a demon, that’s what it must be.”

“Legend says even Hades spat him back out. That beast is poison.”

Demon. Beast. The stuff of nightmares. That’s what creeps behind you in these woods, haunting your footsteps like a dutiful shadow. Silent. Dangerous. Lethal.

But his voice? No one ever said anything about that. It makes you question everything, enchanting your mind with how rich and charming it is, how warm, calling out to you like a siren song. You feel yourself torn two ways, fear wants to send you running back to town, never to enter these foul trees again but your curiosity wants to turn and face him, to find out if all the stories and legends are a lie. How could such a voice belong to a monster?

“That’s it, isn’t it? If that’s what you want, just turn around and see for yourself.”

Your vision blurs and something warm drips down your cheek. When did you start crying?

“Don’t you know how long I’ve waited to meet you? Maybe this is fate. Why else would you be here?”

The edge of the trees is in sight now. Only a short distance until you’re safe. So why are your steps slowing? Why are you doubling the time it would take you to exit these woods? Maybe you’re wondering if he’s right.

His voice seems to reverberate through the trees, getting stronger and more enticing as the distance grows shorter.

“Can you live with not knowing? I can promise you now, if you leave, you’ll never find out. You’ll never get the chance to see me again. I’ll make sure of it.”

That promise would be a gift, a blessing among blessings, to everyone you know—so why does it make your heart thump heavier? Why does the thought make you feel so hollow? Your steps carry you, shaky and regretful, outside the treeline and then you stumble to a stop, dragging air into your lungs with heaving breaths. Your head spins and you don’t know how long you stand there. The trees are silent behind you and so is the voice. Maybe he really is gone, like he said. Gone forever.

That same accursed curiosity grips you so tight that you can’t breathe, and you turn, scanning the forest with wild eyes.

Almost immediately your gaze falls on the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. He’s tall, taller than any man, and his hair is black and carelessly ruffled. His features are strong and masculine, with a sharp jaw and a straight nose. Where is the monster? Surely this can’t be him… But his eyes are yellow and glowing just like the stories say.

He wears no shirt, and his tanned skin almost glows in the moonlight that dapples through the gaps in the trees. His legs are cast in shadow from where he leans against a tree, covered in black rags. Your eyes dance over his broad shoulders and tapered waist, briefly taking in the raw strength and rippling muscle, before flicking back to the face you can hardly bear to look away from.

“There you are. Thanks, sweetheart.” For a moment he smiles, and it strikes you dumb with the beauty of it. Blinding, distracting. You almost don’t see his eyes go from yellow to red. Almost.

He lunges and you scramble back and turn to run, driven on pure animal instinct, but you barely make it step before something closes around your arms and begins to drag you back under the canopy. You kick and struggle and scream to no avail, clothing ripping as it tangles with the brush as you’re pulled farther and farther away from the familiar trail.

Your next scream gets muffled into a warm palm, but it dies in your throat when something sharp pricks at the skin of your cheeks. Eyes wide with panic, you struggle, only to be bodily turned around to see him giving you a feral smile, interrupted by the finger he raises to his lips. Ivory claws adorn the ends of his fingers, monstrous and lethal, and you realize that they are the same as the ones clutching your face.

“Shhh. Don’t scream again, okay?” He smiles and now that you’re closer, you can see that his teeth are those of a predator. Razor-sharp, carnivorous fangs with serrated edges. How did you miss them before?

You close your eyes and turn around, leaning against a nearby tree as if it will help tether you, or shield you from your current fate. He lets you pull away, but he still crowds up behind you. You can hear his nails—claws—scraping against the rough bark as he leans closer. And the rags on his legs? They aren't rags but fur, you can feel the coarse bristle through the tears in your clothing, his significantly higher body heat leaching into your skin. For a moment, the warmth is comforting.

“Won’t you tell me your name?”

It’s much easier to forget what’s behind you with your eyes closed. As long as you listen to the saccharine sin of his voice, everything will be fine.

You gasp as he grips the back of your arms, impatient for your answer. There’s hot pain burning through you where his claws pierce your flesh. “I want to know what to call you. I think a long time ago I was called something… a name.” There’s a heart-pounding silence as the creature seems to get lost in thought, but his hold on you is no less vicious. The silence breaks with a self-satisfied purr. “Ah yes, Tetsurou is what they called me.”

The sound of his name falling from his lips seems to light a fire within you, and you gather the courage to whisper your own into the night.

Tetsurou repeats it slowly as if he’s savoring it, and the effect is immediate. You fall limp in his grasp and your pain is slowly forgotten, and with the way your blood turns to rivers of liquid fire, you swear there must be something magic to his dulcet tone because you can’t explain the way your body is responding. This heat boiling within you can’t be natural; why would your body be responding so positively to a monster, this creature? As human as he appears, you know for sure he is not. It must be magic. It has to be. Because the alternative is...

He’s silent for a moment before asking slowly, “...Do you like the sound of my voice? Is that it?”

You whimper and nod, keeping your head lowered. Tetsurou grows still behind you and then he emits a small huff, as if amused. Then he purrs your name softly, almost crooning it to you.

The noise it tears from your throat is almost inhuman.

Tetsurou groans. "I've been waiting for you for a long time, did you know that?" A breathless moan rattles in your throat as something hot and wet drags against the side of your neck, despite the sharp claws that still dig mercilessly into your arms. "I can smell you—you—for miles. I can pick your scent out of thousands of others. Would you like to know why? Go ahead and ask me why."

“Why?” You tremble, trying to be still as he shifts behind you, pleased by how quickly you’re beginning to respond. You wait with bated breath as he pauses, teasing you with his silence. Seconds tick by and all you can hear is the rush of your pulse as you wait impatiently for that warm voice of his to speak again.

“Because you have the sweetest blood of anyone in that little forest town.”

You freeze. “Wh—What?”

“In the last three hundred years, I have never hated the curse binding me to this forest, not really. After a few decades, I stopped feeling the hunger; I stopped feeling the loneliness. I was satisfied with my lot, tempting a stranger here and there into turning to face me so I could be allowed to touch them. It was only when I first caught your scent did I truly begin to hate it. I thought I understood madness,” he chuckles lowly, drawing a tingling shiver out of you at the sound. “But I was wrong. I felt true madness knowing I would have to wait for you to come out here on your own, torn with the idea that you never might. I know the legends I’ve created—I enjoyed creating them. It brought me amusement for some years. But I cursed myself every day for years when I realized I may have cost myself the chance to—” A rumbling growl sounds above you, interrupting his rant but you’re still and starstruck, bound by his voice. “For some mere entertainment. No source of entertainment could ever be worth losing this.”

He groans as he presses his nose to your neck and inhales and you gasp as he shifts and you feel something hard and warm pressing into your back.

“Are you still listening?” There’s laughter in his voice that makes your blood sing praises.

“Yes.”

“You really do like my voice, huh?” Tetsurou lowers his tone to a purr that raises pleasurable goosebumps across your skin, heat prickling beneath it.

“Yes,” you moan. You’d give anything to listen to him speak for the rest of your life.

“I guess the spirits did take pity on me when I asked them for something that would give me a chance to keep you.”

You’re barely processing his words anymore. All you’re aware of is how the longer he speaks, the more you feel as if a cocoon of safety is being wove around you, warm and secure. It’s all you’ll ever need.

"I bet you'd do anything I ask." It's almost as if he's talking to himself, but then his words drip like honey and you know he's talking to you once more. "Wouldn't you sweetheart? You'd do anything for me, right? I'd do anything for you, you already know that."

"Um, I—" You feel dizzy. You're drowning in him, any whispers of discontent quieting to the back of your mind as a careful hand traces the column of your throat. The movement is so gentle that you forget to be afraid. There's nothing left but the desire to hear him speak and the curiosity that brought you here in the first place.

"Tell me yes." Tetsurou murmurs.

"Yes," you breathe. "Anything."

An approving growl rumbles in his chest, followed by the sound of shredding fabric. As the brisk night air tickles your skin you realize that it was your clothing being torn from your body.

You gasp as you're pulled away from the tree and spun to face him once more. His eyes are still red, and rapt with hunger. A flutter of fear and anticipation twists in your stomach as your eyes trace lower to see what hangs between his legs. It's no doubt a cock, but much unlike one you've ever seen. It's large and covered in swaths of veins, but it also has a tapered tip that is drooling obscenely and bumps and ridges that you're ashamed to admit heighten your sick curiosity. He's so much bigger than you that you begin to doubt.

Tetsurou traces a claw between the valley of your breasts. "I can't promise it won't hurt, but I can promise to make it worth it. Understand?"

"Y-yes." Your voice shakes.

"Good." Without saying another word you're yanked to his chest. Before you can so much as squeak in surprise, his teeth are buried in the flesh where your neck meets your shoulder.

Tetsurou's moan is completely drowned out by your howl of pain. It hurts so much. You can feel your blood rushing to the wound and down your chest. Thankfully he releases you quickly, his tongue hot as he laps at the streams of red pouring from the wound.

"You taste so good." His eyes are wild, lips and chin dripping, his sharp teeth coated in crimson as he smiles at you. "So good. I knew you'd be perfect."

"H-hurts," you whine, shaking. "Oh my god, it hurts! Tetsurou—"

"Mmm," the beastman shudders. "You sound real good saying my name like that, my darling." He nods along with you as you continue to cry about the pain; he doesn't even think you notice that you're no longer standing as he hovers over you, curiously rutting his throbbing length over your bare cunt. He grins as he notices that you're wet. Not enough for his cock, but he can do that enough for the both of you. "You agreed to this, but don't worry; I won't bite you that deep again. I can't have you bleeding out on me. I want to keep you after all. I just needed to taste you so badly."

There it goes again. The sound of his voice is making your pain float into the background. Your vision fuzzes in and out as you stare up at him, open-mouthed and panting.

"That's my sweet girl. You're so well-behaved," Tetsurou purrs, continuing to slide his length between your folds to stimulate himself. Each drag on your plush skin causes more slickness to gush from the tip of his cock. He's growing impatient but he doesn't want to break you. Not yet.

He's so hot, and you can feel yourself squirming. The heavy weight of him against your cunt is awakening your arousal and your breathing quickens. You're really doing this, and you're enjoying it. One of his ridges catches against your clit, drawing a breathy moan from your lips.

Tetsurou pauses for a moment and grins when you whine in protest. "This? This is enough to make you feel good? Humans are so easy to please."

"Tetsu—" You're cut off as he leans down and kisses you. If you could call it a kiss. His tongue is licking sloppily into your mouth—you shudder at the coppery tang of your own blood—and there's no pattern to his movements. He's simply greedily taking what he wants. It distracts you from the firm press of his cock as he lines up with your slick-soaked core.

But no amount of tongue and spit could distract you from the way he shoves inside your dripping hole. You choke and jerk your head to the side, mouth open wide in a soundless scream as you try to adjust to the sudden, thick intrusion. Between the both of you, you're wet enough, but with no preparation, there's sharp discomfort in how full you are.

Tetsurou groans deeply at how warm and tight you are around his dick, giving a few experimental thrusts, grunting as your walls spasm and protest. "You're a lot tighter than I expected, I'm not sure I can fuck you like this."

"Slow! Gimme a minute!" You find your voice suddenly and beg. "Big, 's too big, it wasn't supposed to fit!"

"Not supposed to fit," Tetsurou barks a small laugh. "My dear sweet, it was always going to. You’re mine, have been since the moment you turned around. You feel amazing, so just relax for me okay? Everything's going to be fine." He lowers himself onto his forearms, but not before grabbing you by the thighs and locking your legs around his tapered waist. He coos your name, moaning when it causes you to clamp down on him even more. "Do you hear me? Relax, darling. Calm down for me."

"Okay, okay. Okay—" you whimper and babble, repeating the word mindlessly as you try to comply. Tetsurou is still whispering sweet nothings in your ear as he begins to fuck into you again, each dulcet syllable turning making you feel as if a current of electricity is lighting up across your whole body. Your toes curl and your eyes clamp shut, chest heaving as you emit loud moans and warbling cries. Tetsurou groans heartily as your pussy relaxes and begins to suck him in, thrusting his hips more fervently until he's battering the entrance of your womb.

"Ah, fuck. There you go. Good girl," he murmurs, pleasure making his voice breathy and warm. A growl rumbles in his throat as you moan and your eyes roll back. He sits back on his calves, keeping you down with a hand on your chest as he rolls his hips into you again. Sharp eyes are watching the way your tits jiggle, the tremble of your thighs, the way you're leaking around his cock, the obscene squelch-like music in his ears.

His eyes zero in on your clit, swollen and throbbing pathetically from neglect. He drags the back of his knuckles across the bundle of nerves, eyes lighting up and taking in the way you moan loudly, back arching as you try to shove your hips towards him for more friction.

“Is that what you like?” Tetsurou muses out loud, not pausing in his thrusts. He does it again, harder, licking his lips when you squeal out a litany of ‘yes’. Your silken walls are throbbing around him, clenching and fluttering. “Those are some pretty sounds. Are you close? Look at me.”

You look up at him with tear-clumped lashes. Something is boiling and twisting inside you with each snap of his hips and all you want to do is reach it. “Please, I wanna cum.”

“You want to cum?” It sounds like he’s mocking you and it makes you gasp, nearly sobbing your reply.

“Tetsurou, please! Yes, yes!”

His grin is feral as he leans in and nips at your breast, drawing his tongue through the blood that slipped down your shoulder. He nudges at your clit once more and his command sends shivers across the planes of your body

"Then touch it. I'm sure you don't want me to. I could… miss." His words are teasing and you recall his claws with a shiver, immediately reaching down and circling your clit desperately. Your head falls back against the earth and you wail out as he starts timing his thrusts with your movements. His pants are getting quicker, interrupted by heavy grunts and groans, each one getting louder.

“Fuck—”

Tetsurou swears and moans your name and it’s the final snap. You come undone with a scream that echoes throughout the trees, and it’s the fierce squeeze of your cunt that tips him over the edge, leaving the beastman to snarl and slam into you one last time before something slick and hot fills you up.

It’s not long before a new story becomes whispered in that quiet little forest town. It speaks of the ghost of a lost woman who wandered too far from the trail one night and was never seen again. If one stops to listen, they might hear her cries echo through the forest at night, an eerie reminder to not stay in the trees too long.

#haikyuu x reader #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu smut #tw.monsterfucking #tw.blood #yuli writes

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gxthicwxrm · 1 year

Note

Hi! Can I request an Alicent's innocent daughter who pregnant dark!Daemon's child? I'm really curious about how the relationship between Daemon X Reader in this story will develop! Maybe reader was on the way to tell Dae she was pregnant again only to hear a conversation that Daemon was just using her (he really isn’t but Rhaenyra making sure she hears) she leaves and takes her son, and Daemon realises who he really loves and switches to the Greens! Plot twist, a Happy Ending please filled with much SMUT and Otto dies and a little flirt scene with Aegon or Aemond to make Dae jealous hehe.

My Mother's Daughter

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader

Summary: When Daemon says something he regrets, will their secret relationship survive?

Warning: cursing, angst, pregnancy, secret relationship, potential part 2

Thank you so much for requesting. This fic has no smut, but I hope you can enjoy it all the same. Please leave feedback!!

HoTD Masterlist - Full Masterlist

---

With feet sweeping across the cold, hard floor, you practically fly down the corridor as the previous encounter replays in your head.

"Yes, milady. You are with child." The nurse aide confirmed after you asked a second time.

Smiling joyously, you begin to speed up around a corner when you stop short as you crash into your younger brother, Aemond, and your mother, Queen Alicent.

"Oh, my dear! What is the rush you almost needed to trample your poor mother?" She jokes as she takes you in her arms, preventing you from tipping over. Your smile quickly fades as your brother analyzes your stance, making you stand straighter.

"I-I was running to tell Helaena about this book I just found. It was just magnificent! I thought we could, uhm go to the garden to read together." The lies drip from your tongue like poison. You hated lying to your family, but they would never accept Daemon or his child. Your mother gives a gentle smile as she brushes a lock of hair from your forehead before placing a light peck.

"Well, don't let me stop you." She urges you on while Aemond 'hmm' in response before they both turn down the hall. Once no longer in hearing range, you take off again and stop once you meet Daemon's chambers. Hesitant, you go to knock when the door creaks open, making you fling yourself to the side with your back against the wall. Muffled voices leak out of the cracked door. Closing your eyes to brace yourself, anyone leaving the room would indeed spot you as they exit the room, but they never do.

"I would never wed her. She is nothing more to me than a common w-whore." You hear Daemon say—the man you love. The father of your unborn child is saying such an awful thing about you. It was unbelievable and devastating. Tears fall on your face while you grip your stomach as a hollow feeling grows in your chest.

"Are you sure?" Rhaenyra Targaryen, Daemon's niece and your sister by marriage, asks her uncle. There was a hesitant silence until Daemon shattered it.

"I could never love her. She is just a hole to fill." With that, you flee down the hall as sobs forces through your lips. Tears flow down your cheeks endlessly as you find your room and begin to open the door but stop when you glance at your older brother Aegon's door.

Aegon has always been your closest sibling due to your age. You always felt safe telling him your worries. He wasn't like Aemomd, who would be quick to duel anyone who hurt you rather than hearing your cries and holding you, and you never wanted to burden Helaena, whose worries remain overlooked. You and Aegon were like human diaries to each other. He was the only person who knew of your relationship with Daemon, your uncle. You knew Aegon was not a good man by any chance, but he was a good brother to you when needed.

With a light knock, the door opens. You fall into Aegon's arms when you see your brother's face. Without question, he wraps them around you, pulling you into the room before closing the door behind the both of you. Immediately, he takes you to the fireplace, where you always vent to each other.

He gives you space to gather yourself as he grabs you and himself blankets and pillows, then sits across from you. After a few deep breaths, you tell him what you heard. Despite trusting your brother, you withhold your pregnancy in retelling the conversation. Once you have finished, Aegon pulls you into his arms again and presses a light kiss to the top of your head, similar to your mother earlier.

"I can make Sunfyre eat him if you wish me to do so." Aegon breaks the silence, causing a laugh to leave you as you pull from him, swatting his arm while you shake your head. Before you could retort, a loud commotion came from the corridor.

---

Daemon's POV - earlier

Rhaenyra stands before Daemon, fire blazing behind her blue orbs.

"How will Queen Alicent react when she finds out her daughter is sleeping with you? What will you say when her guards have a blade to your throat?" She threatens.

"I don't know what you are talking about, niece." He bites back, and images of Y/N's body flash through his mind. Blinking rapidly, he tries to push the memories away.

"The guards saw you leaving her bed chambers on multiple occasions, uncle." She spits the words like a dragon spits fire. Harsh and unyielding. She will be the end of his relationship with Y/N if she pushes harder

He has to stop Rhaenyra.

"It doesn't mean anything to me. It is just some fun." He tries to shrink the words off as if they don't turn his stomach. Analyzing her face, she isn't convinced quite yet.

"Do you love her? Do you plan to wed her? Fill her with your children?" Her icy words hit him as he realizes he never thought that far. He knows he wants her in his life until the end, but he's never told her that, which makes his following words more painful.

"I would never wed her. She is nothing more to me than a common w-whore." Bile starts to burn its way up his chest as his chest tightens. He can tell Rhaenyra isn't letting it go but offers nothing.

"Are you sure?" At this moment, he sees her confidence fade from the future Queen as insecurities fill her eyes. But his words are for his future wife's safety, not Rhaenyra's ego.

"I could never love her. She is just a hole to fill." With that, Rhaenyra nods before she kisses Daemon's cheek. Outside the room, he can hear someone crying before it's gone, echoing slightly down the hall. Looking at Rhaenyra, she has a devilish smile.

"No." Dread fills Daemon's heart as he realizes what his niece has done and pushes her away. Running out of his room and down the hall, he tries to catch up with you when he practically smashes into the Queen and her father, Otto Hightower.

"Now, Daemon, what is this?" Alicent asks, rolling her eyes at the Targaryen. Otto silently sneers beside his daughter. He would be snarky and make remarks any other time, but Daemon was on a mission. Daemon had to get to Y/N. He didn't know how, but he knew Y/N heard what he said, and he had to undo it. Pushing past the two, he keeps going towards Y/N's room, leaving Otto yelling obscenities and Alicent for guards. Before he can reach her door, he gets tackled by Otto, who Sir Cole and other guards follow. Quickly catching himself, Daemon turns, pulling a blade from his hip, and holds the knife to Otto's throat.

"I've been itching to do this for years." Daemon chuckles as he applies pressure to the blade, a small bead of blood dripping down the older man's neck.

---

Y/Ns POV - Present

"Daemon?" Your voice breaks through his anger as he turns to you. Aegon had opened the door to reveal Daemon with a knife to your grandsire's neck.

"Daemon, what are you doing?" You say, moving towards the two men with Aegon following shortly behind her. Damon immediately drops the knife turning to face her, but before he can move, four guards rush him and attempt to arrest Daemon. He tries to fight back as the guards push him to the ground, holding a blade to his face. Screaming, you beg your mother and grandfather to stop this.

"Mother, please! Please, stop this. They are hurting him. I love him, please, Mother." Your declaration shocks her as she wonders when this could have happened, but her eldest daughter's fear breaks her heart.

"Enough." The Queen's voice is firm as she addresses her guards, who abruptly stop their actions.

Daemon falls to the floor, and you go to his side. Helping him up, you take him to your room while everyone empties the hall. Aegon helps you sit Daemon on your bed before leaving with a nod to you.

Silence fills the room while you gather cloth and a basin with water. A gash across his cheek from the sharpened blade begins to bleed. Wiping it clean, you see it is nothing more than a scratch, so you put the gauze away and sit the basin to the side.

"Am I just a whore to you?" Your words confirm Daemon's suspicions. "Am I just a game to you?"

"No. I swear I didn't mean anything I said. Rhaenyra threatened to tell your mother about us if she knew you meant something to me." Daemon explains as he cups your hands. Tears pool in his eyes as he begs you to believe him. His words bring relief but stop you.

"Do I?" You ask, making the blonde looks up with furrowed brows.

"What?" The confused man asked. With a smirk, you pull yourself into his lap, wrapping yourself around him.

"Do I mean something to you, Daemon?" Your question hits him, but he collects himself as he thinks.

"You mean so much to me, Y/N. I would give up my life, my honor, my family, my dragon for you. You are worth everything to me." He confesses as he cups your cheek as his other arm wraps around your waist.

"Good, because I am pregnant with our child, Daemon. We will have a family if you want to be a part of it." You smile as his eyes widen. His arm grips you as he jumps up from the bed, his strength holding you in his arms while he twirls around, hollering. He sets you down and has your jaw as he kisses you deeply.

"I love you, Y/N Targaryen. I want this family, and I want you as my wife." He declares, making you pull him into another kiss.

"I want you as my husband." You mumble into the kiss before he holds you to his chest.

"I am so sorry for the things I had said. I felt sick even saying them, but I wanted to protect you." He whispers into your hair.

"I forgive you. Your words hurt badly, but I know they had no truth. But now Mother knows about us; soon, everyone else will." You say into his chest.

"Good. Everyone will know not to fuck with us." He says darkly, making you laugh as you look up at him, admiring his beauty.

"Oh, and next time I find my wife alone with Aegon Targaryen again, he and I will have a problem to resolve. Targaryens have a reputation." He jokes as you roll your eyes. This man was the father of your child, your husband.

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yeyinde · 1 year

Note

Hiii I LOVED your fic with soap I’ve read it like 5 times since I found it yesterday, your writing is absolutely STUNNING and the characterization for Soap was spot on. If you have any free time I would love a Ghost fic like Soap’s— domestic, fluff, SMUT, and a little angst. I feel like Ghost would be a tender, giving lover if given the chance to be truly comfortable with someone. Anyway, if not, I just wanted to say your writing is some of the best I’ve ever read and it inspired me to pick up my own pen and start writing again :)

hi! @madiganjay and thank you so much!! 🖤😭 that's so sweet and i'm sooo sorry this took so long! i have no excuses just Ghost + Domestic Fluff had me oscillating between several different ways this could go. to me, the idea of domesticity with Ghost is permanence and presence. something tangible that confirms his existence, that ties him to you.

i tried my best at domestic Ghost, so i don't know if this is quite what you had in mind, but i hope you enjoy it!! this is nearly 8k of Ghost Doing His Best™️

⇾ warnings: gendered reader, female!reader, gendered anatomy; unfettered filth (as per usual); slightly possessive!Ghost, jealous!Ghost; unsafe sex

"Brought curry." It's not much of a greeting—no hello, how are you? How was your day?—just: "didn't have lamb, so I got chicken."

On the television in front of him, a game between Everton and Manchester United plays. Streaks of red and blue dart across the sprawling field of green. Takeout is spread out on your coffee table—curry for him, butter chicken for you; he got you salted Lassi, too. The white drink sits on the table beside the styrofoam containers, dripping condensation down the clear plastic cup. The colours catch in the clear polymer. Neon smears in milky white.

Its—

Salt pools between your teeth; your lips sting. "You—," your voice breaks over the word; a tendril of embarrassment curls inside of your guts, admixing the alcohol you'd just finished drinking with Gaz. You flush, clear your throat. "I wasn't expecting you."

It's a stupid thing to say, in retrospect. You never expect him, and you suppose that's the point. Ghost—Simon Riley—comes and goes like an undomesticated alley cat wandering around until he lets himself inside your flat for however long he plans on staying.

There is no routine in this. No set schedule; nothing was ever painted in concrete, just shades of sporadic abstracts. He comes, he goes. Ephemeral visits only a handful of times a year.

It's the fourth—year, that is.

The weight of it sat in your stomach for weeks. Knots spool together until a clump forms in the pit. Heavy and noxious; it leaked poison into your bloodstream that carried the illness of want in a particularly nasty shade of green.

Four years since Price had dragged you—an office worker on loan from HQ—to a sparse room in a country you'd never been to before, and you set your eyes on the interrogator known, then, only as Ghost.

(Terrorism never sleeps, Price always says.

Whenever he's around, neither do you.)

The walls were painted in rust. The stench of wet pennies and sweat filled the air. None of that mattered, though, when you looked up, and caught liquid sin gazing at you from wide, red-rimmed eyes.

(Maybe, he doesn't sleep, either.)

You fed him information through an earpiece as you scoured and decoded the rudimentary messages in the text the enemy sent to each other, and tried to remain professional when his voice growled his affirmative in shades of smoke and violence in your ear.

Hours later, exhausted and craving something to keep you from wishing the world was constructed by the hand of solipsism, you leaned against the window, desperately trying to pretend you were the same person you were yesterday.

Lidded eyes swept across the vast expanse in front of you—barren lands, badlands: wartorn and deadly, and littered with carrion. You tried to stop your hands from shaking by curling them into fists, but all it did was puncture your palm, and fill your nails with sticky blood.

It didn't work— nothing did.

You sunk your teeth into your knuckles to stop the quiver in your joints.

War is much different in person than it is on a blue screen. Numbers—friends, foes, coordinates, codes—are much easier to stomach when they're all in binary. A marker on your desktop goes down, disappears from the black map in front of you, and you pick up your earpiece, calling it into evac, and click on another to follow, to relay commands in code.

One life is gone, enemy or friend, and you sip your expensive coffee (£5.6 but the logo is cute, and beans are robust) while staring at the pictures dotting the navy blue fabric of the pre-owned cubicle. Docile. Mundane. You glance at the clock, and wait for the hour to pass until you can leave, and spend the rest of the evening watching shows.

You think once, perhaps thrice, about the men in green who will never get the chance to come home again, but it's smothered when your coworker leans over the metal divider, asking if you want anything from Greggs.

A game of chess with real people.

(You slept rather soundly before this. Now, binary numbers make you tremble.)

The worn wood behind you creaks.

Price, you think, forcing a smile that doesn't fit. Neither do the fatigues. The stench of rot in your nose. The gun they shoved into your hands.

"I'd kill for a coffee, sir."

When you turn, you're met with the endless yawning of night condensed in circles framed by pale flaxen. A storm in the middle of a wheat field. Stalks of yellow smatter across midnight blue.

Ghost.

There is a moment of nothing where he simply tips his chin, baleen lines bunching together, and stares at you. It's unnerving. Eerie. He feels entirely out of place in this world, and yet—

You can't imagine him anywhere else.

His stare is heavy. He blinks his eyes shut. You breathe again. They slide open. The air is siphoned from your lungs.

A chasm sits in his gaze. You find the heft isn't entirely unpleasant.

Then, he shifts. Shadows flexing in the limited light. A car driving down the street, headlight burning the tenebrose until it dances, scattering across your room. He moves like liquid in the dark.

"Coffee won't help," is all he says. Impassive. Pragmatic. But his eyes—

Your throat is acrid. Sand gathers in wet clumps against your larynx. You swallow, and taste Yorkshire Gold. Pennies.

"Any suggestions about what might, then?"

It takes him two steps to get to the window to your four. His size is—

Immeasurable.

He's a man, you think, and yet—

It's not so much the sheer bulk of him, the height, but rather the way he carries himself. There is a presence about him that makes him feel bigger, more dangerous. He knows his heft and uses it to his advantage. He takes up space until you feel smothered by his proximity, but—

You don't think anyone else has ever felt more distant.

A moor. Wide, endlessly deep, but uncrossable. Untraversable. Mouldering signs are pitched in the recesses of his eyes when they slide to you, liquid black pooling in the corner, and they all say: stay away.

(Written in red. In blood.)

"A few," he offers. His gaze drifts back to the grime-streaked window. "Nothing legal."

"Oh," you mutter, blinking. You can't tell if it's a joke or not.

"Get some tea. It'll calm your nerves."

"I'm not—," you start but his eyes drop to your hands, clenched by your sides, and shaking. Beads of crimson gather in the cup, pooling in your lifeline. Guilty, then.

He leaves you by the window, and you watch his broad back retreat through the arched doorway. A layer of sand fluttered under his boots. No prints.

(Is he even real? Or did the endless dunes of decay conjure him up in grains of sand, and rot?)

You find the stash of tea (Price muttering something behind you about Gaz drinking all the bloody English Breakfast), and in the loose, dried leaves of brown, black, and fawn, you find yourself thinking of him.

Four years later: he's still on your mind.

"I was out with—"

"Garrick."

"Gaz," you say instinctively. Only Laswell gets away with calling him Kyle. Everything else just sounds wrong. "We went to some club in Essex. I would have come home sooner if I'd known—"

You stop. Teeth sinking into your tongue. Stupid. Stupid. You think of the man in the club with hands that were cold as ice. The irritation you felt toward Gaz when he pulled you away, and shoved you into a taxi. His knuckles knocked on the hood. Don't drive away until you see their door shut, yeah? He slips folded bills into the man's hand through the crack in the window. Message me when you get home.

You sent the text when your key cut through the hole. Home. Thanks.

His reply was instant: worry about you sometimes. Get some sleep.

"Um…thank you for the food. I'm actually starving," you huff, words tumbling out in an effort to stem your accidental faux pas. "We didn't eat before we headed out. I only had a few drinks, but—"

More than a few. Your feet wobble.

"—Thanks." You wince, adding: "again. It's—it's good to see you—"

Stupid. Stupid.

He says nothing, but his stare hasn't wavered since you opened the door. An indecipherable Rorschach. Unknowable. Unreachable.

Four years, and you still have no idea what this is.

Three months in the desert drinking tea with a behemoth who had an absurd sense of humour, and then—

Home. Goodbye. Price waving you off: a two-finger salute diving off his forehead. Ghost stood on the tarmac of some private, military-owned base. A sleek, black Jeep a few paces away to take you wherever you wanted to go.

Home, you supposed. You look around and it feels wrong. Stuck in limbo, purgatory. A strange microcosm where the people are the same—the man in the Jeep has a thick Northern accent; his words are rounded, and robust—but the place is different.

Know anything to calm the nerves now that we're home, sir?

His head tips. A few. None of them are good for you.

The tea was pretty good advice.

He'd said nothing. Nothing, nothing—

The man poked his head out the window. "Coming?"

You offered a shaky smile. See you around, Simon—

You'd slapped your palm against your mouth, eyes darting around the barren void in the middle of needn't know and somewhere in England, and he—

He shuddered. Eyes a polynya. A rumble broke the silence. Low, and—

You turned, hand curling over the handle of the car. You'd gotten it open an inch before his hand slammed on the frame beside the window, the door snapping shut. The force of it rocked the Jeep.

They're riding with me.

And—

Now: he sits in your home with takeout from the Indian place you like, one you mentioned in passing a year ago. The place with the best raita and spicy chicken biryani.

The one with a shell-shocked teenager manning the front with a single cook in the back. The register is barely used. They yell your order through a small window to the kitchen, and the cook brings it out himself when he's finished. It always feels a little bit illegal when he hands you the bag, but you're almost certain this man is secretly a Micheline star chef when he isn't condensing samsara into his tandoori.

Silent, a little tipsy, you toe your shoes off, trying not to make any more of a fool of yourself tonight. You stumble a little, head thick with those stupid sex on the beaches Gaz bought for you, and slowly make your way to the couch.

He hasn't looked away. Not once.

It's stifling. His presence nearly smothers you.

It usually isn't this— strange.

The handful of times he'd come around, it was always the same routine, the same dance. He'd be there, bathed in black and searching the alcoves of your flat, and then—on you. Your back against the wall, the hello snuffed out by the bulk of his body pressing into yours, his hands on your thighs, fingers tugging at the hem of your clothing. You'd tumble somewhere: the wall or the floor or the couch more often than not.

(It took him a year to fuck you on your bed.)

The next morning, he'd be gone. Rising before the sun—if he even slept at all—and off somewhere until late at night. He'd stay a few nights, but those were rare. Usually, it was once.

One night of brutal fucking where he had on you nearly every surface in your flat, taking, and taking until the sky broke crimson, and your eyes misted over from fatigue. He'd drop you in your bed, and when you woke up, sore and dazed and aching all over—

The bed is cold. Empty.

His presence is erased. The only thing that confirms it wasn't a dream is the burn between your legs, the quiver in your knees, and the bruises along your hips and thighs in the perfect impression of his large hands.

I wasn't expecting you, you'd once said.

His eyes are glued to you. Liquid midnight framed in white. Want me to leave, pet?

They dance with humour, hidden in the shadows of his intense stare, when you trip over yourself in your haste to say no. No, no, please—stay.

Sometimes, you like to pretend those obsidian edges softened a little at the ache in your voice. The palpable urgency bleeds through. That they regard you with a touch more warmth than before.

"Alright," he says, and nothing more. Alright.

It's enough. More than enough, really. It's a miracle a man like Simon would even offer that much considering his life, and who he is. It's more than you'd ever ask for.

And yet—

(In the darkness of your room, you crumble.)

—you want more.

More. More—

The butter chicken is warm, and slightly cooled. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. How long had he waited for you? Why did he wait for you?

You bite the soft, buttered naan to keep yourself from asking those silly questions.

This whole thing—if it even is a thing—is purely physical. Release. Something to stem the surreal feeling of being back on land where guns aren't being aimed at your head, and artillery fire doesn't clog the atmosphere. The stench of death is replaced by the cold, wet streets of London. The screams of the dying are just honking cars from impatient drivers; the chatter of civilians.

It's something to quench the inescapable sense of ennui when you leave the building after playing with the lives of the men on the field, and hear mothers chatting in the train about the mundanity of life.

Anything to calm the nerves. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And yet: he's sitting on your couch with his mask rolled up to his nose, eating chicken curry while passively watching football on your small television. Your hands brush when you both reach for more naan or roti. Gaze meeting over the Biryani.

It's different. New. This hasn't ever happened before in the four years since the conception of whatever this is. It's—

Jarring. Bewildering.

You expect, at some point, for him to stand up, and leave. That intimacy of eating dinner together while he murmurs low about what certain calls, or plays mean to you will break something inside of him, and scare him away. It's soft. Domestic.

Ghost is untouchable. Unseen.

But your eyes find the orange sauce smeared on the corner of his mouth. The ashen stubble on his chin, and jaw. The flash of teeth when he brings the dripping piece of curry to his mouth. His jaw working as he chews. The swallow. A flash of red when he tries, and fails, to catch every bit of curry from his lips.

It's bliss, you find. These small moments when he feels so distinctly human clot in your chest, and you worry that one day the mass will grow to be so big, you will crumble under the weight of it all.

(Maybe, it's the sex on the beach, the too-sweet rumchata, but the thought makes your stomach burn with anticipation. You want this man to ruin you with the mundane.)

"Finished your dinner?" He asks, eyes sliding to you.

The meagre food sits like a lump of coal. Your appetite dissolves as your slurried mind struggles to both remain as composed as possible so as not to spook him, and keep all the ugly things you want to say behind the seal of your lips.

It should just be sex. Fucking. No strings attached. Nothing—

You wonder if it's your life, drenched in a proxy of ordinary, that lures him in. You're not a civilian, but compared to him, you're only a short step above. Is it just—happenstance? Does he come to you because there are no other options for a man who died years ago?

Are you—

Convenient.

Something to pass the time. Something that makes him feel human again.

An evanescent dalliance within the boundaries of having no past, and no future. He isn't jeopardising himself by sneaking into your flat at night to satiate the hunger inside; the need to feel something other than the weight of a gun in his hands, and smell the blood, the smoke, the napalm in the air.

You work in the same circle.

He, when he's allowed to exist, on the field; and you, sitting behind a computer screen while you oversee the deaths of others in a sequence of numbers.

Your hands are too delicate to carry the weight of a gun, to aim and pull the trigger, but he can still feel the same sin when your fingers touch his flesh.

Not drenched in blood, but stained.

You're not innocent; he isn't sullying a civilian with his rough hands that reek of gunpowder.

You exist in that murky limbo he can fall in. Safety lingers in the cartilage of your joints; familiar, and attainable: you know the rules and what he does. You will never look him in the eye and ask why.

But—you're still dangerous. Covetous.

More, you think. You want more.

"I—," you taste malt on your tongue. You didn't drink any, but the taste reminds you of—

Hands on your waist. Warm breath in your ear. Come home with me.

Gaz, suddenly there, eyes blazing. Step off, mate.

Everton scores: blurs of blue dart across the green, but none of it sticks in the gummy lining of your head. It feels like you're somewhere else. Your body is sitting on the couch; you feel the soft, worn cushion below. The food is heavy on your belly. Eyes grainy from the alcohol you'd drank.

But you're not here.

You're adrift in grey matter. Head tilted toward the pink, undulating dome above. Afloat in stagnant molasses.

"I kissed someone tonight," you murmur. On the screen, a man throws his hands up, words at the bottom blur together.

The couch creaks when he moves. You can feel his stare on your temple, on you, but you don't meet it. Coward.

The geyser in the brackish pond rumbles. It tastes of sabotage.

"I probably would have gone home with them, too, if it wasn't for Gaz."

The roar of the television is the only sound you hear, but it feels distant. Warbled. There is a pounding in your head that starts at the base of your skull. The beat almost sounds like a warning.

Your hands tighten around the wet plastic cup of the cool salted Lassi. The crinkle it makes drowns out the noise of the cushion shifting under his weight.

"I guess it's a good thing I came home when I did—"

"Yeah, it is."

You can't place his tone. Arctic ice. Polar. A Chinook, perhaps. It bites into you, churning the chicken and alcohol in your stomach.

At least, in the end there would be no questions. No late nights gazing up at the ceiling, or leaning over the sink, peering at yourself in the mirror to make sense of why he picked you. It would just be—

An empty bed. Dinner for one. A single toothbrush in the holder.

(I bought you a toothbrush. You can leave it in the—

No need. I got my own.)

You huff. "Says you—"

"I'd have ripped him limb from limb for touchin' you."

His eyes are darker than you'd ever seen them. Black holes. Pooled ink.

For all your aplomb, your demure under the ire in those alcoves. The ones that leak—impossible—the same covetous spool in your chest.

"Simon—"

"Where'd he touch you?"

It's a command.

He reaches out; his palm is blistering when it rests on your bare thigh.

"Here?"

"Why—?" You shiver. "Why would you tear him—"

Sometimes, you forget how massive he is, but he seems quite eager to remind you when his hand falls on the cushion behind your head, closing that meagre distance between the two of you with his body. He's a shadow looming over you. A gaping chasm that yawns before you. Dangerous and dark. The warning signs are written in blood.

Stay away, they say, but he pushes himself closer to you.

"I don't share."

"What—what is there to share?"

His eyes flutter. Hard, unyielding obsidian. In the gaps, sit a near cosmic distance. An unreachable planet on the fringes of the solar system.

Ashen brows draw together. A cornered animal will lash out, and—

"Thought it was obvious."

You swallow and taste the sea. "It isn't."

An impasse, then, when he freezes. When his hand burrowing between your thighs halts on your flesh. An uncrossable no man's land. A valley where those who venture seldom return.

The chossy below your feet wobbles.

He says nothing. You don't expect him to, but you can't say it hurts any less.

You knew what you were getting into. What this was.

Still:

"Maybe we should stop this."

"That what you want?"

"It's pretty obvious it isn't, and that's the problem. I'm not going to ask for more than you'll give, but—;" a deep breath, a shudder. His thumb brushes your skin, a soft roll of his rough finger, and your heart thrums. Sings. The catch in your voice is thick, palpable. "How can you expect me not to want more?"

"What do you want? Want me to show my face? That it?" His hand raises to the edge of the mask, and something sours inside of you. "If you want to see so—"

Your hand on his wrist stops him from tugging it down. "I don't." Firm, decisive. "I don't want that, Simon. I just want you. And if—;" your eyes flicker to the containers, the half-eaten food on the coffee table. A dinner usually for one. "If you keep doing this—dinner, and—and—"

"I thought you liked butter chicken."

Your chest expands with your exasperated huff. Humour, at a time like this. And yet— "I do. I just meant—"

"I know, pet. I know."

"If you keep this up, I'll want more." You turn to him, hand dropping from his wrist. "I'm greedy. How can I not be when you tell me stupid jokes and bring me curry?"

"I knew you'd like them."

"Simon—"

Avoidance, then.

His hand inches down, sliding up your thigh. The loose shorts you'd worn fall to the side, and he slips through until his fingers meet the gusset of your panties.

"You're wet," he husks, leaning down. His forehead pressed to your temple. He smells of turmeric and ash. "That all for me, pet?"

Your thighs spread, giving him more room. His fingers brush along the seam of your clothed cunt. Your chin dips. Charcoal. Midnight black. His lashes are long. The missing coal around his eyes makes them look darker.

"Always."

His knuckle presses against your clit, chest brushing over your shoulder. "Better be."

Lashes flutter when you mewl, arching your back to get more of his touch. Needy, eager. You gasp when his finger crooks inside of your panties, bare skin on your cunt. You’re feverish; burning up from his touch alone. An ache knots in your belly; a spooling coil winding when his knuckle grazes your flesh. His breath is heavy in your ear.

"C'mon," he murmurs, the tip of his finger drags down the length of your slit. "Haven't had this pussy in months, pet. Need to feel you."

His words made something inside of you snap.

It's frantic: desperation claws at your chest carrying the urge to sink your teeth in his skin until it punctures with your mark, one that brands his body. The thought alone makes your belly quiver. An ache. A need. An itch. He's there, always: his hands are firm on your waist when you slide into his lap, hips pressing against your core as your fingers tug the buttons of his trousers off.

Your thighs burn from the stretch of his bulk. The sheer absurdity of how massive he is, and how comparatively small you feel with your knees split apart, is never more apparent than now, when you're barely able to touch the cushion below.

"Need you," you pant against the skin above the mask. Stubble crests over his cheek, and chaps your lips. "Need you so bad, Simon—"

"Fuck, pet," he breathes, ragged and harsh. His hands are brands on your flesh, pulling you closer, and closer, and yet—at the same time—keeping you at bay. "Would you have been this desperate for him?"

No. Not at all. You haven't been driven to the brink for a man since Simon. No one has ever burrowed deep under your skin until you were itching at the dermis so hard, it broke. It ripped. And the bloodied tatters that remained still weren't enough to quench the burn.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

His snarl is muffled behind the mask, but you feel the bite of it when his hands clench around your hips, jerking you forward until your cunt is nestled on his hard bulge.

"Gonna fuck you, now."

The words are ground down to the marrow; stripped and pulverised into dust when they slip through. Broken bones, fragmented ash—he blows the smoke of them into your face until you're reeling from the way they shred your throat and lungs when you breathe them in.

There is no finesse in the way you tug your panties off, letting them dangle around your ankle. Or the way he shoves his boxers down enough to free his cock.

It's quick. Dirty.

Simon has been rough in the past—often leaving you feeling like the victor of a well-fought war—but that always came after what felt like hours of foreplay. His face buried in your cunt. His fingers slowly stretching you for his cock.

This—

This feels desperate. It feels unhinged and raw. All his meticulous self-control catches fire in front of you until your skin blisters with the heat of it.

His fingers slip under the mask for a moment, and when he carefully pulls them free, they're covered in spittle.

No lube, no prep—

His thick fingers are on your cunt, slick and wet from his saliva, and they sink inside of you. One right to the last knuckle. Another joins. The stretch makes your toes curl. Makes you drop your head to his shoulder as he works in the third. The lewd sounds of your pussy being hurriedly fucked open by his fingers, palm digging into your clit, makes you burn.

It's not enough, but you look down and feel desire bloom at the sight of him—his cock is leaking prespend all over your mound, jerking against your belly with each quick thrust of his fingers within you. He pulls his hand away, and smears the wetness across his cock before gripping the base.

Your eyes are fixed on the pearlescent beads on the fat head, gathering in a thick, milky pool before rolling down the side. It gathers at the clinch of hi thumb and forefinger. Your mouth waters at the sight.

"Lemme suck your cock after," you slur; it comes out as barely more than a whimper. "Need to taste you—"

His cock jerks in his hold, spitting more prespend down the length of him.

"Fuckin' hell, pretty thing," he rasps, dragging your hips closer until your cunt is pressed taut against him. The drag of his flared head between your folds makes you keen low in your throat. "You won't even get a chance, pet. If you think I'm pulling out of this tight pussy at all tonight, you're wrong."

It's not a warning, but it's all he gives before his hand grips himself tight, the other clasped around your waist. His urgency bleeds through when his hips lift off the bed.

It's always an arduous undertaking whenever he sits you in his lap, and slowly feeds the entirety of his thick cock into your quivering body. Sometimes, nearly driven delirious from the intense pleasure-pain that pools in your core, you whisper into his ear that he's going to ruin you, break you down the centre.

You'll snap me in half, you whimper.

His response is to force more of himself into your body until you gag on the words in your throat, choke on your spit.

"I want to," he hisses; water doused on flaming coal. The grit of his voice is saturated in sin, and the sound makes your eyes roll. "Wanna break you open until nothin' fits inside this pretty cunt but me."

"You'd ruin me for everyone else, Simon? That's not fair—"

Your words make him groan, make him grasp your hips, fingers digging into the swell of your ass. He pulls you down onto him until he's swallowed whole. The air is punched from your lungs. You feel the throb of him in your esophagus. Broken, then, by this man. This untouchable, unattainable being.

"Fuck—," little hiccups spill from your throat. Your head is a slurry of want want want want and too much too full too big. You can't take him. You needed more foreplay. To be stretched around three fingers until you could fit him soundly.

This—

This feels a little bit like a punishment.

"Fuckin' hell," he rasps into your neck. "Wouldn't know what to do with this little cunt if he had it."

"And you do?"

His answer is to plant his feet on the ground and drive the length of him into you. A battering ram to your core. There is a white-hot pleasure burning through your core. It leaks into your marrow until you're heavy with the weight of it.

He helps you along. Hands gripped tight to your hips, he lifts you up off of his cock, and lowers you down with a fervour that leaves you quaking.

It's not so much as riding him, but being battered by a hurricane. All you can do is cling to him—arms wrapped tight around his neck, thighs shaking as you struggle to keep up with his brutal pace. Your forehead falls, rests against his shoulder, and you moan brokenly into the seam between your bodies.

It feels a little bit like possession. The flavour of a claim, ownership lingers in the air; it's heavy on your tongue, in your chest. But he's not the type of man to do that, is he? Distance. Separation.

Something like that is far too intimate for a man who shouldn't exist.

Even so—

Each blunt grind of his cock inside of you has milky pleasure blooming inside of you. His hard grip is tight enough to bruise, and when he digs his fingers into your flesh, you wonder if it's intentional. If he wants you stained and broken by the time he's finished.

No condom, either. It's rare that you go without one, despite being on birth control. He'd only ever lost it enough to forgo the contraceptive when he was injured, when his hand would press to his side each time he moved. The mask covered it up, but you saw the red in his eyes when he shifted.

You took advantage of his weakened state—lemme take care of you, Simon—and finally (finally) got a taste of his cock. His hips rutted into your mouth, and the noises that spilled out of him were obscene. You swallowed every drop while he heaved on the couch, forearm thrown across his forehead, eyes wide and red and looking at you in a way that made your toes curl. It was—

Magma. Melted rock. Soft, molten, and—

He passed out after. You cleaned up while he slept. It was the first time you'd ever seen him slumber, but despite the itch to look, to see, you kept your distance. A throw was tossed on him gently, a bottle of water left on the coffee table. You grabbed a book from the shelf, curled up on the chaise near the window, and watched the lour gloom of London under a deluge.

(London, you find, is always prettier when it storms.)

He woke up hours later to the smell of lamb soup.

His voice was a husk: a charred log. He pulled you down on the couch with him, back pressed to his front, and he'd taken you then. His arm draped over your collarbones, forearm tucked under your chin; his other hand gripped your thigh, keeping you open for him as he rutted inside of you. Delirious, perhaps, from the pain. From the uncomfortable, dangerous, vulnerability he showed you. It didn't feel distant when he pulled you into him, eyes murky bogs in the middle of a barren forest. It felt—

Stripped. Raw and naked and somehow virginal despite the heavy pants of pleasure in your ear, muffled by the mask that had not moved at all since his head dropped on the armrest behind, and he woke up to a porcelain bowl of cawl on the table.

The bare grind of his cock inside of you should negate the purity in the act but somehow, somehow, it feels more innocent than anything else you'd experienced before.

He came inside of you, a wrecked groan reverberating in your ear as he squeezed you tight to his body, and made you take every drop.

No words were exchanged. You ate cawl on the couch and tried to pretend you didn't see the hungry look in his eyes when you caught his gaze on the pearlescent smear staining your thighs.

(Each time after that, he wore a condom.)

Until now.

You can feel him pulsing in your throat. It feels more intimate—hurried and rushed as it: your thighs spread over his, his cock buried deep inside you, chest pressed against yours. There is nowhere for you to turn, to hide, except to burrow your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the ozone scent of him. Gunpowder. Pyrolysis. Sulphur. Smoke. It sits heavy in your lungs.

"F—fuck, Simon," you mewl, fingers clawing at the fabric of his sweater. You need something to hold on to, to keep you grounded amid the battering of his hips.

"Yeah, pet," he breathes, his hands gripping you tighter as he ruts into you. His cock grinds against something inside of you that has you seeing white. "You like that don't you? Like my cock inside of you. You're desperate for it, aren't you?"

There is no room for words in your esophagus when you can feel the blunt press of his head bludgeoning into your sternum. All you can do is work yourself against the brutal onslaught of him driving his hips, his cock, into you from below. There is no stability for you to find purchase, and give back just as much as you take, but Simon doesn't seem to want that. Not right now.

He fucks into you, barely able to pull the full length of him out of your drenched pussy, and seems find pleasure in grinding against your core in deep, short strokes that leave you chasing Ursa Major in the Magellanic cloud that spools in your head.

Each thrust leaves you trembling, legs quaking as he knocks against a place inside that makes your back arch; making liquid euphoria brim in your veins.

Fucking Simon with an abundance of prep rides that perfect equilibrium of pleasure and pain. This—

This feels like it might wreck you. Your cunt is stretched wide around the base of him, pulled taut as he digs his heels into your worn, stained carpet and drives himself into you like he's trying to split you in half, and take refuge in your womb.

The sounds that spill out, filling the room, make you feel like you're floating. From the seal of your sopping pussy and the lewd squelch of him sliding against your walls; the deep, ruined moans that drip from your mouth; the deep, hoarse groans he makes that has your belly quivering—it has your fingers digging into his shoulders, clenched around tense muscles.

"Fuckin' hell—," his head tips back when your knee slips, bringing your pelvis closer to his groin. "This cunt was made for me, wasn't it? All mine—"

Stubble grazes your nose when you press your lips to the silver of skin exposed on his jugular. Teeth catch on the coarse hair, skin drawn between them. Capillaries burst under your tongue, flooding his flesh a bright red, then a deep purple. The perfect impression of your teeth—

"Fuck—!" He snarls, hands pulling you closer to him as he jerks within you.

Simon knocks the thoughts from your head when he spears his cock inside of you. It's rough, raw. The pain that blooms in your core when he chevies into the seal of your womb as you see a supernova behind your eyelids. The explosion of energy. Each synapse inside of your head buzzes with the force of it.

"C'mon, pretty thing," he husks; the roar of the ocean upwelling on the land. You taste salt on your tongue when you pant, moaning his name into his sweat-slicked neck. He tastes of iodine. "I want you to cum on my cock, pet. I need to feel your cunt squeeze me tight—"

It pulls on the thread keeping the deluge from spilling over. The seams split; the levee cracks. It wells inside of your core, each plunge pushing you further and further to the edge of that roaring precipice. Standing on the ledge of a cliff, eyes pointed down at the black water that slams against the granite, frothing and angry. It sprays mist from the vitriolic sea. Arsenic white. It crests over you. His grunt in your ear. His hands tighten until you feel bruises bloom under the tips of his fingers. The chossy cracks. The rocks tumble. Your feet slip—

It's familiar, this. Everything about him makes you feel like you're falling, and this—this—is no different. A leap. A drop. Your feet hit the water first.

It happens all at once; crashing over you like a rogue wave. Swallowed whole. Sucked under.

Knees scrape the murky sediment below. You babble in his neck about how good his cock feels inside of you; hiccuping stupidly at the absurd stretch of him, how big he is, and—shyly, tentatively—how much you missed this, missing feeling him inside of you, tasting him on your tongue.

It punches a snarl from his throat; ripped and raw on the barbed wire lining his jugular. It drips blood when he bites into it, fingers cutting into your skin to stem the ache in his voice from leaking out.

(Things are only real when whispered out loud.)

He pulses inside of you, head tilts back as he groans with his release.

These soft moments nearly ruin you: when his hands clench around your waist, paroxysms of pleasure hard enough to bruise; his chest expanding with his deep breaths, brushing yours with each inhale; the heat spuming inside of you. The noises he makes. The way his brow pinches together when he cums.

Your eyes fall on the column of his neck, tracing a bead of sweat slipping down from the humid mask, over the bluish mark you left on his skin, to where it pools in the indent of his collarbone. His throat bobs. You watch it all.

He's never more real than in these moments, you find.

You think of object permanence, and sink your teeth into the raw ring around his neck.

Simon shudders under you. "Fuckin' hell, pet—;" is a gravel-rucked rasp from his chest. He swallows again. "You tryin' to go for the jugular next?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. His arms tighten around you, locking you to his chest. You throb around the softening length of him, pulsing like a heartbeat. Brassbound bliss is thick around your neck; heavy iron pulling you down.

The cosmos spits you out, and gravity drags you home until you're centred; surrounded by the scent of sweat, sex, and the cloying tang of Simon—warm milk, wet nickles, and clove. Your nose brushes the hem of his mask, and you catch the frenetic headiness of Ghost. Warzone. Gunpowder. Ichor. Your tongue flicks out, catches the sulphur on his skin.

You feel his feet shift, his thigh flex.

Hold on tight, pet. It's the only warning you get before his hands curl under your knees, locking you to his chest, and he stands.

The power in his muscles is dizzying, intoxicating. He hefts you into his arms with an ease that makes your head swim. All the liquid inside shifts as he moves. A vertiginous wave washes over you.

You feel so small in his arms. So fragile, breakable. He holds you tight to his chest, hands ironclad on your thighs, and huffs when you giggle in his ear about how strong he is. How big and tough, and powerful Ghost is.

"Ghost ain't the one still buried deep inside of you, pet." He mutters into your temple, words slurred, hushed. They're almost drowned out by the cheers spilling from the speakers, and you wonder if he even meant for you to hear them.

You duck your head, nuzzling your nose into his throat. "M'tired. Take me to bed, Simon."

"Gladly."

It's a short walk from your living room to your bedroom, and he knocks the door open with the flat of his foot. He takes a moment before stepping through the threshold, eyes darting around your bedroom briefly. Hyper-vigilant. Always. This never changes even if he's in your flat or walking into the communal kitchen a whole sea away.

It takes him two steps to reach your bed. He doesn't bother with the lights.

He lays you on the cold bed, hovering over you with eyes like Orion. You think you find Betelgeuse in the far reaches of those unfathomable depths.

"You're pretty," you slur, stupidly, dizzily. You're not drunk—not really —but you're intoxicated by this, by him. His scent in your nose, his taste on your tongue, his weight pushing you down into the soft sheets—his cock inside of you still, twitching when you speak. It makes you giggle—robust and bubbly—and babble about the stars in his eyes, and heaven in his touch. "Your eyes are so—"

He huffs, those pretty eyes rolling at you. "Haven't even seen me without the mask, pet—"

"Don't care."

"No? What if I was ugly?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Scarred up?"

You shrug.

Another huff, deeper this time. His head drops, forehead pressing against your temple. You can feel the vibration through your bones when he rests his chest on yours, and murmurs your name low. Ashes and embers. Smoke is thick in your nose.

"You're clingy when you're drunk."

"Says the one who hasn't let go of me since I sat on your cock—"

His hips grind against yours, and the cheeky tone dies off in a whimper.

"That's what I thought."

"No fair," you pant, arching your back under him. Your legs tighten around his waist. "You can't just abuse me with your dick to shut me up. You know it's my weakness."

"If it works…"

"You're a terrible man."

"Never said I wasn't, and anyone who says otherwise is lying."

Your hands slide up his shoulders, and you feel something sour twist inside of you when he tenses as you glide over his bare skin. Your nails graze his scalp, fingers threading through his moussed locks. He shudders at your touch.

"Guess I'm a liar, then," you fit your cheek against his, murmuring in his ear. Quiet, low. The ghost of a whisper.

His voice is tight when he speaks. Airy, light. It's as soft as you'd ever heard him. "Guess so, pet."

His arms tighten around you, holding you just a little bit closer. It's almost cruel how he holds you close to his chest like this. Like you're something to be protected, to be shielded.

(Humans are greedy things by nature.

How can he expect you not to want when he gives you moments like these to cling to?)

He doesn't stay long. Two nights watching football on your couch, drinking tea, and feigning obliviousness to the crack in the foundation that lingers between you. The intimacy is startlingly easy to fall into; he sleeps (really sleeps; his eyes closed, soft snores spilling out from behind the mask), relaxes around you in a way that makes you distinctly aware, now, of how tense he was before.

(And yet—he still came.)

There is no confession to be had over cawl or the roast dinner you make before he leaves, leftovers tucked inside his backpack when he isn't looking, left there for whatever endeavour he was going on next. You can't imagine they have many homemade meals.

You don't even really know what he wants from this, what he expects, except that it's happening. He's here, and that—

That's enough.

You're greedy, always will be, but there's a dissonance inside of your chest, balmed by the tinge of green in those obsidian depths when you spoke of going home with another man. The acrid taste of his ire feels more poignant than any words could offer.

A man of action.

(And action comes often in his life.)

He calls you—for the first time in four years, somewhere overseas—and the sound of his voice in your ear has you grinning stupidly in the solitude of your bedroom.

"Did I wake you?"

"Wasn't sleeping."

It's quiet. Through the static, you can almost make out the chitter of insects native to whichever place they called him to. You think about filling in the gap, but there is a breath. A shift. Then: "me, too. Wondered what you were up to."

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Pet—"

"Thinking of you."

Silence again. His breath is white noise on the line. "I'll be—;" he pauses, inhaling once more: "—back soon. No promises."

"No, never," you smile. "Bring me a souvenir."

"All I have are heads, pet."

"How romantic."

"Never been much of one."

"I guess I could redecorate. Macabre-chic. "

He huffs. You wonder if it's a chuckle. "Would start to smell, wouldn't it?"

"Not much worse than you after a mission, surely."

"You—"

"Kinda miss it, though."

He says nothing. You catch the grainy inhale. The forceful exhale.

"Not much to miss."

"There's lots."

"There ain't."

"If you say so. Still do, though." You let it sit for a moment; a tender glimmer of raw vulnerability—the flavour he runs from. It brims. Your mother taught you that it was best to let things simmer. "It's been raining like crazy in London. Kinda reminds me of Wales."

"What do you call a sheep tied to a fence in Wales?"

"Do I want to know?"

"A leisure centre."

You nip your chuckle at the root, feigning exasperation instead. "You can do better than that."

"What do you call a soldier that survived mustard gas and pepper spray?"

"What?"

"A seasoned veteran."

Your huff trails off into silence. It's palpable, thick, but it isn't uncomfortable. It reminds you of the softness of night when you're supposed to be quiet. When you tiptoe around with a gingerness to avoid a raucous. Anything over a certain decibel is off-limits. It's not a rule. It isn't written down. But you follow it, anyway.

In that gloam when the sun sets over the horizon, and night settles like a blanket, you whisper:

Make sure those heads come home safe.

The sheets rustle. Something in the distance shatters.

He sucks in a breath. "I should go, pet."

It's as much of a promise as he'll ever make.

In the sticky gossamer of sleep, you feel something brush over your temple. A soft smear of warmth; transient and fleeting. The fluttering wings of a magpie.

It leaves before you can sink into its weight.

When you wake the next morning, the room smells of rust and gunpowder.

(No heads, but you find a whittled sheep on the pillow beside you.)

You open the cupboard above the vanity, reach for your toothbrush, and—

Oh.

A slow, soft smile crests over your lips, cheeks flushing under the jaundiced light.

Inside the solitary holder, another brush has taken residence beside yours. You stare at the two brushes in the rusting cup, heart thudding in your chest.

#simon riley x you #simon riley fanfic #simon riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #this is about as domestic as i can make ghost #simon riley cod #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty

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tacticaldiary · 10 months

Note

Heyyy just wanted to ask if maybe you could write a ghost x reader with fluff and comfort maybe where the reader comforts ghost after he has a nightmare

Night Terrors

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

It's a bad idea to touch a soldier in the midst of the haze of panic, but even between the haze, Ghost knows to associate her touch with a soothing calm.

"Simon." She says calmly, gritting her teeth as his hands tighten around her wrists. "Simon, you're safe."

His eyes clear, the iron-clad panic slowly fading as he comes to his senses

Masterlist

The person in the mirror stares back at her, clean and freshly showered. Droplets of water drip from her hair onto her neck, her eyes following the trail towards the bandages wrapped tightly across the expanse of her right shoulder all the way across her upper shoulder.

They hide stitches. Fifteen on them in a neat row earned after taking two bullets to the shoulder whilst on their last mission. The soft cotton of her shirt slips over her, hiding the itchy bindings out of sight.

Three short raps on the door startle her out of her thoughts.

"You alright in there?" Simon's gruff voice flows through the wooden door separating them.

"Fine." She says after a moment. It's not far from the truth. Physically, aside from the ache in her shoulder she really is fine.

She full well knows that her life isn't assured with what she's chosen to dedicate her life to. It didn't bother her most days, she knew the risks and loved her job. She loved her task force, loved her boys, loved the good she does for the world even if it meant getting her hands dirty.

She loved Simon.

It's something about the sombre stillness after the heat of going headfirst into a gunfight, the silence after the storm that still seems to be swirling in her mind, the ringing of gunshots echoing in her ears, and the scent of gunpowder and blood lingering on her skin.

Pulling the door open she's faced with her boyfriend, a furrow in his brow as he looks over her. It's rare to see him without his mask, but right now he bares himself to her fully, the strong line of his jaw and the dirty blonde hair dishevelled.

The exhaustion in his eyes mirrors her own.

This was why they were here on leave. She had been put on a month of medical leave for her shoulder to heal up, and Simon had silently followed her back to their apartment.

A burst of warmth had cut through the grey cloud hanging over her shoulder when he'd shown up on the helipad with his own luggage, ready to follow her back. They'd gotten here this morning, and even though she'd fallen asleep against him on the way here she still felt the persistent tiredness nagging at her to close her eyes and rest.

"Your shoulder?" He trails off, gaze flickering to the hidden bandages.

"They're fine, Simon." She assures him, offering him a tired smile. Grabbing his hand, she squeezes affectionately and leads him to the bed nearby. "Just tired, y'know? Getting shot takes a lot out of a girl."

"You're not funny." He deadpans, allowing himself one last look at her.

The warm covers are comfortable, the mattress much easier to sink into than the cold hard ground the team had been camping out in. You get used to it, but coming back to something other people consider normal knowing that it could have been normal to you too is strange.

"Wasn't trying to be." She yawns, letting out a long, slow exhale when Simon wraps an arm around her, pulling her closer. Legs tangle together, her head on his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady. All of it slowly takes the tension out of her shoulders until she's loose and soft against him, breathing deeply.

His hands brush gently over her wound, making her shiver.

"You shouldn't have gotten hurt today." He says quietly into the air. Simon's not sure if she's awake or not, but the words fester inside him like a poison he can't expel, they push themselves out of him without his permission.

"We were on opposite ends of the building." He feels her lips move against his chest, her breath fanning over his skin. "It's not your fault." She whispers.

He hums, not agreeing or disagreeing. She leaves it alone for now, too tired and on the brink of sleep to argue. Tomorrow she'd show him that he wasn't to blame, convince him the way she always managed to do.

But for now? The hand gently carding through her hair knocks her unconscious almost instantly.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

An instinctive intuition honed from years as a soldier is the only thing that makes her eyes flutter open halfway through the night. Tangled in the sheets, she frowns, a nagging feeling of wrongness tugging at her mind.

She had rolled over in the night, pried herself away from Simon at some point instead opting to sleep soundly on her stomach.

A small noise, almost indistinguishable over the creak of the bed as she moves.

"Simon?" She mumbles, sitting up slowly. The lack of reply makes snaps her to attention. Reaching blindly to her side, the lamp on her nightstand is clicked on. The light washing over the room makes her squint but when she finally cracks an eye open, her stomach drops.

"Simon!" Eyes widening, she throws the blanket off, kneeling down next to him on the bed.

There's a thin sheen of sweat over his face. Jaw clenched hard, his body is wound tight like a spring. Silent. He's silent aside from the heavy exhales that leave him and the slight tremble of his body.

Asleep. He's still asleep, she realises with a start. His head moves slightly side to side, as if trying to shake something off. This was...new to her.

Simon was someone unshakable in her eyes. Yes, he'd gifted her with more vulnerability than he'd ever shown anyone, but that did not change his image in her mind.

This...this was all wrong. He looked almost small.

Looking back, this was the worst thing she could have done but still half asleep and frazzled her first instinct is to reach out, to touch and comfort and assure.

Her hand lands on his shoulder, shaking gently as she leans down to call out his name. "Wake up!"

It works.

His eyes snap open with a strangled gasp that catches in his throat. Panic-glazed eyes latch onto her and before she can blink or speak, she's pushed roughly down, flipped onto her back.

Stifling a cry as her injured shoulder jostles painfully, the grip he has on her wrists pinned over her head is uncomfortably tight. She's strong, but with him straddling her, bearing down his weight to pin her in place it's a little hard to breathe.

"Hey-" She gasps when his grip tightens. His breath fans over her face, hot and harsh as he stares down at her hackles raised.

He was awake, but he wasn't seeing her. He was still stuck in whatever nightmare had been plaguing his mind.

Taking in as deep of a breath as she could, she tries again, smoothing her voice to be as gentle and steady as possible.

Simon wouldn't hurt her, she knows that deep down even his subconscious wouldn't do her any true harm. He was just jarred right now, merely on edge and acting on instinct.

"It's me. Just me, see?" She says calmly, gritting her teeth as he presses her harder against the bed. "Simon, you're safe. It's alright, I promise."

Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes clear, the iron-clad panic slowly fading as he comes to his senses. She watches him come back in real time, sees him blink and register his surroundings properly.

When his eyes land on hers this time, they're wide and seeing.

"Fuck." He breathes out sharply, immediately pulling himself off and away from her. "Fucking hell, I'm sorry." The distance between them grows as he stands.

It takes a second for her to respond while she catches her breath, drawing in the oxygen that was denied of her, calming her racing heart.

Silence wraps around them while they both come to terms with what just happened.

Simon runs a hand down his face, eyes raking over her to find any injuries, any sign of hurt. "Are you alright?" A hoarse voice dripping with blatant guilt.

"Are you?" She says, shifting to the edge of the bed, closer to him. "You were having a nightmare, I think."

He visibly clams up at that, tensing. It'd clearly happened before because surprise was not one of the emotions he held at the moment.

"Your shoulder." He says tightly, clearly upset and angry.

Confused, she look down and...oh. Oh.

Crimson stains her t-shirt, seeping into the fabric sluggishly. "Must have ripped my stitches." She mumbles. Now that it's been brought to her attention, the ache in her shoulder is sharper, most intense. Yeah, she definitely ripped them.

Simon curses under his breath, disappears into the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit.

The atmosphere is tense.

"Off." He demands as he kneels in front of her on the ground, pulling out gauze and an antiseptic ointment. Obeying silently, mind still lingering on the image of his quiet, shaking form from before, she discards the shirt, letting it slip from her fingers onto the floor.

His fingers hesitate in touching the ruined blood soaked bandages, almost as if he's...he's afraid to touch her.

"it's alright." She says. "I shouldn't have touched you like that so suddenly-"

"And I shouldn't have ripped your fucking stitches." He snaps back, pulling away immediately. Dropping his head into his hands he takes a deep breath, willing his anger away. He's not upset at her, never at her.

It's himself that he's pissed at.

With hands not entirely steady, he unwraps her shoulder, inspecting the damage. His stomach sours at the realisation that half the stitches were ripped, not unsalvageable but still damaged.

The silence stretches, heavy in the air as he goes through the motions mechanically, spreading the ointment over her wounds and rewrapping it. She doesn't know what to say. He was the one that needed help a second ago, but here she was now, being that one on the other end. She knows guilt weighs down on him, that he'd blame himself for this as well.

"Night terrors." He admits into the quiet, his sudden voice startling her.

"What?"

"They're night terrors." By the tight way he reveals the information, she guesses he's never spoken it aloud to anybody else before. "Had them ever since I was a lad."

"That's terrible." She frowns, catching his hand as it ties the last knot to secure her new binding. The ache fades slowly, more bearable than before. "Do you...have you had them while I'm around before?" The thought of her sleeping soundly while the man she loved suffered inches away from her made her feel sick, an iron band clenching her heart painfully.

His lack of response is enough of an answer.

"Fucking hell." She breathes, yanking him into a hug. "I'm sorry I never noticed."

"I didn't want you to." The answer is just as immediate as the arms that bands around her, pressing them together tightly.

"Tell me next time." She demands. At his silence, she pulls back. "I want you to wake me up when you have one. I'm serious." The fiery determination in her eyes warms his cold heart. "I don't give a shit if it's the ass crack of dawn, Simon. I want to help you. I want to give you the same comfort you give me." A soft hand cups his jaw, her thumb brushing over his cheeks slowly.

"You already do." His lips brush against the pulse point in her wrist as he kisses it. "I used to..." He falters, and so it's unlike him that it only makes her hurt more. "They used to be about...my past." He keeps it vague on purpose and she knows better than to press it and prod now, not when he's opening up on his own. "But now they're about you."

That, she had not been expecting.

"Me?" She echoes, confused.

A tight nod, his head dropping to press against her good shoulder. "You, love." He confirms. "Always you. You dying in my arms. Me watching from a distance unable to reach you as you get shot." He presses them together tighter as if taking solace in the heat of her body. "You dying at an order I told to you carry out. You get the gist of it." A dry, humourless bark of a laugh.

She swallows, taking in the information. "I'm not going anywhere." Gently carding her hand through his hair helps him relax. "I'm right here, okay?"

"I know." He breathes. "I know you are."

"I don't plan on leaving anytime soon."

"You better not."

"Wake me next time." She pleads. "Let me make it better."

"Can't promise anything." He mumbles into her skin, pressing his lips against the crook of her neck. "I'll think about it."

She sighs, knows that he wouldn't crack so easily. The way to Simon's heart was slow and rocky and dangerous, but she'd gladly risk getting crushed in the landslide if it meant there was a sliver of a chance she'd reach her final destination.

He reaches the bandages on her shoulder, lips hovering over the rough fabric. She shivers as his breath fans over her. "You shouldn't have had to see that." He says quietly, before pressing a kiss to her injured shoulder, a gentle brush.

"I know." She matches his voice, tipping her head back. None of them deserved this. Simon didn't deserve it, she didn't deserve it, yet their line of work, who they were and their past, was inevitable.

Life didn't care about the 'should not's' just about the 'what is'.

For now, she allows him to hold her right there, his lips trailing up and down her neck in slow, sweet and silently apologetic kisses. He mumbles three words into her neck, words that make her smile and melt.

"I love you too." Tugging at his hair until he lifts his head, she brings their lips together sweetly one last time.

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(18/07/2023)

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