#worse than death he's suffocating | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thedreamlessnights · 15 days

Note

Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so

Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!

For Your Eyes Only

Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.

Word Count: 5.8k

After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.

You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it.

The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing.

Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.

What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.

Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long.

The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.

A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.

Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”

Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”

“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path.

“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”

“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”

“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”

And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.

“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel.

You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face.

Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.

When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.

“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.

“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”

“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”

Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch.

“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war.

“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”

“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”

But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.

Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now.

“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”

“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.

“Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.”

Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same.

Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.

“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.

“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”

By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel.

The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”

It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best.

Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.

The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too.

You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees.

Nothing. You find nothing.

“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”

“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?”

He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”

“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”

A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”

Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.”

“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”

“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”

“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”

The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.

“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.

“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”

“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”

You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud.

“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”

You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.

You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.

Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.

When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything.

Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”

But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound.

Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.

Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?

Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.

In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”

Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood.

“Wait,” you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”

Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”

“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?”

Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”

He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.

There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.

When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.

The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision.

You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?

Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.

“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”

You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.

“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.

He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue.

Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.

He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.

Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind.

You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.

He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething.

And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.

After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief.

You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.

“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”

He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps.

You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him.

After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck.

Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.

One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.

When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.

Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.

You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.

“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”

“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.

“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”

“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.

And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.

You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it.

Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.

He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.

He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.

And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-

And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.

“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”

Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.

“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”

He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”

You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”

He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”

He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-

Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand.

You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.

Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again.

He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot.

For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.

You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.

“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”

And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.

“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.

“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment.

You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements.

Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.

You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble.

If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire.

He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.

Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”

You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”

He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”

Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals.

His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.

You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”

And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.

You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.

You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.

“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”

And, gods, all you can do is laugh.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion fic #astarion smut #bg3 x reader #mywriting

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b1rds3ye · 8 months

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hi!! this is my first time doing a request so idk if I'm doing this right haha but uh, I was wondering if you could do like. yknow the masked one you made for the 141 (I can't remember the name rn💔)? I thought of like, a sequel idea. like, what if during combat an enemy manages to take reader's mask, and so reader panics and like, rips the enemies throat out with their teeth (or if that's too violent, just goes basically rabid on them lmao) and how they would react?? if this is too violent or specific dw you don't have to!! anyways, I love your content it's totally awesome ur writing is amazing! have a good day!!

YES I LOVE THE BADASSERY AND THE UNHINGEDNESS!! If I'm your first request I'm so flattered anon pls do feel free to drop by again <333 Also just going to do general rabidness because ngl the throat thing sounds like an infection speedrun and we want our masked reader to stay nice and healthy <333

Word Count: 1.2 (it got a little long WHOOPS)

Warning: Canon typical violence, reader does get a lil sadistic and unhinged <333

Beyond Task Force 141 and Laswell, many - if not all - allied soldiers wondered about what lay under your mask. Obscuring even the eyes, your visage was more unreadable than Ghost's. Larger than life, a soldier among men.

There was a running joke that there was just nothing under your mask, perhaps an eldritch horror of sorts. You let the new recruits entertain the thought, it kept morale up as they conjured more myths of you. They said that no one has seen you without your mask. They were partially right.

It simply was that no one lived to tell the tale.

You were never one for close combat, but fighting terrorists was never smooth sailing. The chaos of battle had all of the 141 separated against the tight streets of Las Almas. How uncanny that you could not see your allies but hear their gunfire. Running out of ammo, you couldn't lament at your misfortune as a shoulder pummeling into your chest, sending you to the ground and the air out of your lungs. Head bashing against the floor you groaned as you furiously clawed up to whatever heavy weight was crushing your body. You were starting to make up the figure of a man hovering over you through the blurry haze of a concussion that filled your sight. The distant static of Price's voice through the radio, probably asking where the hell were you but you had more pressing issues at hand.

Through your struggle and flailing limbs you managed to wring the enemy's pistol off of them with a painful twist of their wrist. And they retaliated tenfold, a large sweaty hand reaching down and pressing your head back against the ground. Your adrenaline makes you writhe further, he was going to suffocate you, or worse, poison you with how fucking awful his hand smelt as the stink of burning gunpowder replaced any of your oxygen. But no, he committed a far worse crime.

A singular pull and the grating tear of fabric as your mask is pulled off of your face.

A heavy moment where your enemy looks down at you and his gaze is not like before. It's clear, it's deep. It is not looking at your facade but at you and you are no longer a soldier. You are merely a human, so fragile, so weak. One that is on the verge of death in a foreign land surrounded by bodies of fallen comrades and enemies alike. One whose mythos is all but lost at the victorious and leering smirk of an enemy as they take in your face.

That simply won't do.

Pulling your knee up to create space between you and the man, you pull out your tactical knife from your waist and drive it into his torso. His smile falls only to land at settle on yours below him, just like his blood that trickles as forbidden crimson down your hands and seeps into your uniform. It's disgustingly warm. He grows heavier as he loses all control over his body and you heave to throw his figure off to the side. You stab him once again for good measure. And then again. And again. Quick, short jabs down with a sharpened blade that cuts through uniform, flesh and bone alike. You did not count how many times you drove your blade down, numbers were too complex when your mind was running faster than any comprehensible speed. There was only one goal. To make sure no one knows what happened.

A harsh grip on the shoulder yanks you back up and you swipe with your armed limb to cut your new assailant's neck but they were onto you. Catching your arm, they pull it up as they hold onto your shoulder once again with a tightening grip that digs into your uniform. But they do nothing more, no matter how much you thrash and kick.

"Wake up, Sergeant," your opponent seethes and that voice makes you still, a buoy that floats across through your rage. Deep and grounding and your captain's.

You nearly stumble back but Price catches you before you crumple to the ground in exhaustion. The adrenaline was escaping your body leaving you with barely the energy to stay upright. Your head lolls back for a second before you bring it to the side to look at your direct superior, the remnants of a concussion making your vision blurry.

"You broken?" he asks.

"Negative, sir,” you respond immediately but he looks a little doubtful, a singular eyebrow raised as he inspects you. Not your body, but your face. The dilated pupils and the taut muscles told more than any wound.

"Can't say the same about your wee friend over there," Soap whistles as he tilts his head to behind you. “Christ, you did a number on him.”

You dare turn to look over your shoulder but Ghost already situated himself in front of the body. But between his feet you could already make out the indistinguishable mass of tattered fabric and discoloured flesh. Fresh blood filled the rivets between the cobblestones, the remnants of the body inching its way closer to you-

"Was it the mask?" Simon brings your attention back to him. You nod dumbly. He only dips his head in what you can only describe as understanding as he folds his arms, fortifying his stance in front of the mess you made. You weren’t going to see your handiwork, he was too kind to ever let you.

John drops his hands down to his sides as Gaz approaches you with your mask.

"Remind me to never get on your bad side," Kyle offers you a sympathetic smile.

"Learnt that the first day I saw 'em on duty," Johnny retorts and you instinctively smile as you take your mask from Kyle. The hardened plaster of your mask had cracked, the fabric that hugged your neck had become torn but it'll do for the remainder of the mission. Slipping the mask back on, Simon offers a nod of approval while Johnny tugged at the fabric for a few finishing touches.

Ultimately the mission was successful. The task force returns to base and although none of the boys mentioned the carnage you left, there are still whispers of it on base. You had hurried to debrief and get your mask fixed but it seemed some privates caught sight of you and that was enough to spark rumours. Your mask had gotten so fractured that a shard was left back in the streets of Las Almas and revealed one of your eyes to the rest of the world. Such a small organ but so vivid. The privates saw, and more was added to the myth that was you. There was now no question about what was under the mask. No lovecraftian horror or empty space, no monster beyond comprehension. No, what was under your mask was terrifyingly human.

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

#cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x you #task force 141 x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #anon mail ❤️#/*avery checks the mailbox*/#/*avery actually writes*/#/*cod x masked reader*/

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aphroditelovesu · 3 months

Note

Hello. Yandere husband Aegon the Conqueror ?

❝ 🔥 — lady l: I love Aegon and I feel that lacks content for him, so I'm doing my part. I hope you like it and forgive me for any mistakes! ❤️

❝tw: obsessive and possessive behavior, mention of death and toxic relationships.

❝🔥pairing: yandere!aegon the conqueror x female!reader.

Even though Aegon already had two wives, he still chose to marry you. People often say he married Visenya out of duty, Rhaenys out of desire, and you out of love. But what few knew was how much in love he was with you.

Aegon the Conqueror dedicated his love to you intensely and silently. Amid the challenges of the newly unified kingdom, your presence was his strength. There was no doubt who his favorite wife was.

Some said you were chosen as his third wife as a way to stake a greater claim on Westeros, still fragile after the Conquest. You were a good choice, you came from a good family and you had honor, which was enough for others, but Aegon was in love, he was obsessed.

He fell in love with you quickly, being enchanted by your manner, your personality and your beauty. There was something about you that attracted him and he knew he couldn't let you go. He wanted you to become his wife and so it was done.

Some expected reservations from his sister-wives, but there were none. Visenya and Rhaenys liked you and supported Aegon's choice. The preparations were made and you quickly married him, becoming his third wife, Queen and the one he loved most.

Life with Aegon brought joys and challenges. His obsession flourished even in difficult times, consolidating a unique partnership between you. The court commented on the happiness that emanated from the king when he was at your side, and the union between you strengthened the bonds of the kingdom.

He was a loving and dutiful husband, Aegon would always make sure that you were happy and satisfied and if there was something that bothered you, you should talk to him without hesitation. Your happiness was the priority for him.

Aegon pampers you without limits, bathing you in gold, jewels and silks, everything worthy of a Queen. Your whims and desires were met immediately. If you just wanted to eat cake for breakfast, for example, you would have cake every day.

Your husband always sought your advice, confident in the wisdom and vision you brought, your opinion was always considered the most important. The complicity between you was evident, and although it aroused envy in some, Aegon would not let them harm you.

You played a vital role as the king's advisor and confidant, contributing to the stability of the kingdom. Aegon, in turn, never failed to express his gratitude and admiration for the woman he chose as his Queen. He adored you completely, from head to toe and would make sure you knew that every night.

Most nights, Aegon spent by your side. He shared a room with you, unusual for Kings, but he wasn't just any King. He loved you more than anything and wanted you to know that. He loved sleeping cuddled with you, your legs tangled together and arms wrapped around you. Aegon feels at peace by your side.

The harmony between you, Visenya, and Rhaenys solidifies the strength of the Triple Crown. The three of you, the Three Queens, work together to overcome political and social challenges, uniting the kingdom under the symbol of the dragon. Your presence, as the beloved Queen, triggers a period of stability and prosperity.

Aegon is extremely overprotective and possessive over you and this only got worse after Rhaenys' death. He knows he would go crazy if something happened to you and he can't allow anything to happen. He's suffocating and will be breathing down your neck for as long as he can and will kill anyone if they cross you, if they cross him.

You are the only person who can truly control him and Aegon will be happy to let you do so. There is no doubt about who holds all the power over him. Aegon would do anything for you, he would kill everyone for you, slaughter anyone for you. Yours and yours alone.

Once Rhaenys died, Aegon's obsession only grew stronger, Visenya's as well. They lost someone important and not all the destruction caused is enough to make up for it, they couldn't lose you too. Aegon cannot lose you. May the gods forbid, but if something were to happen to you... The world will know the true fury of the dragon.

Your love with Aegon not only stood the tests of time but blossomed into a deep connection that inspired songs and legends. In the halls of the Red Keep, where the flames danced, it was clear that your union was more than political; it was a bond intertwined by the most darkest feelings. It was a shame the bards didn't know about his obsession.

Aegon loves you, he truly does, and although he may be consumed by jealousy and anger, he would never lay a finger on you. He respects you too much to humiliate you in such a way. After all, you are his wife and his Queen and his favorite.

#asoiaf x reader #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #yandere a song of ice and fire #aegon the conqueror x reader #yandere aegon targaryen #yandere Aegon the Conqueror #yandere aegon the conqueror x reader #headcanons #yandere headcanons #yan!husband #yandere husband #x reader #yandere asoiaf #hotd #yandere hotd #yandere house of the dragon #house of the dragon

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heartpascal · 1 year

Note

can we get more father figure joel? You know when Ellie killed the David, and then Joel comforted her? Maybe that but instead of Ellie it’s the reader, thank you <3

i am good

▹ joel miller x platonic!f!reader

▹ — summary: joel finally sees the darkness in himself reflected in you.

▹ — a/n: ok first request i hope it’s ok!! i know its kinda similar to the game but erm. its reader and joel this time!! and reader is much much less ok with the whole. murder thing but its ok bc joel is there to fix it <3 yes he is your dad no you don’t get a choice he has decided it

▹ — warnings: allusions to sexual assault (nothing happens but the intention was there), vivid descriptions of murder, reader is misled and attacked, similar to the game with ellie (so kinda spoilers?), joel is ready to kill for you (and does), lots of blood, tears, father figure joel, lots of angst and upset, vomiting

masterlist

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

Getting air into your lungs was proving to be one of the hardest things you’d had to do for a long time, which, considering the journey you’d been on, was shocking. The act of simply breathing should have come easily to you, but it didn’t. It couldn’t. Not as you saw the reflection of your own bloodied face in the knife that was held up, a clear threat polluting the air.

You knew you had probably been lucky to even make it as far as you had — born into a world full of death and chaos and infection, you were bound to meet your gruesome end some day, but you didn’t want to die.

For the first time in a long time, your chest ached for the breath you couldn’t seem to provide, the want, the need to live almost suffocating you on its own. You had someone now, someone who cared whether you survived or not, who felt like you deserved even a glimpse at a happy ending, even if he didn’t like to state those things out loud.

Resentment was growing in your stomach, filling you with the need to be sick. Why did you always have to listen to the words Joel didn’t say, rather than the ones he did say? If you had just listened, conserved your trust for those who actually earned it, you wouldn’t be in this situation.

When your hunting escapades had led you into a small horde of infected, you had just blindly put your faith in the aging couple who came to your aid, not thinking of what they might want for their troubles. You’d never had to escape without Joel’s help before, and you quickly discovered you weren’t all that good at it.

The two of them had dragged you back to their nearby settlement which they shared with a couple dozen others, all whilst you were kicking and screaming, trying to get away, your resolve fading each time they hit you to near unconsciousness. When they passed by a young man stood beside an older lady, you had called out to them, “Please, help me, please.”

“Gotta get something in return for the gear we wasted saving her ass,” the man had snickered to the two of them as glanced at the couple, just nodding at his words before turning back to their conversation.

You’d been knocked out when they approached a large community house, just getting a glimpse of the carpeted floor before the woman had struck her gun against the side of your head.

You had woken up in the middle of a chilled room, your arms straining with effort as you pushed yourself to sit up, seeing the woman holding a knife towards you. You couldn’t be sure how long it had been since they’d taken you, not with the way your stomach clenched with pain. The whole reason you’d been out there was to solve that, but you were sure that it had gotten worse.

“Listen, please,” your scratchy voice came out, much quieter than you had meant for it to be, “I—I can get you replacements for everything you used, but you gotta let me go.”

“We don’t gotta do anything, girl.” The lady snickered, as if even you saying such a thing was amusing. It made you feel small, powerless.

She got up, hearing her name being called, Cheryl, you noted, and sneered at you. Her skin was dull, and she looked vaguely ill, but that didn’t change anything about her threatening demeanour. At least one thing you’d taken from travelling with Joel was never underestimate your opponent, no matter how small, or ill, or kind they may appear to be.

Her hand grazed your face as she strode past, “Yeah,” she said quietly, like she was complimenting you, “You’ll do nicely. We’ll both enjoy you.”

You managed to avoid throwing up until she left the room, hearing a lock click into place. All that came up was bile, the clench of your stomach just becoming sharper afterwards. Your muscles felt weak, likely beginning to waste away with you having been inactive for a little while and injured, less energy wasted on muscle cells and more going into fighting off the infections that were likely trying to poison your blood.

Scanning the room, like Joel would’ve advised you to, you found nothing of much use to you. An old rickety chair, perhaps, but that would only help you if you could lift it, and you weren’t convinced you had the strength left within you, but you’d be damned if you didn’t at least try.

Something deep in your chest nagged at you, the longing for Joel, probably. He had saved you on countless occasions, and you could only hope that it had been long enough that he had finally gotten worried. It seemed likely, he really did worry a lot for a man who wasn’t meant to care, but then there was the factor of him finding you, managing to take down all the people in the settlement that might fight to protect each other and—

You took a deep breath, finally feeling your lungs expand and take in some oxygen, and pulled yourself from the ground, keeping the bile that threatened to rise down as the nausea hit you.

The chair was lighter than you expected it to be, the insides of the wooden frame likely rotten away, and you managed to pull it towards the door, waiting beside it with shallow breaths. When the lock finally began to click open, you raised the lightweight chair as high as you could, and smacked it down against the person who entered the room. Splinters flew from it as it impacted, and you heard the clatter of metal as a tray they carried hit the ground with them.

Food, maybe, to keep you alive for… whatever it was that they had planned for you, you reasoned, but didn’t look to check. Instead, you grabbed a mostly-intact leg of the chair that caused splinters to dig into your palm, and stepped over the body of the man who had taken you, exiting quickly.

Footsteps hurried you, and you ducked behind a booth as they approached the room you were being kept in. There were lanterns lit all around the room, giving it a warm look that greatly contrasted the cold air and feel it had.

“Shit!” Cheryl cursed, and you saw her bend down to check on the man from over the top of your booth. A radio crackled though the air, before, “Lewis is down, the girl’s out. Anybody got eyes?”

Your fingers shook and you gripped on to the booth to stop them, hearing the distorted reply of whoever was on the other end of the radio, “She ain’t got out, yet, she’s gotta be in there with you. You need backup?”

“No,” Cheryl replied, her cold voice sending shivers down your back, “I’ve got her.”

The drag of Lewis’ clothes against the floor made you peak your head up, seeing her drag him into the room, before she exited and locked him inside. You ducked back down, heart hammering. You couldn’t escape from them in an open forest — how would you get out of a locked down building?

“Come on out, kid. It’s okay, you just gotta start behaving yourself.” She called, her slow footsteps failing to mask the sound of her unsheathing her knife. It wasn’t okay, it was very far from okay, you would argue, and you could feel that crushing fear of death pushing down on your shoulders, your chest constricting once again.

You tried to reassure yourself — you had faced countless amounts of infected and come out on the other side, what was one woman with very bad intentions? But it didn’t make you feel better, not when it was another human, who could feel exactly what you felt.

Her footsteps approached, and you leaped from where you were in the booth, trying to run as far away from her as fast as you could, but she caught up to you with surprising ease, your muscles clearly weaker than initially thought, and she grasped the back of your shirt, pulling you to a stop as you fell to the ground.

“Get the fuck off of me!” You cried out as she knelt down, one knee beside you and another pressing against your stomach, knife approaching your throat as soon as she settled you firmly against the carpet. It was red.

“You could’ve made this real easy for all of us,” she muttered your name, and you froze, having forgotten the way you’d yelled it out to them in the midst of the battle. “Be a good girl, now.”

You heard gunfire outside, and when her face glanced toward the guarded front door, you twisted underneath her, pushing yourself away to find enough room to kick the knee against the floor out from under her. She fell, her chin hitting the ground with a satisfying crack, and when she cried out, anger overcame you.

“You were gonna hurt me,” You said aloud, almost as if it was a realisation, rather than just fact. Your eyes hardened, gaze going red as you snatched the knife from her weakened grip. She reached out to try and snatch it back, but only got the drops of your blood that fell from the blade as you held onto it, twisting it until you finally held the handle. “Why— why were you going to hurt me?”

Her response didn’t filter through your ears, and the rage at how easily she and Lewis were going to do it pulsed, making your vision go blurry. When she sat up, tumbling forward to take you down again, you swiped her own knife until you felt the drag of something resisting it, and then you pulled harder, feeling something warm gushing down your hand.

Cheryl’s breath stuttered slightly, her hands rising to her chest as she groaned in pain. You looked down to your hands, where they were coated in a red that was darker than the carpet below them, and you were so lost that you didn’t notice her hand coming below yours, hitting it so hard that the knife went flying to the other end of the carpet.

Like a reflex, your fists came down on her face, feeling the shift of bones beneath your knuckles as they shattered upon contact. You didn’t stop, too wrapped up in the fact that you didn’t want to die, that she was going to hurt you, to kill you when she was done, she was going to tear you apart and throw away the pieces, she was going to take away what little humanity had left, she—

Arms pulled you away from the body beneath you, arms much stronger than your own, and you screamed, yelled out with your broken voice, “I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking kill you, get off of me! I’ll kill you!”

The person shushed you, only holding tighter as you thrashed, turning away from Cheryl where she… wasn’t breathing. You stopped, tense muscles in your body going slack and burning as you stared at her, at her body, lifeless and covered in blood.

“Kid, it’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” said the person holding you— said Joel. Your hands dropped from where you had scratched his forearm, his arm covered in blood — though whether it was his, or Cheryl’s, or yours, you didn’t know.

He loosened his grip on you, eyebrows creased in concern as your entire body slipped when he moved his arms away, as if you couldn’t even hold yourself up.

“No… she— it wasn’t, I didn’t—” you trailed off, unsure of what to say, the words dead on your tongue, because you didn’t what? Didn't mean to kill her?

Joel followed your blank eyes to the body he’d pulled you from, and he turned your head towards him quickly, eyes hard. “No.” He said, and at your somewhat confused expression, he continued, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Joel, I—”

“No,” he repeated, and pulled your head towards him, keeping you looking away from Cheryl as a gunshot rang through the room, echoing in your ears so loudly you couldn’t hear Joel at first, as he held up the smoking gun for you to see, “—killed her, see? I killed her.”

“They were going… they wanted to—” You choked on the words, feeling that bile come creeping back up your throat, and you lurched away from Joel as it came out, feeling him pull your hair back from your face.

Something in his eyes settled, however, at the choice of word you’d used — they. So this body wasn’t the only one in here? His question was answered by a bang at a door on the other side, the way your entire body flinched at the sound.

The door splintered, and a battered man came tumbling out, hurrying over to where he could see people crowded. His face went red, and he began to shout, “You fucking bitch—!”

Joel shot one between the eyes, and the man crumpled before he could get anything else out. He turned back to you, to where you were hunched in on yourself. He shoved his gun back in its rightful place, and held your cheeks between his hands, gunpowder residue transferring to your skin.

“Do you hear me?” His muted voice said, and you looked up to his face with a confused shake of your head, “It was you or them, and the only answer is you.”

“But, Joel,” you were interrupted, and he wiped the underneath of your eye of a tear that you hadn’t even known had fallen.

“No. You listen to me, remember?” Joel affirmed, and you nodded, the tears falling more now that you’d acknowledged them, your hands shaking as you tried to look past Joel, but he just pulled your face back to him. “I’ve got you, kid. Keep your eyes on me.”

You turned your face into his neck as you all but threw yourself into his arms, and they wrapped around you like they’d been waiting to do so. You missed his pained expression at the words, and the way heartache burrowed in his chest as he stood the two of you up, his knees clicking.

He swept you up, as if you were the smallest and lightest thing he’d carried in years, and he carried you away, your eyes staying glued to him as the two of you left behind the carnage he’d caused in looking for you.

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hybbart · 1 year

Text

Day 672: After pushing themselves a bit too far, both ranchers get simultaneously hit with a bad day...

Short story below

The ceiling fan spun at a meandering pace above, barely loud enough to hear and barely strong enough for the breeze to reach down. Jimmy watched it dully, the uneven sway of the lamp cord making it hard to focus on the blades’ rhythm. Or maybe it was how deep his breaths had become. He could feel it, how little his gasps pulled in, almost entirely supported by the tube forcefully pumping air through his nose. It felt as though his lungs had forgotten how to breathe despite how hard they tried.

It was a really bad day. They didn’t happen often – Jimmy could hardly remember one that had ever been quite this bad – but they didn’t have to. If he took his tubes out right now he would simply suffocate to death no matter how hard he tried. Part of his mind resigned to it, as if he would wake up every day after this way, completely irreversible. It was more like gas prices, he knew. It would get worse than it had ever been before going back down, but not quite as far down as it was before, just that little bit worse, creeping up like he wouldn’t notice. Not just the struggle to breathe, but the awareness.

Besides him Tango whimpered. For a brief moment instinct chased away his thoughts, replacing them with concern for his rancher who was rolling onto his side to curl up. He grasped at his shoulder in agony, and Jimmy’s heart was overwhelmed with the weight of guilt. It’d been him who had hacked off Tango’s limb with a fire axe, after all. Maybe if he’d held out just a little longer someone with more medical knowledge could have done it far cleaner or saved his arm. As it was now, Tango’s shocked nerves flared at a wound that had long since healed. It always ached, just a little bit. Today it was visibly swollen, and Tango himself agreed to take some of their precious little medication to ease it. A bad day.

His heart constricted painfully.

“Tango?” Jimmy whispered, as if the sound might hurt his companion. Tango struggled to roll over and look at him, eyes distant and teeth gritted. If he weren’t a blazeborn he’d be sweating, Jimmy was sure.

Careful not to disturb the pained limb or pull on his mask, Jimmy scooted closer. Revy whimpered where he lay between their legs, ears pinned. He could smell both their bad days, but there was nothing else that could be done about them.

Tango strained to put on a smile for Jimmy, but it was more of a grimace. “What’s up, buttercup?” He teased, voice nearly too raspy to understand.

Jimmy stared at him and let his face fall. “I don’t know.” He admitted. His own breath came in heavy puffs, unable to reconcile his muscles with the air being forced into his lungs. They couldn’t even hold each other for comfort.

“Pearl’s taking care of the animals and crops.” Assured Tango.

“And when she’s gone?”

“She won’t leave us before we’re back on our feet.”

“But what about next time?” He pressed, feeling his heartbeat pick up.

Tango’s face softened and turned full towards Jimmy despite his pain. “Jim, it’s okay. We just pushed ourselves a little too hard this month and it caught up with us. We’ll be more careful.”

“What’ll we do when just finishing the chores is too much?”

“That’s not something we have to worry about yet.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.” Jimmy warbled, taking in a deeper breath. “It feels like we’re losing.”

“We aren’t losing.” Claws reached out to brush back Jimmy’s bangs which were damped with cold sweat. It continued past his ear, and repeated. Jimmy leaned into Tango’s hand, searching for any comfort he could attain. “We have each other, we’ll take care of each other.”

Jimmy frowned. “Except today.”

Those words finally seemed to give Tango pause. Jimmy took the opportunity to continue. “You’ve thought about it too. I can’t take care of myself if something happens to you. If any of my machines break down or the power goes out, or when it gets worse. I know I stopped breathing last night.” He paused to even his breathing. “And what’ll you do, if you can’t get out of bed and you’re all alone? If the pain gets worse and we’re out of medication?”

“Don’t talk like that.” Tango tried to sound firm, but Jimmy just shook his head.

“We’re out here pretending nothing is wrong, playing ranchers. There’s no ambulance if something happens, and they have as few supplies as the rest of us. We’re always fighting just to keep the power on to keep me alive. What’ll we do if a storm comes in the winter? We’d just waste away in our bed.”

There was a shuffling beside him – when had the world become so blurry? – and an arm wrapped its way across Jimmy’s shoulders. Instinctively his hand went up to cling to it. Tango’s forehead pressed into Jimmy’s shoulder. His breaths came out as shaky as Jimmy’s own, and immediately the avian wanted to apologize. Everything he said they already knew, there was no reason to let it all spill out. What was wrong with him?

But Tango pressed himself as close as he could through his pain. “Let’s think about it when we’re feeling better, okay?”

Jimmy knew what he was doing. They’d done it before. It won’t make a difference this time. His brain assured him. It’s just facts it doesn’t matter what mood we’re in if it’s facts. If we do it’s just because we forgot how bad it was. That’s why he can’t come up with a counter. Even while another part of his mind knew Tango was right. His miserable thoughts were sure they were true.

Silence fell across the room, filled only by the whirring of Jimmy’s machines and the distant clucking of chickens mixed with wild bird song. Light streamed through the windows, accompanied by a soft breeze. It was a shame it was such a nice day.

He could feel Tango relax against him, nudging his whole body just a bit closer until he was half-slumped onto the avian as he let his arm slip down to Jimmy’s ribs into a more comfortable hold. Jimmy let his head fall to the side, resting it atop Tango’s. Uneven heat radiated from the blazeborn still. He kicked himself for putting those thoughts in Tango’s mind too when, for once, it seemed like they hadn’t been.

“I’m sorry.” Whispered the avian. “I’m just scared.”

“I know.” Tango cooed. “I know, So’m I.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

But Tango shook his head. “We’ll think about it when we’re feeling better. We’ll talk to the others.”

“Okay.”

#tango tek #solidaritygaming #team rancher #rancher's revenge #rancher apocalypse au #fanart #biopunk #cottagecore #character #background #scene #writing #art #sketch #colour #Hybbart

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hatchet-boy · 1 month

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Judging SPN Seasons By How Messy It Would Be If Sam And Dean Started Having Sex

Season 1: freshly reunited. no one else in their world but them. they are obsessed with each other. they would fuck like feral dogs and it would make them so much worse. also dad is there. unspeakably messy. 12/10

Season 2: dad just died. the grief sex would be more tears than come and at least one of them is probably saying johns name mid fuck. dean might have to kill baby brother (TM) and so the obvious reaction to this would be extremely possessive sex. sam would not like that attitude (with the one exception of if it happens when hes drunk in playthings). messy in even grosser but marginally less feral ways than szn one. 13/10

Season 3: milder. still obsessed with each other but more settled into it now. deans turn to maybe die and sams turn to be uber-doober possessive about it. unlike sam, dean would be extremely into that. and his deal is comin due so he might as well. sad and tragic,, but not that messy. probably still more tears than come. 6/10

Season 4: dean just came back from hell to find sam fucking his new demon girlfriend. the angels are there. they're still hunting but Stuff Is Going On and god knows they need to be grounded with each other to make it through. sex would probably help. would do the opposite than make things messier. would be vicious. definite chance dean might try to feed sam his blood. 4/10

Season 5: apocalypse fuck. oh fuck. ruby is dead. angels and death and demons and god and destiny. sam and dean are the most experienced and secure theyve ever been and yet. the whole damn world is about to explode. and yet they are still tortured and annoyed by the goofy everday hunting horrors. fucking would be nice for them, would remind them they belong to each other. they think theyre gonna die so the consequences wouldnt matter a whole lot. less insulated and worried about holy judgment so the incest thing may be a bother now. 2/10

Season 6: you fuck your brother but its not your brother he's different in ways you cant explain but you havent seen him in months and you thought you lost him and hes not quite right but fuck he looks like him and talks like him and knows everything about the two of you and he fucks like a greek god and hes mean as a motherfucker in bed but you can take it its fine its worth it its sam godammit-

15/10

Season 7: stranded up the creek without even a twig for a paddle. both brothers are destroyed and traumatised and forcing each other forward by force of necessity and a brotherly hand on the back of the neck. at least its just them alone together (dean please ignore the hallucination of lucifer sitting in the corner and judging our cock size-). sex would go terribly and be the most unsexy sex ever sexed. but they would probably like the closeness if sam could handle it. messy but wouldnt ruin them long term. there would be a terrible Dick joke. 8/10

Season 8: WHOA BOY WHAT A DOOZY. BOTH BROTHERS HAVE PARAMOURS ON THE SIDE WHOM THE OTHER FUCKIN HATES. DEAN IS PURGATORY FERAL AND HAS ONE EYE ON A VAMP. SAM IS SOFT HAS HIS PINKY FINGER TWINED AROUND SOME RANDOM GIRL. WHY DIDNT YOU LOOK FOR ME?? // YOU TOLD ME NOT TO!! // YOU TRUST A DAMN VAMPIRE OVER YOUR OWN BROTHER?? // YOU HIT A DOG... meanwhile sam is doing the trials losing his mind again and dean is losing his mind about that. letting you down was my biggest sin//there is nothing i would ever put in front of you. messy. 10/10.

Season 9: less than ideal with sam possessed by and angel. dean is rocking with the guilt and confliction. the mark of cain is also making him a bit feral again. theyre safe together in the bunker but thats already claustrophobic enough sex might just suffocate them both. pretty messy. 7/10

Season 10: your big brother is an angry angry man but its not his fault right??? its because of the mark right?? he cant control it and you love him and you want to stay in the safe house/bunker/tomb with him you dont want to leave anymore and you need him. youve both been through enough. you deserve this. there would be minimal messiness caused by sex with your brother rn. exception to those few weeks where he was a demon. 2/10

Season 11: gods sister is here and its the apocalypse again. dean hates what he has with Her. at least his sammy is here. at least theyre together. still crazy about each other. gay incest sex is the most reasonable reaction. god might find out- but then again, he and his sister are pretty wacked out together too, and are we not made in gods image?. 1/10

Season 12: Mom is here and so is lucifer and his kid and also the cunt ass brits. not ideal. minimal messiness so long as no one finds out. and fuck all them anyway its pretty clear sam and dean can only ever really trust each other. sex would be affirming and safe here. they are absolutely fucking in the kitchen to the smell of toast and coffee. dean discovers he has an std because no its not normal that your balls have iched like that for the past four years you need to go to a doctor and dean i swear on the impala if you gave it to me- . 3/10

Season 13 to 15: fellas is it gay to have sex with your brother who you've been functionally married to for over a decade? probably not right ha ha. if they havent already fucked by now theyre not going to. theyre just gonna be intensely platonically married until they die. they both have erectile dysfunction by this point . sex would mean everything to them but change nothing they would still be old and married in their bunker with the devils kid tomorrow regardless. they dont care what people think anymore. fuck all messiness. 1/10

Post Season 15 Finale/Heaven: we deserve a soft epilogue my love sammy. mildly concerned about being kicked out of heaven for incest but with everything else theyve done they still made it there. it would be the least of their sins. lovely soft and nothing hurts. can you make a sex tape in heaven? 0/10

#labelling this one under 'things i spent too much time on but love anyway'#constructive criticism is more than welcome here #spn #samdean #wincest #first times #edit to clarify:#this isnt rating how /good/ it would be if they got together in each szn. just how /messy/ it would be

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cherryslyce · 1 year

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Second Son (I) | Regulus Black

Series Synopsis: Forbidden from contacting Harry over the summer, you opt to explore the eerie halls of Grimmauld Place where you stumble upon a lonely portrait of the House's second son.

Part II / Series Masterlist

Pairing: Regulus Black x Gender Neutral Reader

Notes: Not canon compliant, cursing, Kreacher is a little shit

Following the sudden death of Cedric Diggory months before, the magical world flipped on its nose. The Daily Prophet pumped out towers of articles denouncing The Boy Who Lived, dubbing Harry as The Boy Who Lied.

Clever. Seriously, people actually subscribe to read that shit?

Surprisingly, Dumbledore forbid any form of contact with Harry during the summer--Hermione and Ron threw quite the fit after receiving the news. The most unsurprising reaction came from the ex-convict himself, Sirius Black.

Azkaban somehow became even less appealing after having to sit through his meltdown at the dinner table.

Who knew dementors could twist your spirit so far as to make petulant meltdowns a regular occurrence.

If his word was anything to go by, he got the better end of the deal compared to his murderous, psychopathic cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange.

Entirely reassuring.

The inability to rant to Harry via letters, deal with Ron's whining, engage Hermione in her tangents, or sit around Sirius left you with no choice but to venture around on your own.

There was virtually no chance of running into anybody but the twins (who seriously needed their apparating privileges revoked) on your little escapade.

The hallways were dusty and suffocating from the sheer amount of unkempt gothic vintage furniture lining the perimeter. While an uncanny atmosphere of suffering blanketed every centimeter of the walls.

Wandering aimlessly, a sudden pulse of magic combined with your reckless compulsion steers your attention towards a tall, black door. The crystal door knob was dull in the dim light, the keyhole and backing rusting with age.

Clearly, no one has gone into the room in years--decades, even.

The room was located on the third floor of the house, far away from the bedrooms the Weasleys were sleeping in and even farther away from the restless master of the house (who was pacing like a maniac in the kitchen for the nth hour straight).

What's the worse that can happen?

Famous last words (Harry's impulsivity was definitely rubbing off on you).

The door put up quite a fight when you tried to twist the knob, creaking in protest before finally giving way as you pushed with your entire body.

You stumbled in, nearly choking on the cloud of dust that danced up into the air with your ever so graceful entrance. Taking a look around, you came to one conclusion.

The room was utterly boring.

Boxes lined nearly every inch of the floor, the wallpaper peeling and dragging down the walls, and the small window across the room was clouded by dirt. A lone ray of light illuminated a small black dresser table against the wall. Curiously, you carefully weaved around the boxes on the floor and padded towards the dresser.

Just as you reached to pull one of the drawers open, an unsettling prickle ran down your spine. Instinctively grasping at your wand, you spun around only to be met with the opposite wall and more dust.

Quickly scanning the room again, your breath caught in your throat as you locked eyes with a pair of narrowed ones.

It was a bloody portrait.

“Who are you? Who let you in here?”

The boy in the painting seemed only a few years older than you with pin-straight posture and sharp features to match. His voice echoed with firmness, a voice that seemed used to commanding respect and attention.

But Merlin and Morgana…he was divine. So divine that even Draco Malfoy would lose his composure if someone this attractive showed up at Hogwarts.

“No one...I'm no one. Who are you? You look…er-familiar.”

Your last words came out as more of a question as you slowly drank up every detail of his features.

The boy’s eyes narrowed further into a glare, seemingly starting to become irate with your dodgy answer. Before he could retort, a familiar pop sounded through the room and before you could even comprehend what was happening, a familiar house elf was barreling through the boxes and dropping in front of the portrait.

“Master Regulus! Kreacher has failed you! Disgraceful Master Sirius has stolen everything! Oh my poor Mistress!”

The boy seemed taken aback by the sudden intrusion and the rather emotional outburst from Kreacher.

Seriously, could portraits take that many steps back?

Watching for a few more moments with wide eyes, it seemed that nothing the boy was saying was registering to the inconsolable elf.

Going to give the elf and Regulus some privacy, you scampered away and closed the door with much effort and an audible huff.

As you started walking away, a sudden bang nearly snatched your soul out of your body. Spinning around, confusion washed over you as Kreacher struggled to clamber off of the worn carpet, a disgruntled noise echoing around the hall.

Kreacher had just flew into the wall. Did the elf lose some screws and try to become a part of the bloody wallpaper?

“Kreacher? What happened?!”

Before the snippy elf could reply, loud footsteps pounded nearby and a disheveled Sirius bounded up from the staircase, shooting a look of mixed disbelief and contempt at his elf.

“What the hell?! Kreacher what are you doing?! You can’t just leave when I’m telling you to do something!”

Feeling, again, like an intruder to a conversation, you shuffled against the wall and towards the stairs as the house elf snarled at the older man, briefly eyeing you with confusion. Raising your eyebrows, you watch as the elf shoots glances behind him towards the room before popping away from a screaming Sirius.

Rolling your eyes, you say a silent farewell to the mysterious room only to notice the door was no longer there. The area where the door should have been was replaced with nothing more than peeling wall and a dusty wall lamp.

Did you just hallucinate the last 10 minutes of your life?

Apparently not. A few days had passed since your strange encounter with Regulus Black in the disappearing storage room, and you had somehow gained the undivided attention of Kreacher.

It seemed the barmy elf held some newfound admiration for you since you somehow reunited him with the young master he actually liked.

You were nose-deep in a book about Ancient Property Magic from the Black Library when the elf hesitantly approached you.

"Kreacher has a question for the young blood-traitor."

What a punk.

Placing the book off to the side, you rub the bridge of your nose in exasperation.

How did Hermione go on for hours reading in these conditions?

All the words were blending together and your eyes stung from all the damn dust in the house.

"Hello Kreacher. What do you need?"

"How did the young blood-traitor find Master Regulus? Kreacher doesn't know how Master Regulus is here...Kreacher has failed...Master Sirius is a lawless traitor undeserving--"

"Woah! Okay...while I am not too sure about how exactly I found that room. I suppose it is a good thing you have such er--apprehensions about Sirius. I don't think he would appreciate me breaking into one of the rooms here."

Which was entirely true.

Sirius was off his rocker. The combination of being away from his godson, listening to his mother screech every morning, and having to deal with Molly fussing over everyone was working him up the wall.

You felt almost bad for not telling Sirius about Regulus, but he had plenty on his plate and it felt nice to have something to yourself--your own little summer secret.

Granted, it was more accurate to describe it as a dead-pureblood-heir summer quest. Though, not as weird as giving a troll brain damage in your first year at Hogwarts.

Suddenly, you had a great idea.

"Hey Kreacher, want to go exploring with me?"

The house elf was skeptical for most of your trek upstairs, and he looked positively gleeful when you managed to somehow summon the secret door.

Apparently, Kreacher was magically expelled from the room the moment you left. So you were somehow the key to accessing the missing Young Master.

Before you could even caution the elf or come up with a speech for Regulus, the little thing was already flying for the door knob.

"You are back."

Regulus looked all but the same, except more tired than suspicious this time around.

"Yes. I hope you don't mind that I'm here. I have brought Kreacher as an olive branch to show that I am of no threat."

The boy's eyes flicker towards the unusually silent elf, and then pierces you again. Something akin to amusement danced in his eyes and you were almost offended.

You were no Harry Potter, but you weren't magically inept.

"Answer my question from last time. Who are you?"

"My name is Y/N. I don't know how or why this room exists, and it doesn't seem like Sirius has any knowledge of it. But from the looks of it, I'm the only one who can find this room."

"Sirius? He is alive then?"

Your lip quirks at the remark and you turn your gaze to the ceiling, "Yes, but he isn't quite himself".

"What?"

"Azkaban tends to have that effect."

"What?"

"You've missed a lot, Regulus. Like a lot. You're different from what I've heard though, pleasantly so. After all you haven't called me a foul, loathsome blood traitor. Nor have you tried to preach blood purity to me yet."

Regulus considers you for a few moments, eyes imperceptibly running over your expression. It is only for the briefest moment that you see something comparable to respect shine in his eyes.

Kreacher shifts uncomfortably and looked ready to butthead you, but Regulus interrupts the sudden blanket of silence.

"Kreacher, could you give us some privacy?"

The elf looked ready to vehemently protest in a manner similar to how he denies Sirius, but seemed to remember that he actually gave a flying handle about Regulus‘ opinion of him.

"If you wish, Master Regulus. Kreacher will be outside."

The elf pops away and you turn to maintain steady eye contact with the boy, becoming more intrigued with every passing second.

"You are right. I haven't tried to indoctrinate you or denounce your beliefs. I have been here for a long blur of time. I have had the space to formulate my own thoughts and opinions."

"Oh? A death eater finding salvation and seeing the light. Of course it'd be a feat only achievable through death."

"You speak as though we--they are still at large. Are there still death eaters around?" The disbelief flickering across his face spurred you to entertain him with an answer despite your former apprehension towards him.

"Yes. Many are well and alive. Lucius Malfoy prides himself in being able to circumvent the law and maintain his job in the Ministry despite his allegiance to the Dark Lord. Not that it will do him any good. From what I can deduce, the Dark Lord is not very forgiving."

Regulus looks like he's been suckerpunched in the gut, grimacing at every word that passes through your lips.

"You are right. Lucius will be punished for his treachery. I had hoped that the world would be rid of the Dark Lord after my death."

Confusion passes through you in waves as an indecipherable emotion mars his face.

So he wasn't a valiant supporter of the Dark Lord? Then it would seem the rumors that he was killed by the Dark Lord or his followers have some credibility.

"Well, the Dark Lord was gone, so to speak, for a while at least. It is only as of a few months ago did he come back in full form."

"I see."

"You don't seem surprised. Well, he killed one of my friends and traumatized my best friend so I hope you'll give me permission to wring his neck."

"You're quite vulgar."

"I am a saint compared to your brother, and my vulgarity is very much justified."

Regulus hums in understanding and you could almost see a miniscule smile stretching at his lips.

"Well, for your sake, I hope you never have to come face to face with the Dark Lord."

"I don't have much of a choice, he's been trying to eviscerate my friends and I since we were 11."

"Ah...well it would appear that you are to join me in the afterlife soon then."

"You'd like that wouldn't you? But I have no plans on dying anytime soon."

"Shame."

"Sod off. You're fine on your own...right?"

Dumb question, the man is literally stuck inside a painting in an abandoned secret room.

"It does get a bit lonely. But it is only the punishment for my sins."

"Well, I think you're quite swell. So don't worry, I have the whole entire summer to bother you. Think of it as an added layer of punishment."

"If you insist." His words conveyed exasperation, but the boyish smile that lit up his face told you a completely different story.

You couldn't help but admire his expression, committing it to memory because you were sure that his smiles were a rarity.

Pretty.

Wow. You were absolutely screwed.

#regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black imagine #regulus black fluff #regulus x reader #regulus black scenario #regulus black deserved better #harry potter series #harry potter #harry potter imagine #harry potter fanfiction #regulus black fanfiction #the noble house of black #sirius black #hermione granger #ronald weasley

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imaginesheaven · 1 year

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Fem!Reader x TF 141 - Undercover Mission

It’s time to get out the badass playlist you have been saving to make you feel incredible while reading this ;)

Warnings: Badass reader and cursing

This particular mission is quite a pain in the ass. Especially for you. Laswell declared it as an undercover mission for you and one of the boys. But that evil woman did not tell you that you had to wear an incredible breathtaking dress to blend in.

No one on the base has ever seen you in different clothes than the usual cargo pants and shirts. The worst part? You have to walk in incredibly high heels through the whole base to the car that’s waiting for you.

“I swear to God I’m going to kill you, Laswell.”

John Price

With quite a grim face you walk through the base dolled up like never before in your whole life. To be honest it’s quite the confidence boost as all the tough men and women turn their heads to stare at you in disbelief.

Some of them run against walls or against each other not looking where they are actually going. A few of them let go of everything they have in their hands. Your absolutely horrific mood shoots up into the sky. Smiling you wink at little group of men as you walk past.

“Where is she? We need to get going”, John feels like he’s suffocating in his suit. Undercover missions are the worst if you have to wear formal clothes. “Keep cool, John. (Y/N) is a Lady. It takes time to get ready”, Laswell can see right through his poker face. The Captain is kind of nervous and the reason is for sure not the mission.

“Oh shit”, usually Kate is not the one to curse but she couldn’t help herself as she sees you coming closer. You looking incredibly breathtaking got a trail of lost men and women stumbling behind you like lost puppies. At least none of them is drooling.

For the first in forever John is at loss of words. He can feel how his ear tips start to get red and suddenly the collar of his button down gets tighter. How is he supposed to think straight when you are by his side looking like a literal goddess? This is going to be probably the hardest mission for him.

“(Y/N), you look absolutely gorgeous”, John tries to focus on your face even if the rest of your body is very distracting. “Just let get this over. I’m dying in this thing”, you let out a deep sigh hoping he can’t see the slight blush on your cheeks. The Captain is way too handsome in his suit.

His hand hovers over the small of your back guiding you to the cars. He doesn’t dare to touch your bare skin without your consent. What a gentleman, right? When you aren’t looking at him, Price throws death glares at the other soldiers to scare them away. They start to scramble away into different directions.

You are a Lady. You are his Lady.

“Have fun, kids. Don’t be back too late!”, Kate grins at them knowing exactly what she has done choosing the two of you for this undercover mission.

Simon Riley

You are in an incredibly bad mood as you stalk through the base with your high heels and backless dress. The stares from the other soldiers makes this whole situation worse. Your death glares keep them away yet they still keep hollering and catcalling. Not once in your entire life you have felt like this. A walking piece of meat.

Ghost has definitely the easier part since he has only to play your bodyguard. So, at least he is wearing normal clothes. He already knows how pissed you are going to be. This man prepares himself mentally for the fallout of your mood.

“There she is. Grim as always”, Price comments the situation quite amused. They are used to your resting bitch face, but now you have written murder on your face. Your facial expression doesn’t dull your beauty at all. Simon is thankful to wear his usual mask, because his face is red as a tomato.

Usually Ghost knows how to contain all his emotions yet his body betrays him on all levels. His hands start to get incredibly sweaty not knowing how to compliment your looks without getting killed in the next second.

“Hey, baby girl! Give me a smile that suits you much better!”, one of the soldiers yells stopping you dead in your walk. Something dark and dangerous twinkles in your eyes as you turn around slowly towards the man.

“Fucking hell, get her, Ghost, before she kills them”, Price orders needlessly because Simon is already on his way. Softly but with quite a grip he grabs your shoulders to guide you towards the car. You are actually not tossing and slashing at him, which makes his task rather easy, but you keep yelling out all the curse words you ever heard in your life.

“It’s okay. You will get your revenge when we get back from the mission”, Ghost knows how to soothe your raging soul with a few words. “Don’t you dare to break your promise”, you point your finger at him. A cocky smile on your lips stops his heart for a second.

“I literally don’t have a death wish, (Y/N)”, he closes the car door after you got into the vehicle. Of course, Simon looked away when the leg slit revealed way too much of your skin than he could take in this moment. Ghost takes a deep breath to calm himself and his racing heart down.

You are going to be the death of him.

John MacTavish

You are literally glowing wearing this dress with the matching high heels. Usually you are already overly confident, but now you are walking like you are owning this whole place. The soldiers on your way through the base don’t know what is actually hitting them. The mixture of the clothes and your confidence is incredibly hot.

No one dares to speak to you or do something stupid like catcalling or hollering. The soldiers are way too intimidated by your beauty. They know you are out of their league. You are otherworldly.

“Don’t make a fool out of yourself this time, Johnny”, Ghost stares at Soap as he nestles with his button up shirt. “You are never gonna drop that, right? It was one fucking time”, he gives Simon a goofy grin, but he returns it with his usual “you fucking serious?!”-glare.

Both turn their head at the same time to see you walking straight towards them with an incredible smile on your lips. Johnny fights the urge to stare at you with a gaping mouth and eyes big as saucers.

A part of him works on auto-pilot as he holds his hand out for you. Happily, you take it and swirl around for him to see you from all sides. It takes just a second and Soap is back to his old self burying the gentleman thousand feet under, “Don’t tell me you got some nice weapons hiding underneath.”

Ghost rolls his eyes annoyed by his stupid words. You give him your sweetest smile as you pull him closer at the collar of his shirt. His lips are so close to yours now, “I don’t need weapons, Johnny. I am the weapon.” To emphasize your statement you wink at him, before you let go of him and get into the car without any help.

“I told you don’t make a fool out of yourself…”, Ghost shakes his head slowly disappointed, but Soap’s mind is way too far away to register his words. His heart still beats oddly painful against his chest riding through the high of almost kissing you. The smell of your perfume lingers in his noise lulling him into fantasizing about your lips on his.

“Get in the car, Johnny”, you bring him back from his little dream world. With burning cheeks and ears from embarrassment he runs around the car. He’s trying not to think too much about spending the next few hours so incredibly close to you playing your lover. He’s probably going to get a heart attack very soon…

Kyle Garrick

Not caring about all the soldiers staring your way you keep walking through the base. It’s a mission like every other… Just in very elegant clothes… And playing a young married rich couple in their honeymoon phase with Gaz by your side. Just another Monday in your books like always.

Gaz fumbles around with his tie feeling like this thing is going to choke him in the next few seconds. Nervousness is eating away at him. Undercover missions are always particular dangerous and this time it’s just him and you.

“Calm down, kiddo. You are going to be fine”, Price puts his heavy hand on Gaz’s shoulder in a calming gesture. For a second Gaz actually calms down his racing heart, but then you stop in front of them.

The way you are standing in front of him hands on your hips, which are perfectly wrapped up in this tight dress of yours. Kyle can’t help himself but stare at you. Sweat starts to pool on his forehead and in his clammy hands. Since when do you look like a goddess?

“You look absolutely beautiful, (Y/N)”, Price gives you a fatherly smile showing how proud he is of you. “Thank you, Cap”, you turn around to Gaz to see what he has to say. His eyes are not searching for yours. They are definitely locked on the target. Your chest.

“My eyes are up here, Gaz”, you cross your arms in front of your chest making the target even more prominent. “I-I-I wasn’t... I wasn’t staring! I swear”, Gaz stumbles over his own words with a burning face full of embarrassment and shame. He probably can never look at you ever again.

“Way to go, buddy, way to go”, Price looks at him deeply disappointed by his non-gentleman behavior. Unimpressed you raise an eyebrow waiting for a better excuse. Gaz raises his hands in surrender”, I didn’t mean to! I-I … They looked at me first!”

Realization slowly sinks in. Doomed by his own words he gets into the car without a further word. Gaz will probably jump in front of the first bullet he can find.

“Go easy on him. We don’t want a broken Gaz”, John can’t help himself but smile. You only shrug one of your shoulders, “Can’t promise anything, Cap.” Like the true gentleman he is he helps you into the car, “Have fun, kids.” It’s going to be a very long mission…

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steddieas-shegoes · 1 year

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Eddie doesn’t exactly get high often, alright? He just indulges in his own supply when he’s feeling particularly stressed.

Okay, so he’s been a little fucking stressed lately. His supply is down to nothing.

And it wouldn’t be a problem, except he feels like he’s getting a cold, or a flu, or a fucking tumor. He’s been sneezing nonstop and he keeps getting hot flashes and it just doesn’t make any sense. He’s been holed up in his room for a week, not even coming out to see Wayne before he leaves for work. No way he caught something besides loneliness.

Wayne always has some Tylenol on hand, but what good does that do when he’s dying? There’s some allergy meds that Wayne always takes during the first bit of spring, but they could be expired for all Eddie knows.

So he’s dying. Alone. In his too-hot/too-cold room. No music to even soothe his soul on its way to its final resting place.

“Eds?”

Oh, now he’s hallucinating too? Great.

“Eddie!”

He turned towards his door but couldn’t find the energy to open his eyes, even when his hallucination spoke again.

“Jesus, Eddie. What the hell is going on?”

Steve was definitely not a hallucination. He was standing in Eddie’s bedroom doorway, hands on his hips, unfairly attractive scowl on his face, looking at Eddie like he was a lost cause.

He always looked at him like that when he was trying not to show he cared.

“If you don’t have drugs, leave me to die.”

Eddie turned back towards his wall and pulled the blanket over his head, regretting it the moment a drop of sweat made it’s way down his neck. He refused to let Steve see him like this. One near death experience was enough vulnerability for them.

“Wayne called and asked me to check on you. He said you were avoiding him. Any reason or you just felt the urge to see my pretty face?”

“Wayne shouldn’t have called you. I don’t know why he called you. Pretend he didn’t. Go back home. Say nice words about me at my funeral and try to mean them.”

He couldn’t see Steve, but he could feel his eye roll.

And Eddie knew he was being over dramatic. He was over dramatic more often than not. But he was having a rough week, his therapist would probably even say it was an isolation week, and now he was sick on top of it. Dramatics were his way of showing he’d survive.

“Are you sad or sick?”

“Yes.”

“Which one is worse right now?”

Eddie considered the question, considered his answer.

“Sick.”

“Stomach, head, or both?”

“Both. Everything.”

“Got a thermometer around or do I have to kiss your forehead to see if you have a fever?”

Eddie knew he was blushing. He’d never been so thankful for a comforter nearly suffocating him as he was in that moment.

“You’re not my mom no matter what the kids seem to think of you.”

“Thank god for that.”

Before Eddie could unpack whatever Steve meant by that, he felt the bed dip behind him and a hand touching his back.

“Let me check for a fever so I know what meds to get.”

Eddie hesitated. He hadn’t showered in at least three days. He was breaking out in a cold sweat. He was at his least attractive at this moment.

Letting Steve, the guy who he’d been in love with for almost a year now, see him like this? Hell no.

“Eds. Don’t make me call Wayne at work.”

Eddie sighed and pushed the blanket off of his head. He turned onto his back and glared at Steve. He ignored the fact that it took most of his energy to keep his eyes open long enough to do it.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks, I got all dolled up just for you, sweetheart.”

If Eddie had felt better, he may have noticed how Steve blushed, but unfortunately, he had already closed his eyes again.

He felt a cool hand on his forehead and sighed, relaxing back into his pillow.

“Fuck, Eddie, you’re burning up! How long have you felt this bad?”

“I dunno. Last night.”

Eddie didn’t want the hand to leave, it felt too good against his burning skin. He shivered when he felt another cool hand on his cheek.

“I’m getting some Tylenol for the fever and I’m calling Wayne to get you flu meds on his way home. Were you just gonna dehydrate and suffer in here alone?”

“Probably.”

Eddie waited for Steve to argue, to tell him he didn’t need to hide away or pretend he was fine if he wasn’t. He’d heard it plenty from his therapist and Wayne and Dustin and even Max when she felt like being nice. But he was met with a drawn out silence that made him nervous.

He peeked an eye open to see Steve staring down at him.

“I wasn’t gonna like, let myself actually die.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Uhhh…”

“It’s not like I wouldn’t be here. You know I can handle it. Right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Do you not trust me to take care of you?”

Eddie opened both of his eyes to see Steve pouting. Actually pouting like a child not getting their way. Over taking care of him.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“You’re not my babysitter. I didn’t wanna bother you.”

“But I could’ve taken care of you.”

Eddie’s brain short circuited. He lost every ability to form a coherent thought.

“Eddie?”

This was too much. Steve was too much.

“Can you get me that Tylenol please?”

Eddie felt the bed adjust to Steve standing up and heard him walk to the bathroom across the hall. He took the separation as a small blessing so he could get the very few thoughts running rampant through his brain in some semblance of order.

When Steve came back with the Tylenol and a glass of water in hand, Eddie sat up in his bed.

He took the pills and chugged most of the water, ignoring the angry look Steve was shooting him.

“Thanks. You can go if you want.”

Steve, stubborn idiot that he is, didn’t go. In fact, he pushed Eddie over in bed to make room for himself.

As Steve got comfortable next to him, Eddie lay his head on Steve’s chest and splayed his arm across his stomach.

Might as well go all in if this is a hallucination.

“Just get some rest, Eds.”

Eddie let his eyes flutter closed. The last thing he remembers before slipping into his illness and medication induced sleep was a light press of lips against the top of his head.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #headcanon #idk Liam had to take Benadryl tonight because allergy season and it got me thinking #these two are equally miserable when sick #and equally overprotective when not

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cordeliawhohung · 8 months

Text

Until You

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader - part 4 of "soft spot"

Simon is the only place that feels like home anymore, and you can't get enough of him.

warnings: smut, oral sex (f receiving) porn with plot (a lot of plot), porn with feelings, service top ghost

wc: 6.6k

New York City. No one ever talked about the smell.

Warm, wet trash sizzling in the dying heat of the summer, mixed with the suffocating pollution from the countless cars clogging the roads. It was worse than London, in a way. Or maybe Simon just thought it was worse because it wasn’t home. At least the rat infestation was a bit familiar, though not all too comforting.

Most of all, it was the amount of people that really got to him. London and New York City were roughly the same size population wise, but it was as if the city was more dense than London was. With towering buildings stretching far into the sky, blocking out any sort of natural beauty, it was almost as if they forgot they could build their city out sideways. It was even more odd pushing through them, weaving his way between bodies and stands in the crowded streets. The city was awfully lively for a place that had almost been blown to bits that morning.

It had been a long week. A long few weeks. The last thing he wanted to do was meet up with Laswell and the others for some sort of debriefing party. In a bar, no less. Though, at that time of day it was likely to be less crowded than the street he tried to slither through, and he attempted to hold onto that thought as his only source of comfort.

“Hey, check this out, L.T.”

Then, of course, there was Soap. Over their time working together, he had grown closer to him than he had any of his other teammates. He was a nice enough kid, and one hell of a fighter, but walking down the streets of that fucking city with him was going to be the death of him.

Still, he paused as the Scotsman bounded up to one of the various stands that lined the streets. Some sort of parade had taken place that morning, which meant all the vendors were out and about trying to sell anything from food to handmade goods. The one Soap approached seemed to be selling jewelry ranging from necklaces, rings, and even earrings. Each one of them had that handmade charm with its leather, twine, and gemstones. He wondered how many of them were real stones.

“Fancy yourself some jewelry, Johnny?” Simon asked, deciding to play along with Soap’s antics for a bit.

“Oh, you know me,” Soap said, thumbs resting in his pockets while his eyes scanned the items in front of him.

“Chest candy not enough for you, then?”

The lady who ran the stand must have been the oldest person alive. Her body was covered in age spots and her hair was so wiry and frail he could see clear through it to her scalp. When she smiled, her teeth looked unnaturally white and fake, as the real ones were most certainly replaced with dentures, and there were the obvious hints of hearing aids lining the sides of her ears. Simon wouldn’t be surprised if she had no idea what was going on around her.

“Not looking for myself,” Soap said simply as he continued to browse.

Simon stood there for a good few seconds as he allowed his sergeant to have his fun, but his patience was wearing thin. Being out in that crowd had already fried his nerves some, and not everyone was caring enough to hide their odd gazes at his attire. He wasn’t all too excited about getting an earful if they showed up late, either.

“Here we go, what about this one?” Soap asked as he pointed at one of the items.

Following his finger, Simon caught sight of a ring. It was a dainty little thing, with a band so thin it seemed like the material would snap straight in half under the pressure of his gaze if he kept squinting at it. On top of the silvery band was some sort of red gemstone. He guessed ruby, but was doubtful about the authenticity of it. He was a soldier, not a gemologist.

“What about it?” Simon questioned.

Soap shook his head and hummed a little. “Right. Probably a bit too soon for a ring, huh?”

Before Simon even had time to question what the hell he was talking about, Soap grinned. It was a devious little grin, and something the man wore often. His hand reached out and grabbed a necklace from off of one of the stands. It was better put together than the ring was, and in his opinion, more eye-catching. Emerald green beads lined the entirety of the necklace, and they were the good quality kind too. The ones that probably were plastic but didn’t look like it. And the way it reflected the sun was rather dazzling too, even he had to admit.

“MacTavish,” Simon grumbled.

“What?” Soap asked, though he sounded a bit guilty. “You’re all the way here in the Big Apple. You’ve gotta get a souvenir for Spook. Besides, green looks good on everyone.”

There it was again, that nickname Soap had coined for you. Despite the fact that he had never once mentioned your existence to anyone on the task force, Soap had managed to see right through him. It wasn’t like he was trying to hide you for mischievous reasons, but he preferred to keep his life at work and his life at home separate. Though, it became a difficult task with that damn Scot meddling in it.

He would have rolled his eyes at the man if he wasn’t too busy attempting to glare at him. Instead, he shook his head before turning and continuing down the street.

“If you show up late, I’m turning you over to Laswell,” Simon warned.

Unphased, Soap turned his attention back down to the sea of jewelry in front of him, along with the ancient lady who hadn’t stopped smiling throughout their conversation. He held the necklace out with one hand while the other dug into his pocket.

“How much for this?”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Simon never unpacked his bag on the nights he arrived home. He was often too tired from the mix of physical exertion and jet lag. So he always saved it for the next day when his mind was a bit more clear and his body somewhat rejuvenated from what little sleep he managed to get that night. He always started with his clothes first. Rinsing out any stains with cold water before tossing them into the hamper to be washed some other time. Then there were the toiletries, where they’d be brought back to their rightful places on the bathroom counter.

Other than that, there wasn’t much else for him to sort through. Except for the new item he found in his hand. A small, dainty, green beaded necklace. It was the very same one Soap had showed him while he was still in The States, and it had been stowed away in the same pocket he kept his toothbrush in. Unless the thing grew a pair of legs and climbed in there itself, Simon had a pretty good idea who put it there.

“Cheeky bastard.”

Before he could grumble to himself too much about it, a sharp knock sounded on his door. He shoved the necklace into the pocket of his jeans and quickly threw his empty duffel bag underneath his bed before approaching the door. There was no need for him to check through the peephole before he opened it, as he was already expecting someone.

You stood outside of Simon’s apartment with a bag of groceries in hand, and bundled in a light jacket to fight off the cool autumn air. A grin formed on your lips the moment the door swung open to reveal Simon. It took everything in you not to throw yourself into his burly arms, but god, the very sight of him made you want to melt into his chest. To soak up every inch of him and bathe in the one true person who ever felt like home to you. He had only been gone a few weeks this time, but it still felt like an eternity since you had last seen him.

“Hey, love,” he greeted you as you slid into the apartment. “What’s all this?”

“Dinner!” you exclaimed as you scurried over to the kitchen. “Or, at least what will be dinner. I heard the ORP’s you get in the military are pretty shit, so I figured a fresh meal would do you some good. I got chicken, and a salad kit. I hope you like Ceasar salad, because it’s the only kind they had, and…”

You were rambling, as usual. Once you were aware of your chattiness, you paused and turned back around to face Simon. A ghost of a smile hinted at his lips as he watched you, fingers fiddling with something in his pocket. Another grin broke out across your face as you began to sway side to side. You felt like a school girl looking at her crush.

“And I missed you,” you said softly, finishing up your ramble.

That hint of a smile turned into an obvious one. It was still small, as were most of Simon’s expressions, but you reveled in it as he slowly closed the gap that spanned between the two of you. His arms slowly wrapped around your waist and that was all the coaxing that you needed to fall into him.

He smelt fresh and clean, like he had gotten out of the shower not too long ago. There was a hearty warmth about him that melted away whatever coldness that lingered on your skin. His head lowered so that his lips could press against the top of your head, which only caused that warmth to spread.

“Missed you too, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a tight squeeze. His words were soft and laced with fatigue, which wasn’t surprising. He always got like that after returning from somewhere overseas. Apparently saving the world was a pretty taxing job. But it only made you appreciate it even more that he was willing to let you come over to his apartment and bug him.

As much as you wanted to stay like that forever, there was raw chicken in the grocery bag, and you were starving. So you raised your head off of his chest and propped yourself on the tips of your toes to plant a quick, chaste kiss to his lips before slipping out of his grasp. His fingers lingered on the curve of your waist for a short moment as he watched you turn back to the counter to sort through the items you bought. Simon never really liked to talk about how his missions went, and you were sure a large part of that was because it was probably classified to some extent. Instead, he aimed the conversation to be mostly about you. So, while you cooked, you talked about anything you could think of. Work and how the computer systems went down on a Monday morning, or a walk in the park you had taken on a Saturday where you saw a bird stealing a sandwich from a toddler.

Though Simon had attempted to help several times throughout the cooking process, you refused, and ordered him to relax while you did the work. Eventually the entirety of Simon’s studio apartment was smothered in the alluring aroma of your freshly cooked chicken. After setting up the plates, the two of you made yourselves comfortable on Simon’s couch. Or, at least as comfortable as you could get. You didn’t know how he managed it, but he somehow found a couch that was even more lumpy and rock hard than yours.

“How do you like it?” you questioned with your mouth half full of food.

Simon took a moment to finish swallowing his bite of food before answering. “Good. Very good. Salad’s alright, though. Nothing special.”

You tilted your head to the side, curiosity piqued. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, eyes glancing up at you. “Any salad can be a Ceasar salad if you just stab it enough.”

A laugh left your throat, but not the kind that was sincere. It was mostly in pity, and a little bit in pain. “Wow, Simon. Grabbing the low hanging fruit, are we? Can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that one before.”

Another soft smile appeared on his lips before he continued eating. He was hardly one to truly smile all that often. In fact, you couldn’t ever really recall a time when you saw him grin, a big toothy grin. At that point, you think that expression on him would probably worry you.

“You said you went to America, right? New York?” you prodded, stabbing a piece of chicken with your fork.

“Yeah. City,” he confirmed.

You could hardly contain the grin on your face as your eyes flickered back and forth between the plate in your lap and Simon’s face. “You know, I read somewhere that someone in New York gets stabbed every fifty-two seconds.”

“Yeah?” Simon asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” you repeated, unable to contain your shit-eating grin any longer. “Poor guy.”

Simon nodded his head slightly as his lips pressed tightly together as if acknowledging the humor in your joke, but he didn’t laugh. “Good one. Have to tell the boys that one.”

You giggled, this time a real, true one. “Make sure to credit me. You’ll have them all repeating the joke that Lieutenant Riley’s super cool girlfriend shared.”

The muscles in Simon’s arms tensed slightly at your words, and he paused eating for a short moment before shaking his head slightly and continuing. This didn’t go unnoticed by you, and you were quick to question him on it.

“What? Plan on stealing the glory for yourself?” you teased.

Once more, Simon shook his head. “That Lieutenant Riley bullshit.”

“Is it weird coming from me?” you questioned.

He paused for a moment while he used his thumb to swipe at a bit of dressing that had lingered on the corner of his mouth. “Coming from anyone.”

Now that really caught your attention. The way you saw it, this was your opportunity to press a bit more about his work. At least the non-classified parts of it, anyway.

“Really? Everyone just call you Simon, then? Seems a bit informal,” you mused. But as soon as those words left your mouth, an idea struck you. “Or do you have a call sign or something?”

You could tell by the way he paused that you were right. He wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was obvious that a part of him was wishing you hadn’t caught onto it. It was talk about work, one of the hardest things to get him to open up about. But this was innocent enough, or at least you hoped it was.

“Ghost,” he said stiffly.

“Ghost?” you repeated. “I guess that’s fitting for you. You’re pretty quiet. Does anyone else go by something like that?”

Finishing up the rest of his food, Simon set his plate so that it was balancing on the armrest of the couch. He sat forward a bit so that he was able to reach into his pocket.

“Some do. One of them actually… helped me get this for you.”

Simon wasn’t exactly one for gifts, both receiving and giving. His language rested heavily in acts of service. Putting together a new lamp. Buying groceries when there was none in the fridge or pantry. Making you breakfast. So when he pulled out a beautiful green beaded necklace, you were instantly taken aback. It looked so dainty in the palm of his hands, displayed perfectly and waiting for you to take it.

“Simon,” you exclaimed with a small gasp. Mirroring what he did with his plate, you set it down to rest on the arm of the couch before scooting closer to him. You carefully took the necklace from his hands to admire it further. “It’s beautiful.”

His eyes watched you attentively while your fingers brushed against the smooth surface of the beads. Everything about you was perfect to him. How gentle you were with everything you did. How you were the exact opposite of him. Where he was quiet and stiff, you filled every void in him with the song of your voice. You haunted his mind, all his thoughts, the empty cavern of his chest. He had felt cold for so long, and when you came along it burnt. But he would gladly burn for the rest of eternity if that meant he could see you like you were in that moment, so happy and full of an innocent glee.

Happy because of him.

You broke his train of thought when you held the necklace back towards him. At first he was confused, but when you moved even closer to him, he knew what was coming next.

“Help me put it on?” you asked.

Of course he would. There would never be a time where he would ever say no to a question like that. So he took the necklace from your hands as you turned to sit away from him while lifting your hair up. His hands brushed against your collarbones as he reached around to get the necklace in front of you. It took him a moment to get the clasp to properly hook together, and you shivered slightly at the lukewarm temperature of the jewelry. He straightened it out on your neck and you turned to face him once more, a smile on your face as you looked down at yourself.

“How’s it look?” Your eyes found his again after asking the question, and your heart nearly stopped. There was a deep sort of feeling to his gaze, one that you couldn’t quite place, but one that made you feel unbearably warm.

“Gorgeous,” he responded, his voice deep and hardly above a whisper.

Something started to expand in your chest. It was difficult to tell if it was because of how he looked at you, those dark eyes glancing over your features, gaze lingering on your lips, or because of his compliment. But it kept growing, and things started to feel too hot, like someone had lit your heart on fire.

He was so close. So close that you could reach out and touch him after weeks of not even being able to hear his voice. You felt like some 17th century man with your eyes glancing over every bit of him like you had never seen such beauty in your life. That hot, expanding feeling in your chest only persisted, and it was getting difficult to breathe.

Simon felt like your source of life. Like you were dying without him. So when your hand reached out and brushed against the side of his face it felt like you were able to breathe again. But it only made that burn in your chest, that need, grow stronger.

He was the one to close the gap between you, lips finding yours so easily it was like he was taking the road back home. You twisted your body so that you were facing him as best as you could while sitting on the couch, and his hands were quick to find your waist. His touch was gentle as he carefully rubbed his hands around to the small of your back, tugging you closer.

But it wasn’t close enough, not for either of you. His lips pulled off of yours for a short second as he hooked a hand underneath your legs while keeping the other one firmly on your back. His strength always surprised you, as it wasn’t something he demonstrated all too often. With his stature and line of work, though, you don’t know why it caught you off guard when he pulled you into his lap as if you weighed nothing.

“C’mere,” he said, lips brushing against yours once more.

Giggling, you melted back into the kiss, sitting sideways in his lap. Eventually his hands began to wander some. They slowly slid under your shirt, inching up carefully as his fingers met the bare flesh of your waist. He didn’t venture too far. It was simple; polite, even. Going slow enough so that you could stop him with ease if you wanted, and yet still not taking advantage of it and pawing at you like a hungry dog. All he did was savor the touch of your skin.

But you wanted more. It was a weird feeling; wanting to be touched. Feeling like you would waste away without it. No, you didn’t just want to be touched, you wanted to be touched by him. By Simon. There was some sort of insatiable need growing in you that only craved him. So you pulled away, embarrassingly out of breath. The moment you did his hands quickly slid out from underneath your shirt, and you nearly pouted at the loss of contact.

“I missed you,” you said softly. Your hands meandered down to the hem of your shirt where you took the fabric between your fingers before slowly tugging it upwards. He watched you carefully, eyes drinking in the sight of your exposed skin as you discarded the shirt somewhere on the floor behind you. “I missed you so much.”

When your lips crashed together once more there was more movement involved, as if you were trying to devour one another. Simon’s hands roamed along your back, staying tactfully away from your bra as the pads of his fingers trailed along your skin, sending a tingle along your spine. It wasn’t enough. If anything, it only made things worse. You were burning alive and you would be reduced to ash eventually.

“Simon, I…” you said breathlessly as you pulled out of the kiss again. It caught you off guard just how whiny you sounded. “I want you.”

His eyes quickly glanced at the bed shoved in the corner of the studio, and his arm was already making its way underneath your knees again. So you wrapped your arms around his neck, and moments later you were suspended in the air bridal style, held against his body with nothing but his hands to keep you there. It caused another giggle to bubble out of your chest, which only made Simon smirk.

He could have tossed you onto the bed; gods knew he was strong enough. You half expected him to do it, too. Instead, he set you on the edge of the bed so that your legs were dangling over the side. He towered over you as he stood in front of you, a hand running along your hair. His touch was so soft. He didn’t yank on your hair, or force you to look up at him, he was much more tender than that. God, he was going to be the death of you. Your hands reached out for him and you pulled gently on the fabric of his shirt as you stared up at him, your eyes wide.

“Please?” you asked.

Doing as you asked, Simon slid the shirt over his head in one fluid motion. It wasn’t a secret that he was fit, in fact, it was to be expected for someone like him. The demands of the military, let alone the SAS, were rigorous, and his body reflected that. Toned muscles shone through thick skin which was littered with an array of scars. Some were so faded you could hardly make them out in the dim lighting of his apartment. Others were so deep and angry they nearly made your stomach turn at the thought of what could cause such a thing. Particularly a rather deep scar that punctured through the muscle of his ribs.

Continuing to maintain eye contact with him, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against that scar on his ribs. You could feel the way his muscles rippled underneath your mouth in a shiver. He shivered harder than he ever had when you offered the same comfort to the scar on his cheek.

As if thanking him for being so vulnerable with you, a hand reached behind your back and undid the clasp on your bra, causing your breasts to drop into full view. Once that item of clothing was tossed somewhere to the side, everything fell into place perfectly. Simon leaning down, his lips on yours, your hands tangled in his hair, his fingers pulling off the clothing that covered your bottom half.

At some point you had fallen so that you laid on your back. Simon still stood at the edge of the bed where he took in the sight of your bare body, with nothing on you except for that necklace. It was an odd look he gave you. Like he was hungry, but not greedy. Like he was savoring every second his eyes drank in the sight of you.

You bit your lip and moved your legs upwards some so that your feet were resting on the bed, thighs slightly spread. His eyes dropped down, locking onto the soft flesh between your thighs, but only for a moment before he looked at you again.

Without breaking that eye contact, he slowly lowered so that he was on his knees. His hands gripped your hips and slowly pulled you so that your ass was nearly hanging off the bed. You gasped at the movement, legs flailing slightly as they were once again over the edge. To help keep you steady, he threw your legs over his shoulders as he positioned his head between your thighs.

You propped yourself up on your elbows in order to keep your eyes on him. Your breaths came in quick and short bursts of anticipation as you watched him. The very sight of him alone made you feel weak.

“Just say the word, sweetheart,” he said softly, thumbs caressing your thighs as he held them. “If you want it to stop, then I stop. Yeah?”

Your arms began to shake as you held yourself up, but you nodded your head in response to him. But your nod alone didn’t seem to be enough to satisfy him.

“Okay,” you said, your hips wiggling in anticipation.

Then came the kisses. Soft, open mouthed kisses against the inside of your thigh. He trailed them from the bottom of your thigh near your knee, up towards the plush flesh near your pussy. Each movement was slow and careful while his eyes continued to watch your body, looking for any sign to stop. But when you gave him none, he dove right in.

Stars threatened to blind your vision the moment Simon’s tongue slid along your heat, and your arms fully gave out as you fell back onto the bed. He moved along you slowly and languid, taking his time in trying to find just what made you tick. When his tongue swiped across your clit you found your legs tightening, nearly threatening to crush his head. A soft and breathy moan escaped your lips, which only seemed to fuel his actions.

“Fuck… right there,” you breathed as your fingers laced in his hair.

It was the sign he was looking for, and once those words left your mouth, he kept his mouth on you, tongue swirling along that spot that made your legs shake around his head. A part of you thought he was going to stop. That he would get bored of getting you off with nothing in return and would request something of you instead. But Simon was like a hungry dog that was tossed a bone; a salivating, grunting mess as he ate you out. And god, you had never felt such pleasure. A tight knot formed in the core of your stomach as he continued drawing shaky moans from you.

It was divine. Not just in the burning sensations he ripped from your body, but the numbness that settled over your mind. There was no worry, no fake pornographic moans, no acting. There was just you on your back with Simon’s head between your thighs as he devoured you.

That knot only grew tighter in your body as he continued, and your moans quickly turned into whimpers. Your thighs began to shake and clench uncontrollably, forcing Simon to put a hand on the inside of your legs as a gentle reminder to not smother him before he was done with his meal.

“I’m… fuck… gonna cum,” you said, words punctuated by heavy breaths as your body instinctively tightened.

But he didn’t let up, if anything, he moved faster. Tongue ravaging your clit, large hands holding your hips steady, breaths nearly as fast and uneven as yours. Your fingers tightened in his hair like you were holding on for dear life, and maybe you were. Never before had you felt something so sublime yet so close to death at the same time. He continued to pull every single moan and tremble from your body that he could while his groans threatened to overtake yours.

Something snapped deep inside of you, causing a rush of warmth to flood your entire body. Your breath caught in your throat for a short moment and your legs began to quiver while your orgasm washed over you in a burning heat. Simon held you steady even as your back arched off of the bed. Your mind went blank as you finally breathed again, your entire body shuttering. His tongue continued to work at you, but slowed considerably as your high waned.

Eventually his mouth left you for the first time in what felt like hours. Simon rose from his knees, carefully pushing you back up onto the bed as he did. A soft sheen coated you as a thin sweat made your body appear to glow. Your eyes felt heavy and your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. You felt like you were going to melt into the bed. Hell, you almost wanted to. Melt away into the sheets that smelled like Simon while riding away the last bits of your high seemed like the best way to go.

The bed dipped down next to you as Simon sat against the headboard, back propped up by a pillow or two. You looked over at him, a smile pulling at your lips as you rolled over, crawling on your hands and knees towards him.

“Your turn?” you asked, a devilish tint to your voice as you straddled his legs. His jeans were still on, but you knew you could make quick work of it if it came down to it.

To your surprise, Simon shook his head. That glint in your eyes quickly faded at that, and he reached out for you, pulling you into his chest. A thin layer of sweat covered his skin too, much to your surprise, and as you settled into him, moving so that you were at his side, you couldn’t help but be confused.

“Might have to take a raincheck on that, sweetheart,” he said, his voice deepening in the way that it did when he was tired. “Fuckin’ exhausted.”

It made sense. The man did just recently return from being deployed for some mission in The States. But still, it was… odd. No, not odd. Just different. And nice. So, gut wrenchingly nice to be the one taken care of. To have arms wrapped around you, to be held tight, to not feel a burning in your eyes.

To be loved.

That’s what it was like. It was more than being defended when you were threatened, getting flowers at work, or getting a drive home. Anyone can pretend to be nice. Anyone can pretend to love you. But it takes something different to see you at your most vulnerable, your most exposed, and not take advantage of it.

“I love you.” The words left your mouth before you even had time to process that they were on the tip of your tongue in the first place. You raised your head off of his chest and looked him in the eyes before repeating yourself. “I love you so fucking much, Simon.”

Something changed in his expression. His eyes were still warm and exhausted, but something else flickered in there, too. Something faint. Something… sad. But you paid it no mind as one of his hands moved from around your waist to your face, brushing away a stray strand of hair.

“I suppose I’ve grown fond of you, too,” he said, unable to hide the slight smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Really, you weren’t sure what you expected. Sarcasm was Simon’s second language, afterall. So you playfully rolled your eyes at him as you settled back onto his chest.

“Asshole.”

But you knew what he meant.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The next morning, you awoke to the smell of something burning. It was rancid, and sour, and quite literally stirred you out of your sleep. Your eyes fluttered open. Simon wasn’t in the bed with you, but you noticed that the blanket was smoothed out over your body, and the clothes that had been torn off you the previous night were folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

Pulling the blanket over your chest, you sat up and glanced around the studio. Simon was in the kitchen, bent over the stove as he cooked what you assumed was bacon. It was difficult to tell over that terrible, charred scent.

You slipped out of bed and quickly slipped your shirt over your head, not bothering to put on much else besides that. Running your fingers through your hair, you traveled the short distance away from Simon’s bed to the kitchen, where you quickly made your home leaning against the counter.

“What’cha cooking?”

He turned to glance at you for a short moment, giving you a quick once over before paying attention to his cooking again. Despite the sleep the two of you got that night, he still looked just as exhausted. You wondered if he got as much sleep as he had pretended to.

“Bacon,” he said simply.

You hummed in response, watching as he worked the spatula in the pan. However, your eyes began to wander, and just on the other side of him you could make out the source of that foul scent. A few pieces of perfectly cooked toast sat on a plate right next to two, unrecognizably burnt ones. They were casted aside in shame, it looked like, and the sight of it made you giggle.

“Did you burn toast?” you asked teasingly.

“I’m a soldier, not a chef,” Simon retorted.

His response only made you laugh again, and you made your way to the other side of the stove to get a better look at the mess he made. Yet, as you neared it, your eyes were only drawn to the toaster instead. It was an old hunk of metal, and it probably would have worked pretty decent if it didn’t look like it had been thrown down a flight of stairs a time or two.

“Holy shit. No wonder you burnt it. This thing is fucking ancient,” you said, dumbfounded.

Simon shrugged. “No use in buying a new one. Hardly here anyways.”

He was right. With how often and how long he had to leave for work, he was hardly home for half of the year, if that. It was one of the first things you noticed about his apartment. It was a studio, so it was small, and hardly had the essentials. At first you chalked it up to him being a soldier, used to not having much and surviving on so little. But maybe it was something else.

Still, you shook that thought out of your head as you looked over at him. “Do you want to move in together?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see every muscle in Simon’s body tense. He turned to face you fully, spatula still in hand as he looked down at you. “Huh?”

“Think about it,” you said, reaching out to grab that sad, burnt toast. “You say you’re hardly here. If you moved in, we could spend more time together while you’re home, and I can take care of your things while you’re gone.” You paused as you turned around and walked towards the trash. “You won't have a shitty toaster. I’ve got two bedrooms, so there will be plenty of room for your stuff. And, I don’t know. I think it would be nice. You’ve always taken such good care of me, and I’d like to do the same for you.”

The toast fell into the trash with an unnaturally hard thunk before you turned around to face Simon. He had followed your every move and stood with his back turned to the cooking bacon. His gaze was quizzical, confused almost. Like he was wondering why you would ask such a thing. But then, he looked away and turned his back towards you as he took the bacon out of the pan and set it on a plate on the counter.

“Are you asking, or just thinking?” he questioned.

“I’m being serious,” you assured him.

But his back stayed turned to you as he patted the bacon dry with a paper towel, soaking up any unnecessary grease. It was almost like he wasn’t taking you seriously. No, there was no way he didn’t know you were being serious. Maybe he just couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that someone like you could ever be with him.

So you took a step forward, feet sliding across the tile floor of the kitchen until you were by his side again. His eyes stayed focused on his work as he began setting the plates. Bacon and toast wasn’t exactly a five star meal by any means, but it was enough for you.

“You can tell me if it’s too soon,” you said as you leaned against the counter.

Simon picked up one of the plates and turned to face you. He held it out for you to take as his eyes flickered down to the food. “My lease is up in three months.”

Simon Riley was a strange man. It was something you were able to pick up about him the very moment you met him. And even with all the time the two of you had spent together, getting to know one another, he was still guarded, in a way. Never one to say I love you. Never one to say yes. But his eyes betrayed every word he ever left on the tip of his tongue, and when he looked at you, his mouth nearly did too.

“Great,” you said softly, unable to hide your grin as you took the plate from his hands. “Three months, then.”

Things were so much easier when you weren’t around. When you weren’t standing in front of him, looking up at him like he was your whole world. He used to focus on his work and nothing but it, not caring about the state of his apartment or what food he had to come home to. There was work, and then there was the time in between. That was all it was supposed to be.

Until you. Where he used to see the skulls that haunted his past, his dreams became littered with your face. Everything in him constantly craved the touch of your skin, the feel of your lips against his, the sound of your voice, your smile. He had faced terrorists and death, had died and crawled out of his grave, but he wasn’t sure if he could survive what you were doing to him. But god, at that point, he would let you destroy him.

#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #soft spot series

584 notes · View notes

k9wa · 4 months

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𑣲 MINE, ALL MINE. ft. SATORU GOJO

⠀ — so when i die, which i must do,

⠀ OR

⠀ — it isn’t gojo’s death that kills you, not more so than the circumstances.

⚠︎ 236 spoilers, angst, gn reader, i miss him so much i’m literally spiralling, its been three months i actually can’t take it anymore, angst, Angst, maybe angst idk. wc 797

december 30th rolls around faster than you can hope to process.

nothing in your apartment has been moved even the slightest inch in the last week.

two coffee cups still sit atop the kitchen counter, their contents long spoiled and beginning to smell. one of them is far worse than the other due to the abundance of cream and sugar inside it.

a large pair of black boots, leather with a pointed toe stay messily in the doorway— you’ve already memorised the steps to take not to trip over them and knock them out of place.

the bed remains the same, blankets and pillows in the identical messy pattern they were on the morning of the 24th. (you haven’t even gone into the bedroom, actually. you don’t have the bravery. you sleep on the couch.)

…the place is empty. it’s full, what with the clutter and picture frames on the wall and furniture. but it’s empty. cold, even. like a hand reached in through the ceiling and grabbed any warmth, ripping it out without mercy and leaving you in the frigid remains.

he should be here, you keep thinking. this is his home too.

maybe you’re dramatic. maybe his death shouldn’t have turned you so utterly pathetic. maybe you should be able to get a semblance of a fucking grip and at least clean the apartment that is suffocating you with memories you can’t bare to discard because it’s all you have left.

but it isn’t satoru’s death that kills you, not more so than the circumstances. it’s how.

and it’s not that he went out in a blaze of glory, fighting against the strongest sorcerer of all time who he, momentarily, had backed into a corner. not that he died with a smile on his face, the adrenaline of combat surging through his veins because to his core he enjoyed it.

but that it was megumi who he had to go against. that he found it easy to fight him no holds barred because of the irreparable mark the boy’s father had left on his very soul when he himself was just a boy. why? why did he deserve such a fate? why was it placed upon him? it isn’t fair.

his death incapacitates you because of how sudden it is. with no warning, lured into a false sense of security, just to have the rug pulled out from under you. at only 29 years old, over ten years of companionship are reduced to nothing but what used to be.

you’ll soon forget how his hand feels in yours, the sound of his laugh, the tickling of his hair against your nose when he nuzzles your cheek. it’s nauseating just to think about, yet not being able to recall at all might just be more than you can handle.

it’s not satoru’s death that kills you, because everybody dies. and in your line of work, it’s always sooner rather than later. satoru, strongest or not, is—was human. his death would rear it’s head some day, that was something you both knew.

but fuck you’ll curse every night to a god that doesn’t listen, and to the walls of a room that no longer feels like yours that you didn’t get more time.

he deserved to hit 30, to have what remained of his students crack jokes and call him old, and to watch him whine and run to you with complaints. he deserved to grow old enough to where he could finally be at peace with the death of suguru getou, or at least find peace within it enough to where it didn’t plague his life anymore— despite his insistent denial that it didn’t.

fuck what he deserved, damn it all to hell. you wanted him to do these things. wholly and perhaps even selfishly.

you wanted him to grow old with you,

you wanted him to stay by your side so you could stay by his.

you wanted him to reach a point someday where jujutsu society no longer had the two of you bound in heavy chains like two puppeteers; despite satoru’s advocacy and determination to make it different. where you could live your life together free of its terror.

…you wanted to see him succeed at that so badly. to see the proud look on his face when he no longer had to watch more children be sent to death.

look how well that worked out, huh, satoru?

you open the front door to your apartment, feet weaving easily around the pair of shoes obstructing the walkway. you walk past the same two grey coffee mugs on the counter, past the half shut bedroom door, and sit on the couch. you lay down, still in the same clothes, the same shoes.

you spend the night wishing it was you who’d gone first.

maybe tomorrow you will have the bravery.

⠀ 𑣲 MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

289 notes · View notes

1427 · 2 months

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would you? (pt 1)

Negan x Reader

Summary: Your mom died when you were 15, your Aunt Lucille was given custody even though she was battling cancer. When the world gets upended and Lucille dies, Negan is all you have, but he isn’t cut out to be a parent. When he becomes the leader of the Saviors and takes residence in the Sanctuary he’s almost a stranger. No one wants anything to do with you because you’re Negan’s “daughter”. So when you confront Negan about needing company, he obliges. You don’t realize that the feelings you’re developing are inappropriate, but Negan does.

Setting: height of the Saviors-era Sanctuary.

Warnings: step-dad!negan (kind of), still it’s all morally questionable (morally objectionable probably), Negan being manipulative and neglectful (listen it’s Negan at his most King Dick okay??? Just know what you signed up for if you’re going to read it), mentions of dead relatives, masturbation (m and f), sexual themes (obvi), virgin!reader

Word count: 4k

17+ mdni

// part 2 //

masterlist

You were off limits. It’s not as if they weren’t allowed to talk to you, but no one wanted to even find out where that line was. Being Negan’s “daughter” had more downsides than perks as far as you were concerned. A glorified prisoner that just happened to have all your needs met. Well, except one. Human connection, physical contact.

You’re so sick of being in your room. The Sanctuary was suffocating enough, but one room? The only time you ever left was to go down to get food, and even then it’s not like anyone spoke to you. You just grabbed whatever you needed, from whatever table. From the Saviors down to the prisoners, everyone avoided even making eye contact.

You didn’t live in the same area of the Sanctuary as Negan and his wives. You used to. You’re sure that one of his wives had probably taken up the space that you’d left, the room next to his. You’d left after he took his second wife. You’d been debating it since he’d taken the first one, the noises coming from his room alone were enough to send you packing. But isn’t that what adults do? So you’d tried to just ignore it. Like you imagined you’d have had to do if none of this happened and you were still with your mom.

Two wives, though? You’d never felt close to Negan. Not like he was your father. But… shouldn’t he be? Shouldn’t he have acted like it? He’d protected you like you were his own when you were still out there - but once he founded “the Saviors” and became their oh-so-ruthless ‘leader’ he almost acted like you didn’t exist. Or worse, that you were some thing he had to look after. Some sniveling little child that he seemingly wanted nothing to do with.

That was a few years ago. Now you’re 18, and totally fucking bored to death. Trapped in a Fuckin’ smelting facility like it’s a goddamn high tower, and you’re the lady of Shallot. Interacting with the world around you, but not really. Oh, and he has 5 wives now. Gross.

You’ve finally fucking had it. Negan has a strict policy about you leaving the Sanctuary even to just go outside. He can come collect you himself if he really cares that much. Stupid fuckin’ rules.

You bring one of your notebooks and a pen. With no plans of leaving, or doing something stupid, you just want some fresh air. You just want something different. And maybe, a little bit, you wanted to piss him off.

You’re sitting on the ledge right outside the Sanctuary, legs dangling off the concrete. Your notebook at your lap and your pen in your hand, scribbling little doodles and shapes. Writing out small flashes of feelings as you feel them. Just wanting to document the outside as if you’d never see it again.

You were in bliss a grand total of twenty minutes before you heard his tongue clicking behind you. Maybe you’d have been better off just running while you had the chance. “I know you know better than to be out here, kid.”

You roll your eyes and look up from your notebook, taking in the scenery while you still could, “Eighteen. Not a kid.”

“Shit, 18 already?”

It hurts. That he doesn’t remember your birthday, or how old you are. That no one in the whole world cares that you spent three birthdays by yourself, with no one to even remember or know that they’d happened. You try to be grateful, you have really really tried. But everyone’s got a breaking point. “At least, I think so. If no one wishes you happy birthday, does it still count?” Okay, so you could have come at him a little harder, but he was still Negan and you were fairly sure that he didn’t feel any responsibility for you anymore. Especially if you’re an adult now. You try to gauge things on if this were the real world, if things were still how they used to be. And 18 meant Negan held no legal responsibility to be your guardian anymore.

“Goddamn that is sad!” But he makes no attempt to comfort. Doesn’t even wish you a belated happy birthday.

“Yup.” You don’t move from your seat even as you hear him suck on his teeth, clearly expecting you to get up and get back inside.

“Alright, come on, kid. Can’t have you out here.”

“Not a kid.” You bite back again.

He stifles a laugh, “Yeah. Right.” He’s smiling that same shit eating smile that seems to be plastered permanently on his face nowadays. You can’t figure out what’s so fucking funny all the time. Especially now.

You don’t know how to ask him, what words to say I need a friend. I need a boyfriend. No one talks to me because you’re terrifying. You think about it the whole walk back to your room while he shadows behind. You get to your door and as he starts to walk away you manage to stammer out, “I-I need a friend!”

He turns around, a confused (but still amused) look on his face, “So get a friend?”

“No, you don’t get it. No one will even look at me because you scare the shit out of everyone.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to hold something back, rubbing a gloved hand over his clenched jaw, “Ever think maybe you’re just not very like-able?”

You look back and forth on the ground in front of you. Honestly? you’d never even wondered that, it takes you back that he’d even suggested it. Negan smiles, Gotcha. Obviously that wasn’t why, and obviously it was because of Negan and the way he’d decided to lead through fear. Fear was all he had. But you were 18, emotionally neglected, and desperate for approval. Your own self worth was paper-thin. He knew that. And instead of letting you, or himself, feed into the idea that he’d failed you, he’d put all the blame elsewhere. Like he always did. Like he was good at.

“Tell ya what, kid. I’ll spend time with you.” Your hero.

You could see through it, but what could you really do about it? You chew on your lip trying to figure out how to respond to such a ridiculous and ludicrous display of manipulation. “Fine.” After all, it was better than being stuck in your room. Maybe you’d meet someone, maybe one of the Saviors was cute. Maybe something could happen organically and Negan would lighten up on you a little bit, “Not a kid, though.”

Negan laughs, “Yeah, alright. Lunch tomorrow, come to the common room. You remember where that is, right?” It felt like a taunt.

“Okay.” You nodded without looking up at him, and finally turned the knob you’d been holding behind you. Letting your body fall back into your room, and shutting the door behind you.

This was a bad idea. You could feel it down to your bones.

✨🦇

You’re silently grateful that he sent his wives away to do other things. And though he’d told you to meet in the common room, you were sat in his bedroom eating lunch. You’d never seen so much food put out for just two people, but you weren’t surprised. Any and every opportunity Negan had to show off, he did.

You felt awkward, uncomfortable, and worse - afraid. Negan could tell, and while a part of him reveled in it, another part of him could tell that he was fucking you up. That he already had. No 18 year old girl should be this afraid of having lunch with the only family she knew. The only person she knew. Fuck yeah, he’d fucked you up. “So, kid - I mean, shit. Sorry, gonna have to get used to not calling you that.”

“I think you’ll manage.” You grumble, pushing the food around on your plate. You should have just stayed in your room. One thing that you’d picked up over the year or so with Negan out there? His attitude.

He laughs in response, “Yeah,” he nods, chewing his food with an open mouth, “Guess I’ll have to, you’re going to have lunch here from now on.”

Your eyes shoot up from your plate to look at him, “Why?”

“Because - you’re getting all fucked up and stupid.”

That makes you snort a laugh in response. “Yeah.. wonder who’s fault that is,” you say sarcastically back at him, taking a bite of food.

“Probably your dead as shit mom.” Negan knows he went too far as soon as he says it, but he doesn’t make any attempt to take it back, to apologize. Instead he just looks at you, a half smile cocked on his face, twirling his fork in a giant helping of spaghetti. Like he’s almost impressed with himself for taking it there.

“Wow.” You mouth, completely taken aback. You’d cried over your mom so many times, and this? From Negan? You were too shocked to react emotionally. Not here, not now. Maybe he was right and you were more fucked up than you realized.

“So, uh, what do you do all day?” Negan had been genuinely curious. Well, for the last day or so. He had more or less forgotten you even existed until then.

You push food around on your plate again, “Write, sew, read, draw. Started painting a few months ago but I fucking suck at it.” You sigh, “anything to keep my hands busy.”

Negan chokes on the water he’s drinking and you give him a look of mild disgust. “Not that.” His eyes twinkle a little in disbelief. Yeah right you didn’t do that. You were 18, of course you did. But without anything, or anyone, to think about it got boring quickly. Sometimes a good book came your way and you’d have some material, for a little while. A chapter, or a page, or more usually just a few paragraphs that would keep you somehow sated. Somewhat.

Still, you weren’t about to have that conversation with him. And Negan was more than grateful, his mind reeling at the idea that no one had ever had ‘the talk’ with you. And now, in this end of times, you didn’t even have television to teach you. No, Negan could absolutely not discuss the birds and the bees with you. He was not built for that.

The rest of lunch is uneventful. He talks, you listen. He feels better about himself, and you feel nothing.

✨🦇

Lunches with Negan get better. Less awkward, more like an actual friendship… or something. You find yourself laughing at his shitty jokes, at least they’re jokes. At least it’s something. You stop needing to convince yourself that you only enjoy it because it’s better than nothing, you actually seem to like his company. You look forward to lunch, getting out of your room, laughing with him. Negan enjoys it too, but it’s still off. You’re still.. how he would describe ‘fucked up’ or ‘not normal’. You flirt with him. Relentlessly. He tries to ignore it, tells himself that maybe it’s just your personality, but he knows. You don’t. You’re completely oblivious. After all, you really have nothing to go off of. Nothing to base anything around.

He gets you romance novels, asks the Saviors to grab them when they’re out on runs. He thinks this is the closest you can get to having television, to having someone or something teach you about that kind of stuff. Maybe that they would teach you the difference between platonic and romantic feelings.

Really, though, he’s just making you horny. Even more than you had been, and he’s still the only person you talk to. He figures he could and probably should use his position to get you some kind of boyfriend, but it feels all wrong. Like some sort of arranged marriage, and it disgusts him.

You touch yourself more often than you ever have. The romance novels finally feed this need. You think about the characters in the books, the lewd imagery described. It’s all so new and exciting. You never think about Negan, or something gross like that.

It’s been a few months since the last one he brought you, but today at lunch he pushes over a whole stack. You jump up from your seat, too excited to contain yourself, and you jump on him in a hug. Burying your face into the crook of his neck. You can feel your heartbeat all the way down to your fingers as you pull back and, with a blush, sit back down in your seat, “Thank you.”

Negan’s body is stiff while you hug him, and while you sit back down, an uncomfortable smirk on his lips. “You are very welcome.” Even through his discomfort he can’t help the pride bubbling over within him. Every other aspect of himself is weak to his desire for worship.

When you leave that day, with your stack of books, you hug him again and kiss his cheek before running off to your room.

Shit, Negan thinks to himself. Shit fuck shit. You’re only getting worse, more obvious. Now you’re hugging him and kissing him on the cheek? Maybe you’re just grateful for the books. But he knows.. this is wrong. He’s making it worse, maybe you’re past the point of being able to fix. For now, he ignores it. Maybe… hopefully… it’s just the books.

If he had asked you, you would have reassured him. Obviously it’s just the books. You don’t wonder if it’s weird that you touch yourself after lunch, before even opening one of the new books. You don’t think about Negan, just the feeling of stubbled skin under your lips. The warmth of a person in your arms, your chest pressed up against someone. It was the first human contact you’d had since you got to the Sanctuary, and it set you on fire.

✨🦇

Negan knows he fucked up. You hug him now after every lunch. Only giving him a kiss on the cheek when he brings you a new book or some other small gift. He doesn’t acknowledge within himself that since you started doing that, he’s started getting you more gifts.

Eventually, though, he can’t keep ignoring it. One particularly bad week, where it seems everyone hates him, none of his wives will have sex with him. Not even a fucking handjob. He’s forced into the degrading task of jerking himself off, something he hasn’t done in years. And, while the shame doesn’t come until after he’s finished, he thinks about you.

You, with all your nervous glances of prying eyes. The way your developed chest feels against his when you hug him. He fantasizes your lips asking him questions like, “Is this what I’m supposed to do?”

“Do boys really like that?”

“You want me to use my mouth?”

His forehead pressed firmly against the closed door of his bathroom, he opens his eyes to look down at himself. His swollen member in his hand, throbbing over the thought of you.

“I don’t think that’s going to fit inside me.” He groans keeps going, imagining his cock is the first thing ever pushed inside your tight hole.

Streaks of his cum paint the door, and he peels his forehead back before slamming it against the wood again. Fuck, this shit is not fucking okay.

✨🦇

Negan doesn’t know that he absolutely would not be the first thing inside your precious virgin pussy. No, you’d started to get creative. Finding your fingers almost useless when it came to hitting that spot you’d discovered deep inside. They were never hard enough, fast enough, thick enough. The handle of your hairbrush was your favorite. It was the easiest to keep clean, the easiest to maneuver. But it still wasn’t exactly what you wanted. Nothing ever seemed to be quite enough. Every orgasm left you wanting.

Wanting what? Because you never found yourself wanting a boyfriend anymore when it used to be all you thought about. You think of feeling Negan’s facial hair against your cheek, and your body is rocked by its second orgasm for the night. Tossing the hairbrush to the end of the bed, you roll over and fall asleep.

✨🦇

You startle awake to the sound of a knock on your door. It’s loud, demanding, Negan.

Getting off the bed you turn on the light with a sleepy grumble. You pull some pants on, and he knocks again. “I’m awake!” You yell, “hold on!” But this only spurs him to knock more aggressively.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck is going on?” You mutter as you finally unlock and open the door. Obviously it was Negan, but what you weren’t expecting was how absolutely disheveled he looked. “Woah, what happened to you?”

“Remind me to teach you manners.” He says as he pushes past you and into your room.

“Come right in.” You say sarcastically, turning around and shutting the door behind you. He’s sat on your bed, looking around at all the things in your room, his eyes settling on your rows of romance novels. He gets up from the bed and walks over to the bookshelf, pressing a finger into one of the book spines before pulling it out and skimming through it.

“Are you… drunk?” You ask him, the smell of alcohol emanating from him only becoming more obvious the longer he stands there, slightly swaying on his feet.

“Why?” He asks defensively, his eyes not moving from the page of the book he’s trying to read.

“Because you smell like booze?”

He ignores your question and your reason for asking, slamming the book shut as he gets to a particularly dirty part and he can’t bear to read anymore. “We need to talk.” And he looks at you.

You’re nervous, standing there anxiously you start to play with your hair and look away, “Oh, okay… wha- what about?”

“This!” He exclaims with an extended arm, motioning at you, “You. What are you doing?”

You look at him confused, brow knit together trying to purse some sort of answer, “I’m not… I was sleeping.” You shake your head, not understanding at all what he was getting at.

“You’re twirling your goddamn hair.” Oh. He was right, you had been. But what does that mean to him? You look at him even more confused.

Closing your eyes, one hand comes up to massage the bridge of your nose, “Okay, I’ll never twirl my hair again?” You shrug your shoulders as if to ask him if that would be all. Too sleep-kissed to comprehend what the hell he was going on about.

“No, Jesus-fucking-Christ, girl, the flirting. You gotta stop. I’ve let it go on too long, and it’s not.. shit, it’s not appropriate, all right?”

You rub your eyes harder as you hear his words, what a fucking idiot, you think. You can’t help the smile that starts to form on your face as you answer him, “Negan, I’m not… I don’t….” You can’t even bring yourself to say it.

He puts the book down and shakes his head, even now you were clearly into him. All nervous, smiling. Giddy.

“You are. And you need to stop. I can’t… I can’t keep having meals with you if you’re going to be hugging me, kissing me on the cheek. It’s wrong.”

You actually manage a laugh at his ridiculous behavior. Coming in like this, filled with liquor and angst and thinking he’s figured something out about you. “I’m not into you, Negan. Hugging and kisses on the cheek aren’t always romantic.” You say it like you’re letting him in on something he’d never considered.

He nods, “Yeah, that’s true.” Negan turns to face the wall away from you, shaking his head as he looks up to the ceiling. “It’s not just that. It’s the way you look at me, the way you laugh. Shit, girl, it’s the way you’re lookin’ at me now.”

“Don’t you think I’d know?” You cut in, without responding to his most recent accusation.

“I don’t know, kid, would you? You probably have a bunch of hormones running wild in your body and you have no idea what to do with them. I’m not blaming you. I mean…” he stops himself before he starts talking about how attractive he is, and how no one could blame you for feeling this way.

“I know what to do with my hormones, Negan.” You say blankly, is he really trying to have this conversation? You’re not. Jesus Christ, he can’t really think that you don’t know how to relieve that ‘tension’ on your own. What did he think you were doing with the romance novels?

He smiles at your little admission, nodding and rubbing his jaw, “Yeah, I’m sure you do. Let me ask you something..” he takes a step toward you and you feel your heartbeat skyrocket. His eyes staring you down with such intensity you have to look away, “how do you feel, huh, when I get close to you?” He steps closer, now only a foot away. Your eyes cast down to the ground, a knot forming in your throat, “you can’t even look at me,” he whispers.

As if to prove him wrong you look up at him. Your breath hitches and he can hear it. You can hear it. Your heart hammering against your ribcage, you swallow. Shit.

Big doe eyes look up at him, and he feels all the blood rush between his legs. Hard as a rock for you in seconds, that deft innocence, those pretty lips moving without a sound. Trying to form some kind of response. You… looking up at him and having feelings you’ve never felt before. This is why it has to stop. Negan’s never been good at controlling these urges, and the more you look up at him like that the less he wants to.

You try to speak, to tell him he’s wrong, but your voice quivers, “I… I don’t. I’m not…” Your smile that you can’t manage to stop only confuses you more.

“You are.” He slams his fist on the wall next to you, causing you to jump a little. He looks back down at you, your eyes enveloped in fear and nervousness, cheeky smile gone. Negan takes two fingers and holds them to your throat, “Do you feel your heart beating out of your chest? I bet if I..” he takes your throat in his hand and you whimper out the slightest moan.

His lips turn up in a smile as he brings his face even closer to yours. “See? I’ve barely got my hands on you and you’re already moaning.”

It hits you fast, the shame and desire all at once. Mostly the desire, with his hand at your throat and his voice saying words you’ve only ever read. Shit.

You don’t know how to respond, you can’t think straight. You just nod, he was right, it seems. Right? Because this certainly was having an affect on you. You wanted him to keep going, your body begged for it, but you couldn’t move. Too caught up in a fearful nervousness. This was wrong? It didn’t feel wrong.

“Doesn’t feel wrong,” is all you manage to breathe out, unable to break your gaze from his lips. In response Negan leans back as his grip grows tighter at your neck, and you panic, bringing both of your hands up to his wrist to try and pull him away. He doesn’t let go but his grip loosens.

Negan isn’t thinking clearly either, he hadn’t anticipated all of this. Having to convince you, prove to you, that you were having inappropriate feelings only made his own envelope him. And he was drunk. You, completely at his mercy and seemingly happy to be. Fuck shit fuck me.

He finally lets go and pushes past you and out of your room. Leaving you completely blindsided. For once, though, you’re not confused. Not unsure. No, there was no question what you were going to do next. You were going to make it absolutely impossible for him to say no.

Burning up your core and through your chest, into your brain. That spot, that insatiable feeling, that desperate heat that throbbed through you. Now you knew for sure, he could satiate it.

pt 2

#Negan #negan request #negan x you #twd negan #negan smith #the walking dead negan #negan fanfiction #negan x reader #negan smut #jeffrey dean morgan #jdm #the walking dead

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pinkcowzz · 2 months

Text

something about tim & dick’s relationship makes me feel so. !!!

they are both such complex characters and it really makes my heart feel so heavy to think about them for too long.

like. dick created robin out of his parents blood. the costume was inspired by his family's colors. the name was one he was given by his mother and the only reason he took up the role was because he wanted to get justice (revenge really) for his parents death. he was taken in by bruce who was SO YOUNG at the time and who was still learning how to cope with his own loss still. their relationship was built off of that shared grief and understanding. but then one day, dick learned to let go of that grief. he was able to not let it consume and control him. and he grew tired of living in the dark nest that bruce built for them. and bruce doesn't know how to deal with someone else he loves leaving him so he kicks dick out. like yes bruce is dick's father figure of course he is. but he was also his brother in a weird way. dick didn't want or need for his parents to be replaced so bruce offered him something different. he offered him a partnership. and partners are supposed to be equal but somehow bruce ended up placing himself higher than dick and it was suffocating so he had to leave.

and in dicks absence, bruce finds another kid. this time, it's a kid who does need a parent. jason's relationship with bruce is so different than the one that dick had and i have to imagine that it hurt. it hurts to see your father be better for someone else. it makes you think why? why not me? why wasn't i good enough? and to make matters worse bruce gave away dick's blood without a second thought. jason is given the mantle of robin and my god i cannot imagine the pain it caused dick to see someone else flying around in his colors. that was his name. and dick is still just a kid. yeah he's like legally an adult but his prefrontal cortex was nowhere near developed. so he's bitter and short and rude to jason. he has to take time to get used to having another kid at the manor and another kid in his colors but its fine! its fine! he does come around eventually and his guard starts to come down and he commits to being there for jason. but it was too late. dick leaves the planet to be a hero and when he comes back? jason is dead. the kid he was just starting to get used to is dead.

not only is he dead, but he's already in the ground and bruce? bruce goddamn wayne didn't even bother to tell him. how in the world could bruce ever consider them partners. as far as dick was concerned bruce was just as good as dead to him as jason was. and it hurts. it hurts to not be able to go home without seeing the ghost of a kid you chose not to protect, the ghost of a kid who died too soon wearing the same colors that your parents died in.

so dick doesn't go home. he doesn't speak to bruce. he builds himself a new life, the teen titans become dicks home. and he's okay with this. his origin is so similar to bruce's but he refuses to be the same as batman. so he faces his ghosts. he doesn't let them haunt him. he hears about haly's circus potentially getting shut down and he goes to deal with it.

and here is where dick meets tim drake for the first time. tim who tried to help him save haly's circus (albeit he accused the wrong guy but he was trying). tim tells dick that he needs to save batman.

and so dick brings him back to the manor. where tim tells dick just how important he was to his childhood. tim explains how that night at the circus shaped him just as deeply as it shaped dick. tim shares this complete and utter faith in robin, as if robin is enough to save batman from his own grief. but dick knows this isn't true. dick was barely enough to save himself from his own grief much less bruces. but nonetheless bruce saved dick when he was at his absolute lowest. gave him something to believe in. so maybe, just maybe, he can try again for bruce. but not as robin. it can't be robin. his partnership with batman died when he was kicked out and it was buried when he was kept out of the loop about jason. but tim knows that batman needs more than nightwing by his side. so he takes up the robin mantle. he takes it upon himself to 'save' batman. and in a way, he does. he helps bring bruce back from the edge.

and dick. the last time someone took up his families colors, someone died. and he refuses to allow that again. he refuses to be the reason that tim suffers. so he becomes the older brother he couldn't quite bring himself to be for jason. and to tim? he's wearing the mantle of two robins on his back.

his own standards are set so high and he tries his damndest to meet them every time that he puts on the mask because he knows where the colors of the suit came from. he knows why dick created this identity. he was there. he saw the grayson's fall.

and for a while, things are good between them. things are great even.

then the attack at titan's tower happens. and tim is told that he is just a placeholder (not a replacement like fannon likes to claim, but the words jason todd used were placeholder). and seeds of doubt start to be planted. was he ever wanted? was he ever truly appreciated? he did steal the suit the first time he put it on. was it fair for him to wear the colors that were born of dicks blood and that jason died in?

then tim loses his whole support system. stephanie. bart and kon. his dad. and finally, bruce.

dick has been so committed to never being like bruce. he has been so dedicated to relying on those who offer him help. nightwing is pillar in the hero community, but batman. batman was the foundation. he is considered a founding member of the justice league. he doesn't want to take up the mantle. it had never been in his plans. but jason proved too unstable to take up the role and of course he can't ask tim to. so he dawns the cowl he has grown to hate.

this just leaves one little problem. damian.

damian who has just been dropped off on bruce's porch by talia. damian who grew up in the league of assassins and is so out of place in gotham that dick doesn't know what to do. he never asked to be batman and he definitely never asked to be a father. yet here he is. having to do both. so he does what bruce did all those years ago and provides damian with the mantle that he created in order to give this kid some sort of outlet. he knows damian needs it.

by some unfortunate twist of fate, dick has unknowingly created such a painful parallel between his own firing and tim's.

and then tim discovers that bruce isn't really dead.

and this kills dick just a little bit more. of course he wants to believe tim. of course he wants his dad back. he wants someone else to be the one to make these hard calls and he wants someone else to parent damian. he doesn't want to be the one who has to fire his little brother in order to save the other.

but he can't take that chance. he can't risk the hope. because losing it would actually ruin dick. so he tells tim it isn't possible. because to dick? it can't be possible.

and this just furthers the wedge between the two of them. tim feels abandoned and lost and he feels as if he has nothing left.

and dick doesn't understand why tim can't see that he's right here. he's right here tim i'm still here why aren't i enough for you to stay?

anyway this got away from me a little bit but god their relationship could make angels weep it truly makes my heart stop if i think about it too much.

#batman #tim drake #batfamily #batfam #dc comics #dick grayson #a lonely place of dying #red robin #sorry this is so long #i just have so many thoughts #they mean so much to me #tim and dick #nightwing #robin

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