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your-name-is-jim · 9 months

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What a Kirk/Spock shipper sees in a Kirk/Female-Love-Interest story [PART 1/2]

[Part 2]

This is a pretty long post in two parts, so I hope you'll find it interesting. Don't worry, I shared a lot of pictures too! :)

First of all, what is it about?

An analysis about a 32-pages comic published in 2020 by IDW Publishing. More specifically, I'm talking about the Valentine's Day special from the comics series Star Trek: Year Five that I recommended here. The title of this story is Captains of Sea and War, and this is the official summary:

"James T. Kirk has had many loves during his mission among the stars, but this time he may have met his match in fellow Starfleet Captain Laura Rhone."

As I said in my review of Star Trek: Year Five, this Valentine's Day special is not linked to anything else in the main comics series. That means it can be read alone or, on the contrary, it can be skipped if you're only interested in the series (where Kirk doesn't have love interests, by the way).

Do I recommend this comic issue?

It depends on your preference! Just like the rest of Star Trek: Year Five series, the art is great and so is the characterization, at least most of the times. Jim is written as a romantic book lover and definitely not as a womanizer. However, if you only ship Kirk/Spock or you're not into Kirk romance with women in general, I believe you should avoid wasting your time and money. Just read my analysis if you're curious! :)

Why am I talking about this? And why as a Kirk/Spock shipper?

Good question. The short answer is that I read this comic and I have a lot of thoughts about it.

The long answer is that I love TOS Kirk and I'm interested in him as a character, romantic scenarios included. Since Kirk/Spock is my OTP, I can't suddenly take my slash goggles off, so I already knew before reading this comic that I'm not exactly the target audience and nothing is ever going to convince me that Spock isn't The One for Kirk. However, it was an interesting reading in multiple ways, so I'd like to say why!

I want to be 100% clear about my Kirk/Spock preference because even if I will try to talk objectively about the comic to a certain degree, this analysis is biased; if you don't like Kirk/Spock, this is NOT the post for you. That said, you may not see the point in a K/S shipper writing an analysis about a romance between Kirk and a female character, but… well, unless someday they'll release official Kirk/Spock comics, this is all we have.

There are two reasons why I read this story despite being pretty much a monoshipper when it comes to Kirk:

I had already read the main comics series and I liked it a lot, so I wanted to give this special a try.

I thought it was probably going to be okay, because in my headcanon Kirk and Spock don't actually get together until The Motion Picture. Kirk has a lot of love interests before that movie, so adding another one doesn't really bother me. It turned out (as I'll mention later) that I wasn't completely right about the era, but I take Star Trek comics as "extras", so I just ignore what I don't like.

Note: this analysis contains SPOILERS from the entire Valentine's Day special.

However, it does not contain spoilers from the main Star Trek: Year Five comics series. So, if you're planning to read that one, you're safe here! Just avoid this post if you don't want spoilers about the Valentine's Day issue.

Okay, are you ready? Let's go!

So, Jim is on shore leave with Bones. As you can see, the moment a pretty woman gets close to them, Bones leaves, because he's a great friend :)

We already know from the summary that the woman who talks to Jim is Captain Laura Rhone. Now, I'm already going to stop here to take a moment to at least appreciate the creators' effort: as someone interested in fictional writing, I must admit that creating a Valentine's Day special in 2020 about James T. Kirk finding love is an extremely hard task, to put it mildly. Seriously, if it can't be Spock (or the Enterprise :P), how the hell do you even do it? Are you going to give Jim another woman-of-the-week who's going to die? Another blond white woman? Another woman who forces him to choose between her and his ship? Or, on the contrary, a woman who'll choose for him and break up because she knows he wants the Enterprise?

NO.

Star Trek TOS was made in the 1960s, but we're in the 2020s now. Fans are tired to see always the same tropes with female love interests, and some of those tropes are just very outdated. So what does this comic do? Well, first of all, fixing what didn't work in Turnabout Intruder. Oh, let me get this straight: overall, I like Turnabout Intruder. I love the canon bodyswap, and I lost count of how many times I quoted "You are closer to the Captain than anyone in the universe" in my Kirk/Spock fan-fictions. However, there's no way that in the 2020s we're going to believe that a positive future means this:

In the Valentine's Day comic, Janice Lester still exists (she's mentioned once in a dialogue), but since Laura Rhone is a very good Starfleet captain around the same time, I believe we're now supposed to think that Janice was one crazy person who was never going to become a captain because of her personality and behavior, not because she's a woman. This is actually how I've always liked to mentally re-write this part of Turnabout Intruder in my head, because that's how I want to imagine it.

Anyway, back to the comic. Captain Laura Rhone is on shore leave too; she recognizes Captain James T. Kirk and she decides to introduce herself to him. She's very straightforward about her interest in him, so we immediately see that part of her personality.

Of course, the two captains can't enjoy their shore leave until the end. I'm posting this part to appreciate Bones in his beach clothes and Laura's very loyal Andorian officer who slips ("Laura! I mean, Ma'am!") when she sees her Captain in danger and oh whoops now I ship them. She doesn't remind me of anyone, I don't know what you're talking about.

Anyway, wrong ship. I'm obviously not following what the story is trying to tell me, because this is what happens next:

Just a moment to appreciate sleeping Jim. Cute.

So, after that night together, Jim and Laura don't see each other for 6 months. They meet again when the Drake, Laura's starship, has a battle against a group of space pirates and the Enterprise intervenes without consulting Laura first. Laura and Jim have a slight fight about that, but Jim apologizes, and it ends with them in bed again.

After that, because Jim is a romantic man, not a womanizer, and thank goodness the creators of this comic know, Jim asks Laura on a date. As they're walking together on a planet, Laura points out that they're doing things in the wrong order. Jim's reply is rather interesting: he asks her if they need to know what they're doing, and if there has to be a shape or a meaning to it. It's the first sign that even if they're both obviously attracted to each other, Jim is unsure about the kind of relationship he wants with her. When I think about his previous experiences, I believe it makes sense. He may be a romantic at heart, but he suffered so much for love that I can see why he's trying to be careful. There's also another reason, more related to the time this story takes place, which is a few months before the end of Jim's five-year mission. We see it here:

Ah, yes, a typical first date conversation: what Spock talks about. Well done, Jim. Saying "a friend of mine" doesn't make it less obvious; I did my Star Trek homework and I know you're quoting the basis of Vulcan philosophy to her :D

(Of course, now I won't stop imagining Jim casually mentioning Spock during every single date he has with someone… That would explain why his love stories never last…)

On a serious note, as I was working on this analysis I realized something extremely interesting about the context of Jim's lines. Jim is mentioning IDIC when he's questioning his future as a starship captain. He remembers that Spock talks about Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, but Jim can only do one job. However, what will Spock tell him someday, right next to an IDIC flag?

Now, I don't know if the people who worked on the Valentine's Day comic really thought about this, but I think it's still, well, fascinating that Jim is using Spock's words to think about his own future, but he's following the wrong direction. I believe it's also worth pointing out that Spock will tell Jim that commanding a starship is his "first, best destiny" years after finding his own place in the universe. On the contrary, during the time this comic takes place, Spock is busy with his own inner distress.

Anyway, that's enough Spock for now. Back to Jim's first date with Laura…

So, I started this analysis with a question: how the hell do you write a love story with TOS Kirk in 2020? This is the way this comic tries to answer: you create a female character just like him.

Okay, they look cute together. Laura loves being a starship captain! She loves reading! And dancing! And climbing!

Wait, wait, wait. I appreciate the inclusion of Jim Kirk's canon hobbies. I really do! But aren't we forgetting one?

This is interesting. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but this makes me think that they didn't want Laura to have something in common with Spock. Spock is the character who plays chess the most in TOS, so I can see why the creators of the comic didn't want the readers to think about Spock instead of thinking about Jim's girlfriend. That would be too bad, huh? :)

There's also horseback riding missing, but that doesn't appear until the movies, so even if I personally believe that a farm boy like Jim learned how to ride horses when he was young, I can see why they skipped it in this comic. It's also mostly associated to another love interest (Antonia from Generations), but if this is the reason they didn't want to show Jim and Laura riding a horse, I'm just going to think even more that the lack of chess is suspicious, and they're counting Spock as one of the "girlfriends".

On the other hand, since horseback riding is associated to starship captains in TOS and TNG (I don't know about the other Star Trek TV series because I haven't watched them yet), I think it would have been a good idea to have one panel with Jim and Laura riding.

That said, if I had to make a guess about the real reason the comic doesn't show horses… I'm a doctor writer, not an artist, but I believe that drawing horses can be a pain in the ass, so in this comic they just didn't bother haha

Anyway, back to the plot! As I said, Jim and Laura's personalities are very alike. Of course, that doesn't mean they're perfect for each other, but I admit that this premise made me curious when I read this comic. Let's find out if it works out!

I'm posting this picture because of the book Laura is holding: first of all, this is where the title of this story, Captains of Sea and War, comes from. But it's also important to remember the book. You'll see why in Part 2. :)

So, two months later, Jim and Laura trust each other as captains without even talking:

We see Laura's other friend, probably her first officer, trying to warn her, just as Spock does on the Enterprise. I'm taking a little moment to appreciate "Noted, adored, and ignored, Commander", because it's really sweet. Imagine Jim telling this to Spock :D

So, the captains are right, and everything is good, because…

Okay, okay, wait a minute.

Apparently, one of the good things of this relationship is that Jim and Laura make a good team together. They don't even need to communicate to understand each other during a mission. Now… I don't even need to put my K/S goggles on to say that Jim and Spock are canonically one of the best teams in Starfleet, if not The best team. You don't need to ship them to know how many times they understand each other without words in the series, how many times they make plans and just know what the other will do, how many times Spock hears/sees someone that should be Jim and just knows something is wrong, and so on. Of course, as a Kirk/Spock shipper, reading in a Valentine's Day special that making a good team is good for Jim's love life makes me happy!

"Yep. All that sex didn't go to waste."

Jim. Jim. Are you saying that you and Laura are a good team in Starfleet because you had a lot of sex? I'm not even going to say what this makes me think as a K/S shipper… Did I say that Kirk and Spock are the best team? :D

Okay, okay, maybe it's not the same. Because Spock is a man, and Jim isn't attracted to men… right?

Ahem. I lost my mind when I read this for the first time, and I'm going to lose it again.

"There don't seem to have been many ladies in your life. Gentlemen, either." "Well, I've been busy."

Now, let's be honest here: Laura's lines didn't have to be phrased that way. We know Jim likes women, so even nowadays nobody would bat an eye at "there don't seem to have been many ladies in your life"; and if you're the writer of a very heterosexual comic who wants to avoid K/S shippers like me thinking "hehehe, because Jim has a man in his life", you can still write something neutral like "there don't seem to have been many lovers/romantic partners in your life". Or just a generic "it looks like you haven't been on many dates lately".

Laura mentioning "gentlemen" explicitly can make some readers think that men are an actual option for Jim. (Me, I'm "some readers".) Sure, it's not a confirmation, but Jim doesn't deny it. He just says he's been busy. There is room for interpretation in multiple directions, but even if I put my personal preference aside, I think it's important to remember something: in context, in this part of the story, Laura knows Jim. We've seen in a previous panel that they've done a lot of things together. Laura is not a stranger who may say "you don't have a girlfriend… or a boyfriend" because they don't know Jim. Personally, I think it's very likely that Laura asks about ladies and then adds gentlemen because she knows Jim is bisexual with a preference on women. It fits my headcanon for him. (Of course, he can be into anyone, not just men and women, and he has a preference for women because hasn't tried dating Spock yet :D)

Anyway, the other thing that panel points out is that neither captain would give up on their own starship. Well, that's fair.

Okay, okay, I'll be serious: Jim sacrifices the Enterprise in The Search for Spock during an emergency. Of course, it's definitely not a coincidence in the narrative that said emergency happens because Jim is looking for Spock's body. However, we all know how much Jim loves the Enterprise and how bad he feels without a starship, so it's only fair that in normal circumstances, he shouldn't be forced to give up on his "silver lady".

Laura understands that they're the same, so...

This is another thing I appreciated! Who cares about gender norms, a woman can propose to James T. Kirk! :D

Now, just as I said about the "gentlemen" line, it's important to think about the context of this proposal. When the two of them are drinking together, Laura says "I've been asking around about you". That means Jim and Laura's relationship is still casual, to the point that she could have expected him to have flings with other people too. Honestly, this is just my opinion, but I'm not even sure I'd call it exactly an open relationship, because that would still imply a relationship in the first place. I'm mostly referring to the fact that Laura has been asking around about Jim's love life instead of just, you know, asking him? I believe that if they trusted each other and were in an open romantic relationship, either they wouldn't care about each other's partners or they would just talk about it. Since Laura wants to marry Jim and have an exclusive relationship with him, it makes sense for her to bring up Jim's love life. However, I can't really help side-eyeing that "I've been asking around".

Am I reading too much into this? It's possible, but this is another clue about their dynamic that I'll mention later in the story.

Sooo, Laura asks Jim to marry him. What does Jim answer?

Unfortunately, I reached Tumblr limitations of the number of pictures I can share, so… you'll find out in Part 2!

If you're reading my analysis for the Kirk/Spock shipper's point of view, I especially recommend the second half, because that's where things get more interesting! :D

I hope you enjoyed the first part of this analysis! Thank you for reading until the end! See you soon!

Part 2!

#star trek analysis #star trek: year five #star trek comics #star trek: year five valentine's day special #james t. kirk #laura rhone #spirk #star trek the original series #star trek tos #k/s #kirk x spock #my gifs #well except for 'Captain Kirk is climbing a mountain' lol #the other gifs are mine

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beatcroc · 5 months

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drafting out the script for the last entry in the main series of fake pep series and feeling emotions about it like a little BITCH

#MOST of it is 'holy shit i cant belive i climbed this whole mountain'#bc i have never attempted anything this dedicated for ANYWHERE NEAR this long #but its also a little in How im ending it....#like ive had this whole set including the ending in my head since february but now actually having put in the work to get here....#waaaaaaaaaaaaa #i care these characters SOOOOOOOO MUCH...#anyway not to worry its not the end of pizza comics from me i still have plenty of other side stuff and shitposts to make #but that initial set of 6 i'd had in mind that are heavier on character exploration. yeah #i never really mentioned these were a series or which ones were part of it until like two days ago so like #probably you guys have no idea what im talking about but thats ok ❤️ i know ❤️ it was for me ❤️

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ladytano · 11 months

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me after finding out that Star Trek has reboot alternate universe fuckery going on:

#J. J. Abrams did you do this?#to me specifically?#the visceral reaction I had when I read through the star trek enterprise wikia #'the only TV series to maintain continuity in both the prime and alternate realities'#why are you making me do calculus #yes I watched Star Trek 2009 no I don't remember what happens in it #I'll climb that mountain when I get there #star trek chatter #anne watches TOS

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apollopapyrus · 1 month

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faridahmalik · 2 months

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Its so hard not to reblog ff14 stuff onto here bc im trying to keep stuff as spoiler free for my partner as possible lmao

At leasr the what the fucl post is timeless.

#me biting back terrible jokes i could make during important cutscenes #2.x series is our next mountain to climb

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sdcomics525 · 1 year

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727 - The Cousin of Throwing for Content Because it's more entertaining for the audience to throw myself into danger and fumble about rather than take the safe and simple path forward (said by the guy who didn’t die once until after beating three of the Divine Beasts and finding almost half of the Shrines)

#sdcomics #a breath of fresh air #the legend of zelda #the legend of zelda: breath of the wild #retrospective #playthrough #link #dlc #downloadable content #champion's ballad #mountain #climbing #dangerous #the harder option #more entertaining #video games #parody #online comics #series

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sttoru · 8 months

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toji taking care of newborn megumi while reader sleeps?

⟣ tags. dad!toji x female reader. fluff. gumi isnt rlly a newborn but we ball. use of curse words teehee

“tch—i’m really regretting buyin’ this thing.” toji was running out of patience as he reads the instructions on the piece of paper in his hands. it was all so vague; he’s questioning himself for even trying to figure this stuff out in the first place.

the small coos and babbles coming from megumi sound throughout the living room, the baby sitting in the pillow fort that his dad made him. the correct name would actually be ‘pillow jail’, since the fort wasn’t built for megumi’s entertainment—it was mainly to keep the little boy confined so toji could peacefully work on setting up the playhouse.

your husband was so intensly focused on putting the playhouse together to the point that he didn’t even notice the little thief escaping his self-made jail.

megumi was crawling on his hands and knees, his palms making soft ‘pat’ sounds as they came in contact with the cold floor, pouty lips forming a smile as he crawled his way over to his dad. toji had his back facing megumi, giving the kid a good opportunity to sneak up on him.

“fuck.” toji curses idly as his hand slipped and his finger bumped against his own face. not thinking much about that slip-up, the man continues to put the parts together, until he feels something tugging at his shirt from behind.

toji glances down and spots his son trying to climb up on his back—the journey up to toji’s broad shoulders was like climbing a mountain for such a little thing.

“phack!” the cute voice from below repeats what it has heard with confidence. megumi used all of his strength to reach up to his dad’s shoulders, repeating the used swear word proudly, a series of ‘phack! phack! phack!’ echoing louder in toji’s ears with each movement upwards.

the kid eventually reaches his destination, head placed right next to toji’s, chubby arms circling around his dad’s neck—basically hanging on for dear life.

toji wasn’t even concerned about megumi repeating that bad word over and over. how his son had managed to break free from his confinement was of more importance. his green eyes land on the destroyed pillow fort behind his back and your husband couldn’t help but chuckle. almost proudly.

“i see y’re already outsmarting your dad, kiddo.” toji grins, one hand coming up to stabilise megumi on his back. the baby looks over his father’s shoulder, seemingly inspecting what he was building. toji sighs as his free hand holds onto the piece of paper that included the instructions; “maybe ya could’ve even helped me build this shitty thing if ya knew how to read.”

“sjiddy!”

it was as if megumi was purposely only picking out the curse words. toji chuckles at this and—unlike any other parent—encourages his child to continue for his own entertainment.

“mhm—tha’s right. repeat after me, son.” the dark-haired man nods with a smug grin and points at the half-built playhouse, making sure megumi knew what he was talking about, “that thing is shitty.”

“sjiddy! sjiddy!” the kid repeats loudly and giggles as his father ruffles his hair afterwards in a ‘job-well-done’ manner.

“good boy.” toji laughs softly, moving megumi over to his lap so it’d be more comfortable for the both of them, “y’r momma is gonna kill me if she hears you say such things, though.”

megumi tilts his head up until it rested against toji’s torso, big eyes glancing at the face hovering on top of his; “mama? mama ‘eepy.”

“no, mama isn’t.”

toji freezes in place, megumi gasps in delight. you had awoken from your nap and decided to check in on your husband and son whom you had left alone for a few hours.

and, apparently, you couldn’t leave toji and megumi alone without it ending in your kid picking up on his dad’s bad habits.

you put your hands on your hips and glared at toji. he knew what time it was and he was not about to sit through another lecture. the last time you gave him an earful, he had to sit and listen to you scold him for almost an hour.

“shit.. gotta run.” toji immediately grabs tightly onto megumi, gets up and prepares to flee—not even realising that he cursed. again.

“sjit!” megumi giggles happily, the boy just having fun as his dad runs around with him, unaware of the reason nor of the meaning behind the words he was repeating.

“mama shit!” toji’s eyes widened as he heard megumi combine the two words; mama—megumi’s favourite word—and shit, the bad word your son had just learnt.

your husband knew that that would only increase your fury more and thus shushes his kid while running around the house—your quick footsteps just meters behind them;

“crap. shut it, megumi.”

“crap! dada crap!”

“…”

guess he had it coming.

#ෆ : parenting 101.#jjk x reader #toji x reader #jjk fluff #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x you #jjk x you #toji fluff #jjk fic

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historiaxvanserra · 5 months

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These Violent Delights | An Eris Vanserra story

Summary: At a ball in Hewn City, you meet your match in Eris Vanserra

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (brief mentions of Azriel x reader)

Word Count: 7.6k

Previously called If I Can’t Have Love, I Want Power. I changed the name to adapt if from a one shot into a series.

You had been born on a night like this, you think. The storm-streaked clouds line the heavens like flowering hydrangeas as they dissolve into a black abyss and the moonlight shines like pearls on the water where the horizon meets the Sidra.

Storm-streaked they had called you.

When you were a little girl, your father had told you that you had come into this world in the same way as the old Gods had. Born from the merciless depths of some unknowable blue-darkness; cruel and beautiful, and fearless.

Now fear is all you know.

The crack of forked white lightening against the darkening horizon pushes you further into introspective thought. The visions come with the quiet; flashes of silver and gold and the icy embrace of the water. That infernal cauldron and what it had taken from. It haunts you, even in dreaming.

Of late, the days seem to pass in a state of perpetual purgatory, marred by memories and the water– an unforgiving tempest that tears through you.

The water cleanses but it also devastates.

Your father had once called you water; the salt and the sea.

You had always wondered what that meant.

But here you stand-- a storm incarnate; volatile, half-wild and isolating. And who can become the water without inheriting its violence, or its loneliness?

The feeling of harsh violet eyes on you is enough to drag you gaze from your spot near the balcony and the storm as it rages outside.

“Are you ready, Nesta?” Rhysand’s voice is velvet night as it reverberates around the small waiting room.

A chill runs down your spine when you catch his eyes, glinting and violet in the dim light. You regard Nesta cooly as she tilts her chin upwards.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Nesta’s eyes are lined with kohl and looking at her is like looking into the eye of a storm.

She always had an austere kind of beauty that left you speechless.

Rhysand only nods simply before taking Feyre’s arm and approaching the large doorway. Nesta and Elain fall into rank behind them with practiced ease. It is you who hovers awkwardly in the background for a moment before taking your place in the middle of the formation. A solitary figure amongst them.

You swallow thickly and you catch the lingering scent of a night chilled mist as you bristle. A whisper of night wraps itself around you like a cold comfort. These days his scent seems to follow you like a shadow; though, you suppose when you’ve spent every night this week wrapped around him, trying to drown out your own thoughts, there is bound to be a trace of him that lingers there.

At last, the towering doors to the throne room yawned open.

The throne room is lined with black candles and evergreen wreaths frame the doorway, and moonflowers climb up the high, onyx pillars like ivy. And on each side of the aisles there were two magnificent banquet tables, piled high with food enough to feed a city. Though it was not to be touched without express permission from the High Lord.

A ripple of dark power reverberates through the mountain as The High Lord and Lady enter the throne room. You swear you feel the mountain wail in their presence. It is a powerful thing and you feel something within yourself begin to stir with it.

A cold rage as it makes a home in your chest.

The courtiers pale as they approach, parting like the tide as their High Lord and High Lady brush through them, crowned in silver crystals and garbed in midnight black robes.

Rhysand looks beautiful you think as your eyes find him in the procession-- he stands tall against you all, his hair perfectly quaffed and the rich scent of mandarin and night-blooming jasmine seems to follow him.

All that pales in comparison to Feyre; the dress she wears is like tangible shadow. Gossamer thin silk and tulle that glitters with flecks of silver starlight, all gathered about her waist with a thin belt that accentuates the swell of her stomach.

The room beholds her with baited breath; a sense of awe and ire.

She looks like the visage of some ancient Goddess of the moon; pale and beautiful in the silvery light.

You sense a shift in the air as they approach the dias and Rhysand’s shoulders tense; he is a picture of male pride. There is a dangerous quality to it that chills you to the bone. A cold violence that feels almost kindred to you. Feyre’s full red lips part and she smiles until it seems to dampen Rhys’s anger as he reaches for her as they climb the steps of the onyx dias.

Keir’s face is twisted in a half-grimace, somewhere between astonishment and anguish. Behind him the Eris Vanserra remains fixed in place, his face set in a painfully neutral expression as he regards the High Lord and Lady.

Motion from behind you beckons you to move as Nesta and Elain fall into step with you and begin to pace the length of the aisle and approach the dias.

All three of you are dressed in Night Court black. A symbol of your place amongst the royal family. A warning of the dark power which you all possessed. Stolen and gifted from that cauldron. A reminder of your value. It is a carefully rehearsed routine as Nesta takes her place between you both, the flare of her skirts bushing against the marble floor with each long stride. You and Elain flank her sides like two wraiths.

Elain looks sallow in black, you think as you catch her eyes. A poor initiation of the coldness you wear so well etched onto her beautiful face and steely determination in her dark, rich eyes.

Nesta outshines you all tonight-- her golden hair braided into a crown atop her head and a delicate crown glints in the lantern light, slender spikes jutting forward in a dark corona. Her wicked eyes glinted like cobalt in the light. She’s dressed all in black. The gown itself is skin tight and embroidered with intricate silver brocade, twisting vines and moonflowers adorn the velvet bodice, tracing the curve of her breasts and sinking low, to her navel where the silver thread gathers about a sapphire that matches the crystals on her crown.

Nesta is a cruel beauty; enough to bring a God to his knees.

And Cassian looks about ready to sink to his knees before her as you regard him on the dias.

Nestas moves with a feline grace, expressive and smirking as she takes her place between Cassian and Elain on the platform.

Feyre and Rhysand sink into their thrones with a measured grace and from your stop between Elain and Azriel you can see all the eyes in the room as they flit from one member of the Inner Circle to the next.

But it is the strange amber gaze of Eris Vanserra that you meet in the gathering crowd. He offers you a courteous nod and the ghost of a smirk graces his full lips and you send a scathing look in his direction in return.

You hope he feels the bitter sting of your coldness as your eyes try to find anything else in the throne room to focus on.

Azriel rolls on the balls of his feet as the silence settles in the room and he inches so close to you that you feel the scarred pads of his fingers brush the exposed skin of your back.

“You look good in black,” his voice is impossibly quiet, almost inaudible as he dips low enough that he is speaking into the shell of your ear.

A cold chill runs up the length of your spine.

“Thank you, Shadowsinger,” You say simply, a feral smile on your lips as you bare your teeth to him.

A laugh sharp and cruel rings through you and Azriel’s hand tangles in the lengths of your hair tugging sharply.

“You are most welcome,” Azriel agrees, his voice is like shadow and wind as it graces your ears “most welcome indeed.”

Azriel steps back into line as Rhysand stands to address the crowd.

Your own spine straightens as though it is muscle memory by now. Obedience. To bend and break as the High Lord and Lady saw fit.

Rhysand looks like Night Triumphant as he regards his uncle with a strange union of cruelty and cordiality. Recently Rhys and Feyre had softened slightly with the people of Hewn City. Keir in particular. They can’t afford to isolate him from court politics-- in case the need arises for his Darkbringers to fight again. Hence the fact Rhysand even abides his presence at all. Rhysand’s cruel gaze lingers just a touch too long though. A careful reminder of the fate he’ll earn if he ever decided to go against Rhys.

It’s been months since you’ve been to Hewn City, longer since you involved yourself in court politics. Longer still, since any whispers of the Trove or Briallyn reached you. Though you aren’t naive enough to believe it is over.

None of the Inner Circle are.

That is why you find yourself in Hewn City tonight. Swathed in the sallow light, and painted like a pretty whore; all red lips and dark eyes, with trembling hands, wanting nothing more than to be back in that little cabin with your sisters by your side-- as you were when you were girls.

Feyre rises to her feet to join Rhys and she addresses the crowd, “May the blessings of the Winter Solstice be upon you.”

The crowd seems to hum in acknowledgement and then they bow in a show of deference.

Or blind obedience.

Your eyes meet the strange amber gaze of Eris Vanserra once more, and it is you he looks at when he kneels.

Keir slinks forward, offering your sister a low bow, “Allow me to extend my congratulations, High Lady.” His voice drips with false flattery as he dips his chin in a show of esteem.

Eris Vanserra moves like a predator as he stalks forward, offering your sister a devastating, cultivated smile that feels almost authentic. “And allow me to extend my sincerest wishes, on behalf of my father and the entire Autumn Court.”

Rhysand’s mouth curls into a wicked half smile, his eyes darken to an amethyst color as she speaks “I’m sure your father will be most pleased for us.”

The implication that hands in the air is a dangerous one and you can feel the color drain from you at the terse exchange. A few more beast of silence and--

“Music,” The High Lord calls out and the orchestra from behind the mezzanine begins to play lightly, the sounds of lyres and harps ring through the air.

Feyre once again addresses the crown, every inch the High Lady, “Go--eat--enjoy.” The crowd of silent courtiers disperse throughout the room as they aim to take their places at the tables.

Each banquet table is piled high with an obscene amount of food and you find yourself feeling ashamed of the blatant opulence before you. When once you had nothing. Now you live without wanting. It makes you feel ashamed. How your old self would resent this wasteful indulgence.

Turning away from the feasting courtiers you turn inwards towards the thrones on the dias.

Now only Eris and Keir remain standing before the High Lord and Lady. You notice how neither of the men has deigned to acknowledge Morrigan’s presence behind the thrones. She looks ethereal and savage as she smirks down at them, her lips look as though they are stained wine red.

Blood red, you think.

The Illyrain’s at either side of you and your sisters look more like beasts carved into the dark stone of the mountain than anything else. Azriel and Cassian are clad in black armor, each adorned in ruby and sapphire to match their siphons that glow faintly in the low light. The brothers look as though they are the visage of some Gods of old; statuesque and hard-faced as they regard the Autumn Prince.

Cassian in particular looks like he might invoke some of that ancient power to stop Eris from dancing with Nesta tonight. He had not objected but, how could he? Rhys was his brother and his High Lord. Obedience is easier than the alternative.

And the fate of The Night Court-- his home-- could rest on Eris’ alliance. So he will bite his tongue in the knowledge that what Eris offers is a chance at defeating Briallyn and Koschei.

From your spot you watch the Autumn Prince with piqued curiosity. He will not stop looking at you and it is infuriating.

It brings a cold anger bubbling to the skin's surface; all biting fury and icy violence.

The conversation between Keir and Rhys seems to come to a natural end and the lull in the conversation has the whole room falling into silence, waiting for their next order. Like puppets.

And your sister the puppet master, pulling the strings as she commands, her voice like thunder at midnight, “Dance--”.

The courtiers like a midnight sea part and pair off in swathes of dark silk and velvet. Even Keir retreats into the crowd and pairs off with a dark haired female.

Eris turns on his heels, the wrap of his riding boots against the floor echo through your head.

“Before you join in the merriment, Eris,” Rhy’s voice is a velvet drawl as he presents a long black box, “I’d like to present you with your Solstice gift.”

You swallow hard and step forward. Procuring the box from Rhysand you press forward, one long stride that brings you face to face with the Autumn Prince and for the first time you truly look at him.

A night-kissed wind envelops the pair of you, enough to wrap behind Eris blocking the dias from view of the dancing courtiers.

Eris Vanserra is devastating; he has a cruel sort of beauty, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones that look sharp enough to cut into you, but his eyes are soft and unwavering. He is a strange juxtaposition.

Eris arches a brow at Rhysand and you flip open the carved lid of the box. Eris stiffens, his voice low and dangerous.

“What is this?” he asks, somewhere between disbelief and wariness.

“A present,” Rhysand clarifies and you catch a glimpse of ruby and gold on the hilt of the dagger.

You refrain from grimacing at the truth you are confronted with. Rhysand and your sister want to sell off Nesta like a broodmare and her Made weapons with her.

A truly beautiful piece. And dangerous too.

Like Eris, something in you calls.

Eris’ hand hovers over the open box and he sucks in a sharp breath.

“You sense its power, then?” Feyre asks voice dripping with a sense of smugness that does not suit her in the slightest.

Eris nods carefully, his eyes flicking to the High Lord and Lady before finding yours again.

“There’s flame in it,” he says, hand still hovering over the weapon. As if something in him senses its true power. He closes the lid abruptly. “Why give it to me?”

Feyre smiles lightly and shrugs, “You’re our ally.”

Feyre rests a protective hand over the swell of her stomach, “You face enemies that exist outside of the usual rules of magic. It’s only fair to grant you a weapon that operates outside of those rules too.”

You stand transfixed by the twitch of his jaw and the bob of his throat as he considers her words.

“It is truly made then?” He asks, carefully. His eyes never leave yours and it is your voice that answers his question.

“It is, My Lord.” your voice comes out all cold and gravelly, unlike yourself.

Rhysand speaks again though the beating of your heart renders him almost mute, “From my personal collection. An heirloom of sorts.”

“All this time,” Eris’ voice is dark and thoughtful, “ all these years you possessed a Made weapon and you kept it hidden.”

“Even during the war,” Eris says more to himself than anyone else.

There is a dangerous sense of anger and skepticism in the air as Eris examines the weapon again, his hand once more runs over the length of the dagger, his fingers barely ghosting the cool metal.

“Don’t take our generosity for granted,” Feyre offers in warning, her voice quiet and threatening.

Eris stills and nods in acknowledgement. He extends a smile that looks courteous enough to be genuine and once more allows his finger to run over the smooth length of the blade. “Thank you,”

“Might I leave it in your safekeeping while I dance, My Lady?” Eris’s voice seems distant and far away and it takes a moment for you to realize that he is speaking directly to you.

You look at him coldly, unable to muster the warmth of genuine affection when he is looking at you like that. It is infuriating. That someone so cruel might also be so insufferably handsome.

“Yes, My Lord.”

Feyre nods to Rhys and Eris in acknowledgement and against your better judgment you let your eyes linger over the graceful curve of his calves and up over the contours of his muscled thighs, all the way up over the broad expanse of his chest and finally becoming entangled in the unbound curls of copper hair as he sweeps it over his shoulder.

Devilishly and devastatingly handsome. Sun-blood handsome.

Feyre’s soft lilt brings you back to reality as she says “Use it well, Lord.”

Your sister's smile curves into a soft smile at Eris and extends a hand to him, “Ordinarily I would ask you to dance, but my condition has left me quite unwell.” Feyre makes a show of looking between the two sisters who stand in line with Cassian and Azriel.

Elain, at least, has the good grace to give the impression of seeming interested. Nesta though looks bored. As though she is only half listening. As though they hadn’t just given away the dagger she’d Made.

Perhaps it was the way that Nesta’s grey eyes had drifted away from the dancing sea of courtiers, or the forlorn look on Cassian’s face as he stood on the dias, but either way it made you realize something. That maybe the Illyrian General meant more to Nesta than she would ever let on. More than that dagger-- more than magic or power or court politics.

Feyre notes the direction of Nesta’s stare and then looks between you and Eris. The corners of her lips twitch in nervous anticipation as her eyes settle on you.

“My lovely sister shall take my place.” Feyre nods to you and for a moment you let the icy wrath in your stare settle over her before dipping your head to her.

Eris’ throat bobs as you assess him with that same cold gaze. A slender hand takes the Made dagger from you and you hold out a hand to him.

He extends a sculpted arm out to you, his large hand wrapping around you as you yield to him. His long, deft fingers brush against yours; his skin is warm to the touch and even in the pallid light it is clear and pale, with golden hues that compliment the warm depths of his eyes. Your chest grows taut and you feel emotion course through you with the force of a raging tempest.

You loose a breathy gasp and for a moment you exist somewhere outside of yourself. You hear Eris’ voice, a warm, low timbre as he utters your name. He offers you his arm as you descend from your spot on the onyx dias. The sound of your slippers echo in the silent chamber. Eris’s face is set in a painfully neutral expression and you try your hardest to mirror it. Hoping he will not see the storm raging inside of you. You think of Nesta and the way she moves with such thoughtful grace and so you copy it; your chin tilted high and each step becomes a glide as you reach the edge of the marble dance floor.

The eyes of the courtiers fall onto you.

You feel the heat of Eris stare as it burns into the side of your face-- you feel a pair of violet eyes on you too. A cold chill spreads through you when his talons scrape dangerously and then you see him in your mind's eye. What a dangerous turn of events.

Dangerous? You had never considered yourself as something dangerous.

Nesta might have seduced Eris, but you will bring him to his knees. Rhysand’s cold tenor rattles around your mind and for a moment you see him standing at the precipice of a cliff as the storm rolls in, and the jagged rocks below look like the opening of a Helmouth.

There is no doubt that Nesta is more beautiful. With a feline sort of beauty; long legs and a graceful neck, all angular and steely eyed. Nesta had inherited the aristocratic sort of beauty that your mother possessed. You had always been half-wild, unapproachable and--

Well, it is your mother’s voice that resounds in your head, of two sisters one is always the dancer and one the watcher.

Tonight the roles reverse as you take your place in the middle of the dance floor. You will bring him to his knees.

You catch Azriel’s eye as the instrumental music fades into momentary silence. From his spot on the dias he looks like a dark God; and he looks like he might just tear Eris to blood ribbons when his hand wraps around your waist.

Eris brings you so close to him that you're pressed against him and as the harp begins to play, high and sweet, he smiles softly at you. As if the notes of music wrap around you, you raise your palm to his flat and open, an invitation if he has even seen one.

The low stringed instruments usher in the music like a coming storm, a summons to the dance in a rushing of music, like water. You remind yourself to smile wickedly at Eris as he slides a broad hand over the curves and divots of your waist and hips. You lift your head high and, looking up into his perfect face you bare your teeth to him. All ruby red lips and pearls and he smiles so wickedly that you’re not sure who is supposed to be seducing who.

Those strange amber eyes-- so haunting in the faelight.

The harps and lyres sing so beautifully in the air and when the violins begin to play, it feels like a siren song in the air. A beckoning. As your body moves with the ebb and flow of the dancing tide.

Eris leads you into the waltz, he moves with practiced ease. He knows every note, every trough and swell of the music, each nuance and note.

Nesta would outdance you everytime. This you know. She moves like the music becomes her. And in so many ways it does. Her body bends to the will of the orchestral sound, and it bends to her too.

So you will have to play it differently.

The music sweeps you up in it’s tide, and as the music swells you decide to surrender yourself to the water. Let it wash all over you. Your body, once rigid and taut, goes pliant in Eris’ arms. You let the orchestral sound drown out your doubts and give yourself over to it. To him. His fingers ghost the line of your spine and he pushes you further still, against him. So close that you feel your heartbeat in tandem and your body bends to his will.

It is easier to bend than to break.

Better to relinquish control than have it taken from you.

Eris’ eyes widen and soften then-- as if he feels it too-- you feel his hands loosen before tightening again around you. Somehow different now. Somehow, strangely, comforting.

He moves with such grace and skill, his body reacts to every fluttering note and pause in the music. And the whole time his eyes are on you. And you can’t look away. The dark, warm depths of his eyes like a slow-burning fire that consumes all in its wake.

You find the faces of your family in the crowd and you see that their normally composed demeanor seems to have shifted, their eyes wide and jaws slack as you move with the tide.

Tonight you are the storm and the fire will bend to you.

You will bring him to his knees, you think. As the music washes over you.

Has there ever been such a haunting and mournful sound in all the world? Your name falling from Eris’mouth perhaps.

The snippets of the music Nesta had described to you, from her memory of the Veritas, paled in comparison. It flows and swims around you, filling you like water, and if you let it, it could be enough to drown you. To sink into the depths of the high-arching song.

Eris smiles again when you fall into step with him so effortlessly, like you are an extension of him.

One soul in two bodies.

His broad hand tightens over the flare of your hip, his fingers flexing before digging into the malleable flesh. The smile you give him feels much too vulnerable and genuine to bring you any sort of comfort.

Eris' amber eyes shine with feral delight and you see yourself reflected in his eyes; you look like sin personified. The dark material of your dress gathers about your waist, held in place only by velvet ribbon and a few embroidered onyx crystals. The deep cut of the dress is so low that it bares the ample curve of your breasts and your strain to catch your breath because of how tight the dress has been laced.

The person you see in Eris’eyes looks like the incarnation of some ancient deity; dark and cold, and cruel. And beautiful.

Eris’ broad hand spreads across the middle of your back, pressed firm between your shoulder blades and you burn beneath him. As the music lulls and flutters his gaze locks onto yours and flame simmers in those dark topaz eyes and a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. Cat-like and feral as he dips you low, supporting your weight in his arms. His face comes to hover over yours and you’re transfixed by his unyielding stare.

Beautiful and haunting eyes.

One hand is wrapped around his neck and the other you bring to touch his cheek with the tenderness of someone who has never truly been touched. His face falters and something akin to raw vulnerability flashes in his eyes.

Bring him to his knees.

In one swift movement Eris sweeps you so that you are standing upright, pressed so close to his chest that you feel each groove and divot of his sculpted chest. You place that same hand over his blazing heart and as the music filters into stunned silence, Eris eyes you with feral delight.

For a moment, as the heaving in your chest subsides you allow yourself to remain in his tender grasp. His fingers ghosting the curve of you hip and the small of your back, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into the skin there.

The faces of the courtiers turn upon you.

You, this once-human female, barely out of girlhood, who had been thrust into this world of dark power and politics.

Who stood before them now, coloured in the murky green hues of Hewn City.

Storm-streaked girl.

It is like being born again and the mountain trembles in your wake.

The eyes of your High Lord and Lady land on you and Eris at the foot of the dias. Rhysand rises in his seat and his violet eyes meet yours and something wicked and enchanting flashes in them. Feyre regards you with a wild smile and she laughs before tipping her head to you in acknowledgement.

And in a show of secret defiance you plunge into the deepest curtsey you can manage; your chest still rising and falling with a dramatic flare, and your skirts pool around you like inky shadows as you sink low onto the marble. You dip your chin ever so slightly, never quite breaking eye contact with the cruel violet gaze that assesses you with a dangerous glint.

A laugh of dark joy bursts from Eris beside you who in turn, offers his own small bow before capturing you again in his firm hold as the orchestra begins to play again.

Your mother had always wanted a Prince for Nesta, and yet, here you were-- beautiful, cruel and merciless, with the Autumn Prince sinking into the cold depths of your eyes.

Everyone who has ever loved you has underestimated you. But looking into Eris’ eyes you see something kindred to you.

You will bring them all to their knees.

Eris' amber eyes gleam with want as he takes you in again and you loose a shaky breath as he leads you into the next dance.

The music is soft and light, the strings sing a song so aching and mournful that you feel once again overcome with it. All of your violent coldness, all that biting fury, rendered a useless ruse as the music becomes you.

Eris might be the monster they all say he is, but looking at him now, in the soft light, you see something else.

“Trust Rhysand to keep such a beautiful creature to himself.” Eris’ amber eyes study you carefully.

You school your face to remain neutral, with just a touch of scorn as you bite back.

“If beauty is all you can see, My Lord” You say, your voice dark and taunting, “I fear you have missed the point entirely.”

“Intelligent too,” Eris chuckles darkly and wraps a wisp of your unbound hair around his forefinger, “and dangerous.”

You don’t deign to reply though Eris continues his assessment of you, his eyes trailing over you, afire with dark promise.

“I’ve seen you before though,” Eris asks as he steps into the next part of the song, “haven’t I?”

His eyes narrow on you and you think back to the last time you saw Eris Vanserra.

“At the High Lords meeting,” You say quietly, your voice thick with shame as you recall the meeting some months back.

You had been little more than a wraith then, when the dreams of drowning in that cauldron plagued you nightly, a girl gulping on a woman’s grief. Now those dreams only come with the coming of a storm. A warning or some ill-fated omen.

“The time since the way has changed you.” It is not a question but a statement.

You don’t smile at him like you should. Instead you meet Eris’ burning stare with a measured look of your own, “For the better, I hope?”

Eris thinks for a moment, as if looking for the right words to express his meaning.

“You are a Goddess.” he says slyly gesturing to the dress as the skirts brush against him, baring the slit in the thigh to him.

“Then kneel to me.” You say, not missing a beat as Eris laughs wickedly and brings his mouth to hover over the shell of your ear.

“It seems you came to play the game tonight, afterall.” Eris says, his voice a low murmur in your ear.

He spins you again, quick and violent before you crash back into him again, “don’t believe the lies they tell you about me.”

“But I should believe you?” You ask, arching a brow to the cruel prince.

“You shouldn’t believe anyone here, Little fox.” Eris tips his head towards the dias where Mor watches the pair of you from her spot besides the High Lord and Lady.

“The Morrigan knows the truth,” Eris insists, “though she has never revealed it.”

“Why?” You ask curiously.

“Because she is afraid of it.” Eris’ voice is tempered and quiet and he casts the Inner Circle a look of his own, “they all are.”

Your mouth twitches with the ghost of a smirk as you press yourself further into him, “You don’t do yourself any favors with this mask you wear.”

“Don’t I? I’ve managed to ally myself to this court, under constant threat of being discovered by my father-- do you have any idea what he’d do to me if he found out, Little fox?” Eris asks, the fire within him lighting and flickering in his amber eyes. “I ally myself with this court, I offer aid when I can, I placate Rhysand with ceremonies and shows of deference. Why do you think that is?”

Eris dips you again and the fan on his unbound hair brushes against your bare shoulders.

“Because there’s something in it for you.” It isn’t a matter of question. You know it to be true and you see it in the way that Eris regards you with a mixture of fondness and caution.

“Because there is something in it for me,” Eris confirms, “and tell me, what is in it for me?”

“What is it that you want, My Lord?” You ask, fluttering dark lashes at him and the music swells.

“What is Rhysand offering?” Eris counters and leads you further into the center of the floor.

“Nothing that I have the power to grant you.”

Eris laughs, the sound like silk on your skin and you shiver as he brings his lips to graze your ear, “I very much doubt that, Little fox?”

You swallow thickly and a surge of dark power pricks at your skin. You let him see it; all that cold rage, and the violence of the sea.

Eris' face twists but not from fear and a strange look of reverence shines in his eyes.

The waltz comes to a close and as the music fades into the chatter of the courtiers he whispers into your ear once more.

“They say your sister Elain is the beauty, but you are something else entirely.” His breath is hot and sacred on your neck, and a broad hand strokes the bare skin of your back and you find yourself arching into him.

Eris takes a step back from you, holding your hand above your head and turning you slowly as his eyes roam the curves and contours of your body, “You are wasted in the Night Court,”

“Truly wasted.” His voice is a low whistle as you stop in front of him now.

“And where might I be used more effectively, My Lord?”

Eris chuckles again but before he can answer--

“Get your hands off her, Eris.” Azriel’s voice is like cold death that cuts through the spell that Eris has you under. His wrath comes off him in waves that crash against you, halting your movements.

The dancing sea around you seems to cease to move as Eris and Azriel lock eyes.

Eris straightens his back and he closes his hand over yours-- gently, almost protectively-- and he locks his eyes onto Azriel.

Hazel and amber meet and shadow and light seem to dance in the air. The courtiers wait with baited breath.

“I don’t take orders from the likes of you, Shadowsinger.”

You stifle a snarl as you look at Azriel. Who does he think he is? He has no claim over you. He had made that much clear when you started this thing. A means to an end. A placeholder for another sister.

“Am I to understand that you’d like to dance, Azriel?” You ask cooly, trying not to let your violet rage show in the darkness of your eyes.

“Yes.” His voice is insistent and thick with jealousy and the promise of violence.

Before you can pull yourself from Eris’ protective grip, Azriel is tugging on your wrist and bringing you into his side.

Eris bares his teeth to Azriel and fire dances in those strange amber eyes. “Go sit at your master’s feet, dog.”

Azriel laughs darkly and his shadows become a violent wisp of dark that wraps itself around you in a possessive manner.

You swallow down the shame that you feel when Eris looks at you -- like all the power you had just moments ago has been ripped away from you, and now you are just another piece on the board to be bought and sold as your High Lord saw fit.

A pretty whore, painted like some dark Goddess.

You band an arm across Azriel’s chest as he lunges forward in a flurry of movement.

“It’s alright,” you offer Eris an apologetic smile, “I’ve taken too much of your time already.” You say diplomatically, taking Azriel’s hand in your own and pulling away from Eris.

Feyre and Rhysand had given up one of Nesta’s Made daggers in the name of Eris’ continued alliance, surely, one interrupted dance will not jeopardize it.

Eris offers you a taut smile and he bows his head to you, “Very well then, we’ll play later, Little Fox.”

Eris doesn’t so much as acknowledge Azriel as he ventures towards the dias again.

Azriel holds you in place, one hand wrapped around your shoulders and he searches you as if looking for signs of injury. His touch is cold and biting.

“Happy now?” you roll your eyes at him.

Azriel stares coldly at you, his face set like stone, as if carved into the dark stone of the mountain, “not in the slightest.”

You glance hesitantly over his shoulder and see Rhysand and Feyre each sharing a look of subtle fury. Azriel will no doubt be on the receiving end of a mental lashing. If Azriel has cost them this alliance it comes down on you too-

“He touched you and I-,” Azriel’s voice is weighted and serious at the same time you speak out.

“Whatever has passed between us,” you say gesturing between you and him, “it has to end, Azriel.”

If Azriel felt anything at all but cold indifference his face does not show it.

“Because of Eris?” Azriel asks incredulously, his tone full of venom.

“No, of course not,” You say truthfully, “because we are fools to think this will ever be enough.”

A beat of silence lingers in the air between you.

“For either of us.”

Azriel takes a moment to think about it and you see the recognition flash in his darkening hazel eyes, he looks over his shoulder in Elain’s direction. Carefully, measured, he looks at you again.

“You want Elain.” You say matter of factly, even with a hint of sadness, “don’t deny it-- and I…” your voice trails into nothing. An errant whisper of power.

“And what do you want?” Azriel asks, his voice once dark and cruel is something akin to familial.

“I’m not sure yet.” you say thoughtfully, looking back to the dias where everyone regards you and Azriel warily.

Azriel softens and he lets go of your arms and hides his scarred fingertips in the pockets of his dark colored tunic. He runs a hand over his face in regret and looses a shaky breath before laughing again.

“Rhys is going to fucking slaughter me.” Azriel says and you laugh quietly, muttering in agreement as you link arms with his and lead him through the dancing sea of courtiers to the wine table.

Azriel takes a goblet in each hand and offers one to you. The wine is dark and red and stains your lips like blood. The taste is woody and spiced, it tastes a little like Autumn. Azriel leans into the onyx pillar and angles himself away from the prying eyes of the courtiers as they dance.

You’re at his side and move so that his body obstructs the view of Rhysand and Feyre, shunning their ire.

“How pissed do you think they’ll be?” You ask grimly.

“With you?” Azriel asks, cocking a brow in confusion. You only nod and wait for him to continue. Azriel swallows a large mouthful of wine, wiping his mouth with the back of a scarred hand “not at all, you did them a favor-- practically had Eris on his knees.”

“Good.” You meet his eyes and for the first time tonight you feel as though you might just have something to offer.

“Be careful with Eris,” Azriel says gently, his hand on your arm, “not everything he says is to be trusted.”

“But I can trust you?” You ask, thinking back to what Eris had said earlier in the evening.

“Always.” Azriel says.

The orchestral music comes to a dramatic close and you see Nesta and Cassian dancing happily in the crowds. Elain remains on the dias and you catch her eyes as she watches you and Azriel with careful, wide eyes.

“Come on, Shadowsinger,” You say defiantly, pushing yourself from the onyx pillar, “time to face the High Lord.”

Azreil huffs indignantly and pushes away from the pillar, abandoning his goblet and stalking his way to Elain’s side on the dias. She smiles softly at him and you see some of the tension in Azriel’s shoulders dissolve into nothing but a contented ease.

You approach the dias with a quiet reproach and as you meet Feyre’s eyes she croons at you, her smile is once of a brilliant radiant light that spills from her. A stark contrast to the cold darkness that you carry so well.

Eris' voice is dark and serious as you approach The High Lord, his jaw tightens when Rhysand regards him with a cool violet gaze.

“I have my reasons.”

You’re not entirely sure what they’re talking about and when you take your place next to Feyre she places a hand on your arm in comfort. Though it does nothing to settle the acid churning in your stomach nor the storm that is raging inside of you.

“Care to share those reasons with us?” Rhysand asks, picking at an errant thread on his beautiful dark tunic.

For a moment his eyes glaze over, muted violet as he speaks mind to mind with the Autumn Prince.

Rhysand’s lips twitch lightly and you can see that whatever words passed between him and Eris has pleased him greatly-- at least given him the upper hand so that he doesn’t feel threatened but Eris’ commanding presence.

Eris steps forwards again and adds, “Bestides, it is a bonus of course, that in doing so, I would be getting what has been owed to me even since my betrothal to Morrigan.”

Rhysand studies Eris and then casts a fleeting glance along the line to you, standing dutifully at Feyre’s side.

Like the docile, and obedient sister he wants you to be.

A conduit of his dark power. A piece to be played in this game of power and politics.

“Anything I want-- anything at all, whether it be armies from the Autumn Court or your firstborn, you would grant me it all in exchange for the Archeron girl as your wife?”

Azriel, still somewhat territorial, lets loose a low growl that rumbles like thunder through the air.

Eris doesn’t deign to even look in his direction-- instead those haunting amber eyes linger on you. His eyes are soft and dark, burning into yours, and you find yourself caught in the unyielding, all consuming fire that is Eris Vanserra.

Eris turns back to Rhysand. “Not as far as my heir, but yes, Rhysand. You want armies against the human queen? You’ll have them, and anything else you might ask of me.”

“Just for her?” Azriel’s voice is cutting and suspicious as he hones in on Eris Vanserra.

“The girl, and, when the time comes, you’ll aid me in seizing the Autumn Throne from my father.” Eris adds, his eyes shine with that slow-burning fire, “and then you’ll have all the armies you desire.”

Rhysand and Feyre share a look of pure delight, irreverent to anyone else but you see it for what it is. Feral delight at their victory.

“I couldn’t very well let my wife’s sister go into battle unaided, could I?”

I said bring him to his knees, darling. What dark magic is this? What have you done to him? Rhysand’s voice is like night-kissed air in your mind.

Feyre’s laugh rings through you like birdsong and you can’t help the satisfied smirk that curls onto your lips.

You’re about to speak when you catch Eris’ eyes; those strange amber eyes. And then you feel it.

A bond that grows taut and reverberates through the hall, like a ripple of power and a golden thread bridges the distance between your body and his.

“Mate?” Eris’ voice strains with the weight of it, and you feel like light goes all through you, as though you are little more than a shadow or a memory as you allow yourself to sink into the dark waters that live within your mind's eye. “My mate.”

Your name breaks apart in his mouth and in a flash of violet and murky blue you’re greeted by the storm as it breaks over Velaris. On the horizon, dark and ominous as it approaches. You reach the balcony and wade out into the violent night, waiting for the storm to stake its claim to you.

You were born on a night like this, you tell yourself. Like the Gods of old; born from the storms and the seas, to withstand the hardships of this world. To be cruel and merciless and beautiful.

You whisper it, until you feel that bond in your chest grow taut, strained with the distance between you. And as Eris’ emotions run like water into you, for the first time in a long time you allow yourself to feel.

To yield to the storm as it breaks against you with all the force of a great tempest.

#eris x reader #eris x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris fic #eris headcanons #pro eris vanserra #eris vandaddy #acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #acotar smut #acotar fanfic #azriel x you #azriel x reader

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mountttmase · 4 months

Text

A Mountain To Climb

The Christmas Special

Part Two

Note - they finally got their happy ending 🥺 little baby George is my whole heart I swear I think of him as my own child at this point I just love the little squish. Thank you so much for the love on part one and I really hope you like this part just as much 🩷

Pairing - Mason Mount × Reader

Word count - 6.2K

Warnings - fluff and a tiny smidge of angst

‘I’ll pop the heating on yeah? Get it all nice and warm for the little man’ Mason shouted to you as he opened the front door to let you in. The three of you taking your first family outing to the big Sainsburys to grab some last minute Christmas supplies and you couldn’t wait to get back into the safety of your home.

The run up to Christmas was always hard, there was always so much to be done and so much to plan but this year was different. You’d spent most of it heavily pregnant until your little boy made his entrance a week before Christmas Eve.

Mason was at training when you found out you were pregnant. You wanted to wait until he got home so you could take the test together and find out but you couldn’t handle not knowing and when the little test told you you were pregnant you collapsed on the floor in happy tears.

You managed to make them stop until he got home. The pair of you sinking to the floor once you’d shown him the positive test so he could hold you in his lap as you both silently cried. Counting back to realise your baby was probably conceived the night of your third anniversary and it just made everything feel even more special to you.

By all accounts it was a perfect pregnancy and Mason has been your rock through it all but as your due date approached you could feel yourself getting more and more anxious. Being a good mum was important to you and after everything that had happened throughout your childhood you were determined not to leave your little one with the same fate.

Just like Mason always was, your little bubba was late. Two weeks in total and you were starting to get to the end of your tether with being pregnant until your waters broke at 4am whilst you were tossing and turning in bed next to Mason who was more than horrified by all accounts.

George was a perfect mix of the pair of you. Your hair colouring and lips but Masons eyes and cheeks and you couldn’t be more in love with him if you tried. He was the cutest thing you’d ever seen and all you wanted to do was wrap him up and protect him from the world.

You had always been told you’d feel that feeling as soon as you saw him but there was a voice in the back of your head telling you it won’t happen for you. That you were a product of your family and it would take time for you to bond with George but thankfully that wasn’t the case and you’d turned into a big mamma bear almost instantly.

It was hard though. The pair of you adjusting as well as you could and even though Mason was the perfect father so far, your motherly instincts had kicked in ten fold and you very rarely let George out of your sight.

You weren’t sure what it was, that new baby fear maybe, or if it was something a bit more than that. If it was something you were trying to prove to yourself that you could be a good mum. The best mum. Nothing like the woman who raised you.

You knew it was in the back of your mind even though it shouldn’t be but you wanted to be perfect even though you were still healing from childbirth. Taking on every task that needed doing over Christmas and making sure it was done to perfection. Not accepting help from anyone, even Mason, as you organised a special Christmas Eve get together for all your family but the stress of it and learning how to take care of a little human was making you snappy.

Mason left you to it at first. Knowing not to rock the boat as your hormones were all over the place and you never backed down but eventually he stepped in. Telling you to relax and take a breather but rather than listen to him you exploded at him.

‘Will you just leave me Mason, I know what I’m doing’ you told him angrily. Moving your shoulder so his hand would drop away from you.

‘I never said you didn’t love, I’m trying to help’

‘Well that makes a change’ you scoffed and you felt awful immediately but your pride stopped you from apologising straight away. Under normal circumstances you knew he would probably have said something back but you heard him let out a short breath before carrying on speaking to you calmly.

‘Tell me what you want me to do’

‘What I want is for you to go away. I want these to be perfect and you’re just ruining everything’ you shouted, tears burning in your eyes before you slammed the napkins down on the table and made an exit.

You felt awful. Saying hurtful things to the man you loved who was only trying to help and when you stormed off upstairs he let you have your moment to calm down. Only going to look for you when he thought you’d been gone too long and finding you fast asleep on his side of the bed.

There was something about finding you on his side of the bed that made Mason's heart sing. He knew you were tired and stressed and not in any state to be doing as much as you had but he also knew how stubborn you were and how much it took you to ask for help but knowing you were taking comfort in his space made him feel just a tiny bit better.

By the time you’d woken up and calmed down you found Mason in the living room, sitting in the armchair with George asleep on his chest as he slowly rubbed his back with Parker asleep at his feet.

Ever since you’d fallen pregnant it was like Parker could sense the change. Rarely leaving you alone and forever laying his head on your ever growing bump and now that George was finally here he was just as protective. You wasn’t sure how Parker would react to such a little baby when he was such a huge dog but he was his usual gentle and loving self and no matter where George was, Parker wasn’t too far away.

Mason’s eyes were on you as soon as he sensed your presence but you didn’t know what to do so you played with your fingers whilst thinking of what to say. By the time you looked up, he’d moved George onto the one side of his chest before holding his other arm out for you to come and join them. Helping you sit on the arm of the chair and cuddle into his chest with your legs dangling over his lap and you felt even worse than before.

‘I’m so sorry’ you whispered, your tearful eyes looking into his sympathetic ones and you carried on talking before he had a chance to tell you everything was okay. ‘I just really want everything to be perfect you know? It’s George’s first Christmas and our families are gonna be together and I just wanna show everyone that I can do it’

‘I know baby. And I know you can do it but you can’t do it on your own okay? You pushed this little human out of you four days ago and you’re still healing, not to mention your hormones are all over the place. You need to rest’

‘There’s just a lot to do’ you sniffed. Reaching for George’s hand that was resting on Mason's chest and your heart thumped as he wrapped his fingers around yours gently.

‘How about we make a list of everything and then we divide and conquer? My mum said she’s happy to do whatever’s needed so we can see if she can help?’

‘Maybe that’s a good idea. I just wanted to do it myself’ you confessed. Not wanting to look like a failure but deep down you knew you could really use the help.

‘I know’ he breathed, pressing a small kiss to your nose. ‘And I know why too but you’ve got nothing to prove to anyone okay? You're a perfect mum and no amount of handmade place settings will change that’ he joked, causing you to nod at him with a smile. ‘You’re not superwoman. No one expects you to be okay? In fact I think they think you’re all mental for wanting to host them a week after you’ve popped a baby out’ he teased.

‘Thank you Mase. And I really am sorry for having a go, I didn’t mean it’

‘I know, there’s a lot of change going on but as long as we stick together we’ve got this okay? Now show me my favourite smile, pretty girl’ he teased, a smile taking over your face automatically and you felt a shiver roll through you as he reciprocated it. ‘There we go. And as for this one’ he mumbled, head nodding to the little boy who was still fast asleep on him. ‘He doesn’t remember anything half the time. We could literally skip Christmas and he’d be none the wiser. He’d just sleep right through it’

‘We’re not skipping Christmas, Mason’ you scolded, knowing he was only joking but you appreciated him trying to make you smile just like he always did.

So you did as he said. You made a list and a timetable and made sure to make lots of room for breaks and as soon as it was all written down you realised it wasn't as scary as you thought. But the last few sleepless nights had taken it out of you so when you got back from the shops to get on with your final task you felt yourself slowly slipping into sleep at the table.

‘Right miss, nap time for you’ you suddenly heard, feeling Mason’s hand on your shoulder but you shook it off. Wanting to finish what you were doing.

‘I’m fine-‘

‘Nope’ he laughed, forcing you out of your chair and looking at you with a stern face. ‘You’ve been in a mood all morning so you need a nap before everyone gets here’ he teased, pushing you up the stairs before he grabbed George from his basket. Parker sitting just below it like he always did but as soon as Mason picked George up he was up too and following you up the stairs and into your bedroom.

‘I’m fine’

‘Come on babe, you know what the nurse said. You sleep when baby sleeps’ he told you softly. Pressing a kiss to your forehead as he tried to attempt to push you to the bed but you resisted ever so slightly.

‘But I need to sort the-‘

‘Baby, we spoke about this’ he whispered. Popping George in the next to me crib before holding your face so you could really look at each other. ‘You’re exhausted and you’ll be even more so when everyone gets here later. I can do what needs doing okay. Will it be as good as if you did it? No, not at all. But I’ll make up for it with my charm and wit’ he teased, hands slightly moving to your neck as you smiled lightly. ‘You need to let me help, remember?’

‘I’m sorry Mase’ you whispered tearily but he cut you off with a kiss.

‘You don’t need to be sorry. Just please have a nap’

‘Okay’ you conceded, letting him tuck you into bed. George sleeping softly beside you as Parker took up a spot at the end of the bed and as much as you wanted to just sit and look at George you knew you were too tired and eventually gave into sleep.

You slept for longer than you wanted to but you knew you must have needed it. Waking up to quickly feed George and get him changed into his little Christmas outfit before meeting Mason downstairs. Feeling warmth rush through you at the sight of him finishing up the table settings and you resisted the urge to run over and kiss his face off.

‘It looks great Mase, thank you’ you told him, startling him a little bit but he sent you a kind lopsided smile before taking George from you so you could go and get yourself sorted and ready for everyone to come. Your heart melting at the way he was looking at him all dressed up and you could see how much Mason loved being a dad as clear as day.

Freya was first to arrive with Woody in tow. Making a beeline for George’s basket so she could pick him up and sit with him on Woody's lap.

‘Didn’t have you down as a baby woman’ Mason laughed, his arm around your waist as you watched the pair of them fuss over your little boy and it warmed your heart looking at the pair of them.

‘Well no, but this isn’t just any baby though is it’ she laughed. Stroking his little cheek with her thumb as Woody made the same gesture on Freya’s thighs and the pair of them looked at him in awe. ‘This is my little Georgie Porgie, the cutest baby in the world, yes you are’ she babbled to him and it made your heart flutter to see how much they loved him.

‘You’re supposed to be here to help’

‘I’m saying hello to my godson first’ she joked, but you smiled softly. Knowing there was a special gift for her and Woody under the tree from George asking to be his god parents so you were even more hopeful now she would accept.

‘You can come help me put the crisps into bowls if you like’ Mason offered, throwing her a bag after she’d popped George back into his crib and letting Parker take his spot underneath to guard him. ‘Woody, you too’

‘Yes dad’ he huffed before you watched Mason put him in a headlock and ruffle his hair.

‘Don’t talk back son or Santa won’t stop at your house tonight’ he joked, trying to mess his hair up but Freya was quick to separate them so they could finish sorting the snacks out.

Mason's family were next to turn up, Freya having to begrudgingly give George over so Masons family could meet him for the first time and you almost burst into tears as Tony pulled you in for a warm hug.

‘How you doing, love?’ He asked, walking into the house with you under his arm, your eyes full to the brim at his affection. Knowing how protective he was over you made you feel so full and watching his eyes tear up as he caught sight of little George almost sent you over the edge.

You loved sitting with his family and watching them fawn over him, knowing whatever happened that George would always have a loving family and people around him but when the doorbell went for the third time, you knew who it was immediately and the nervousness in your tummy was threatening to overflow.

‘You wanna get that, baby?’ Mason asked, a bright smile on his face and with a quick nod and a kiss to his cheek you were running to the door.

‘Hi dad’ you smiled, enveloping him in a big hug straight away and you felt your eyes sting as he held you back just as tightly.

‘Hi love. Are you okay?’

‘I’m good, how was the journey?’

‘Not as long as I thought but long enough’ he laughed, before stepping aside to reveal the rest of your family.

You’d met his wife Liz and your two step sisters Abi and Hailey twice before and even though you thought it might be awkward and weird you all got on like a house on fire. Pulling them in for a hug each as they came inside before leading them into the living room so they could mix with Mason's family.

You noticed straight away that George was back in Freya’s arms with Parker sat patiently besides her and you laughed as you made your way over to them.

‘What? He was handed to me. I didn't steal him I promise’ she laughed but you saw the pout from a mile off when you attempted to take him.

‘Come on Frey, my dads here and he wants to meet his grandson… god that sounds weird’ you laughed, taking George into your arms and you were surprised at how settled you felt as soon as he was back with you.

Watching your dad get emotional at the sight of your baby set you off, feeling Mason's arms wrap around your waist from behind made you smile though and with a kiss on your cheek you turned to pull him into a much needed hug.

George was an angel, never once crying or making a fuss as he was passed from person to person for a cuddle and you distracted yourself by refilling the snack bowls and getting drinks so the empty feeling you felt whenever George wasn’t in your arms didn’t linger.

After a while, Freya came to find you. Pulling you away from the washing up so you could spend some time with your family but the pair of you spent a little time just people watching as yours and Mason's families mingled.

‘You okay?’ She smiled, her arm around your shoulders as the pair of you stood to the side and watched everyone get along.

Your sisters talking to Jaz, your dad in deep conversation with Tony and Lewis and Debbie speaking to Liz who had George safely cradled in her arms. It all felt surreal to have everyone here together and it was overwhelming at how big your family was now.

‘Yeah, I’m okay’ you smiled, looking up and fraya before you bundled each other into your arms. You knew you both wanted to tell each other you were proud of the other but you let your arms do the talking before you pulled away. Laughing as you wiped your tears before going to join in with everyone. Freya choosing to go sit with Mason, Woody and the kids as they played with Parker whilst you went to see Debbie and Liz. Hoping you could steal George back as you felt incomplete without him.

Thankfully Liz and Debbie moved apart and patted the seat in between them and handed George over to you as soon as you sat down. Your heart hammering at the way your baby nuzzled into you and reached for the neck of your top to hold.

‘Now I want you to be honest, how’s Mason been this week?’ Debbie laughed and as much as you wanted to joke about him with her like usual you really wanted her to know how perfect he’d been.

‘Honestly? I really couldn’t ask for anyone better to do this with’ you smiled at her, watching her face soften instantly before you looked down to see George yawning adorably in his sleep. ‘He knows me like the back of his hand and knows when to tell me off when I’m pushing it too far. I think I forget I only gave birth a week ago but he’s really looked after us this week. You should be really proud of him’

‘I am’ she breathed. Tapping your knee lightly. ‘But I’m proud of you too. I know it’s hard to admit when you need help and I know you’ve spent a lot of time doing things on your own. But he really is a good boy and he loves you so much’

‘I love him too’ you laughed tearily, wiping your eyes with your free hand. ‘Sorry my hormones are all over the place still, I’m crying at the drop of a hat’

‘It’s okay, love’ Liz smiled, placing her hand on your other knee. ‘You should have seen me after I had Abi, I was inconsolable for weeks. It takes time and you’ll get there but you’ve got the best support around you by the looks of things’ she reassured you. ‘And you can always rely on your dad and me and the girls too’

‘Thank you’ you told her honestly. ‘And thank you for looking after my dad’

‘Of course’ she smiled tearfully. ‘He’s always spoken about you and I had to really give him a kick up the bum to speak to you. I think he was ashamed of how he acted’ she confessed, and sensing you might need some alone time you felt Debbie shuffle next to you.

‘I’m gonna go find my son and give him a big hug’ Debbie told you, standing up to go and search for Mason but before long her seat was taken up by the other man in your life.

‘I think me and Mason's dad are gonna get on great’ your dad smiled. Wrapping his arm around you and dropping a kiss on your forehead as he stroked George’s little cheek. ‘I still can’t believe I’m a grandad, I’m so proud of you’

‘Oh don’t you start, I’ve only just calmed down from Debbie saying the same’ you laughed, bumping your shoulder into his chest slightly. ‘But thank you’ you told him, smiling as Abi and Hailey shyly made their way over to join you all but you waved them over with a smile. ‘Would you guys like a hold?’

‘Me first’ Abi interjected, sitting herself down on the floor and Hailey joined her in a huff but you carefully passed George over and watched as he got himself comfortable in his new aunties arms. You felt so complete. The only person missing being Mason but little did you know he was currently feeling the love from his family too.

He was standing in the kitchen talking to his dad when Debbie approached him. Wrapping her arms around him with a tearful expression but he knew she wasn’t sad from the first glance as she held him tightly.

‘You alright mum?’

‘I’m more than alright’ she laughed, pulling back to look at him and the look of pride on her face made his bottom lip wobble. ‘I can’t tell you how proud I am of you. You’ve got the most gorgeous little boy out there and such a perfect family. I couldn’t be happier for you Mase’

‘Thank you mum’

‘It's not just that though, I’m so proud of the man you’ve become. She’s got nothing but praise for you out there and I know you’re looking after them so well. I just couldn’t be anymore proud of the man you are’ she sniffed. ‘And I know you’re not even doing it intentionally, it’s just who you are but it’s so lovely to see’

‘Stop it, you’ll make me cry’ he laughed, pulling his parents in for a much needed hug. Knowing they were proud of him was all he ever wanted and he was overwhelmed with how emotional they were for him.

You were soon up and making the rounds to ask if anyone needed any refills but everyone seemed to be fine so you went off in search of your boys.

You’d lost sight of Mason a while ago and now George seemingly too and as the noise in your living room grew louder you excused yourself to try and find them. Eventually finding the pair of them sat in the conservatory on the big sofa with a big fluffy blanket around the pair of them. Your chest feeling warm as you sat and watched Mason talk quietly to him before his eyes caught yours and he sent you a shy lopsided smile.

‘Look Georgie, mummy’s here’ he told him, poking his hand out from the blanket so he could beckon you over and once you were close he let you join him under the blanket so you could all cuddle up together.

‘What are two doing out here?’ You asked looking over to see George’s eyes were fully open and he was looking back at you when you spoke.

‘Little man was getting a bit overwhelmed with all the noise and people I think. Thought i'd just bring him in here for a little breather’ he told you and you felt yourself melt as you looked at him. His own eyes softening as they looked into yours. ‘What?’

‘You’re such a good dad, Mase’

‘Oh no you too’ he laughed. ‘I just had my mum and dad both crying in the kitchen saying the same’

‘But you are, you’re so good with him. And with me’ you laughed tears spilling down your cheeks. ‘Thank you for letting me join your boys only party’

‘You’re always invited to the boys only party’ he laughed, hearing Parker’s footsteps getting louder and louder before he rounded the corner and came into view. ‘Hello mate, you feeling left out?’ Mason laughed, tapping your thigh before Parker got the hint and jumped up next to you on the sofa so could lay his head on your lap. His eyes constantly flashing up to George as you scratched between his ears. ‘Well try and have a girl next, I feel like you’re a bit out numbered’ Mason laughed and you blushed at his words. Knowing he wanted to extend your family even more made your tummy flutter but you knew you had plenty of time for that.

George was starting to get fidgety and upset so you knew that meant only one thing. Carefully taking him from Mason as he passed him to you so you could feed him and as he settled down you felt Mason pull you into him further. A satisfied smile on his face as he looked down at his little family.

‘Just like your daddy you are’ you smiled, kissing George on the forehead. ‘Hungry all the time’

‘He’s just as obsessed with your boobs as I am’

‘Mason’

‘What? I haven’t got so much as a look at them lately, he always gets there first’ he huffed but the slight squeeze of your shoulder let you know he was only playing around but the look on his face let you know he was thinking about something else.

‘What is it Mase?’

‘Just seeing you with him, makes me realise how far we’ve come. Remember when you didn’t even want to be my friend? Now look at us’ he laughed. ‘I’d do it all again though if it meant we ended up here’

‘Me too’ you whispered. Leaning over so you could press a soft kiss to his lips before you both sat in silence to watch George. ‘We shouldn’t stay out here too long, everyone’s come to see us and we’ve gone and hid in another room’ you laughed once George had finished. Mason leaning in to kiss you softly as if he knew they should but he was sad about it.

‘I guess so. Why don’t you take George back to everyone and I’ll come back in a minute’ he told you. Helping you stand as Parker jumped up to join you and with a quick pinch to your bum you made your way back out to your family.

The rest of the night went without a hitch. Mason taking over the rest of the cooking with Freya and Woody and between the three of them they managed not to burn anything which you found quite impressive.

‘We’ll have to get the kids to bed soon or they’ll never sleep’ Jaz told you, stroking George’s cheek as she held him but Mason was pouting as soon as he overheard as he was having so much fun spending time with his little people.

‘Well you’ll have to wait a bit, we need to put snacks out for Santa’ he told you all seriously taking Summer and Mila into the kitchen so they could get a plate together of milk, cookies and a carrot for Rudolph before coming to get you and George so you could all take it outside and pop it on the porch. ‘We can check it in the morning and see if they ate it’ Mason told them before you handed George over to Mason so you could take a picture of the four of them and their snacks for Santa.

Everyone was off to bed soon after. Your dad and his family heading out as they had a long drive back home and after an emotional goodbye you walked back in to find Mason and everyone else finishing up getting things tidy.

‘You didn’t need to tidy up guys, I could of done it’

‘You’re hilarious, y/n’ Lewis laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulder before walking you towards the stairs. ‘We’ve got this. Go to bed and we’ll finish up and see you in the morning, yeah?’

‘No, I can’t let you-‘

‘Mums orders!’ Debbie shouted from across the room, making you laugh as Lewis pushed you up the stairs. ‘We’ll see you in the morning okay?’

‘Okay’ You huffed, looking down at everyone appreciatively as you all shouted goodnight to each other before you went to your room. Getting dressed in your special Christmas pjs before Mason appeared with George not too long after.

‘I’ll just get ready and join you’ Mason smiled. Handing you over George and throwing you his Christmas babygrow that matched your pyjamas before Mason took his own matching ones into the bathroom so he could get ready himself. ‘I’ll have to go take a bite out of that bloody carrot in a bit, make it look like Rudolph ate it’ he huffed, shuffling into bed next to you and you looked at him with a fond smile before he looked down at George. ‘He’s so cute I want to eat him sometimes’ he laughed, pressing a quick kiss to his head before you did the same and place him in his crib next to you. ‘You okay?’ He asked, placing a kiss on your forehead, a confused smile on his face at the expression on yours but you just wanted to appreciate him and all he did for you.

‘Thank you for today Mason’ you smiled, the pair of you getting comfortable next to each other and his shy smile as blushy cheeks melted you.

‘There’s nothing to thank me for baby’

‘There is. It scares me sometimes how well you know me. How you always know what’s best for me’ you whispered. His face softening as he took your hand in his so he could rub comforting circles into the back of it.

‘It’s cause I love you’ he told you sincerely, picking your hand up to drop a kiss onto the back of it and you felt your fingers tingle at the sensation.

‘I love you too. And that’s why I want to give you a present early if that’s okay’

‘What?’ He laughed, watching you reach just by the bed to pull out what looked to be the size and shape of a shoe box. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s actually sort of a joint present but I want us to start using it as soon as possible’ you told him. Placing it on his lap before nodding your head so he’d tear into it. Once he had he was met with a cardboard box that he lifted the lid off of to reveal the present inside.

‘George’s book of firsts?’ He read aloud, picking up the folder so he could get a better look before his eyes were on you.

‘Its like a memory book. We can take pictures and fill in all his information so we’ve got something to look back on when he’s all grown up. I thought it might be fun for us to do it together’

‘I love it, thank you so much’ he whispered, leaning over to give you a small peck on your lips.

‘Open it up, there’s loads we can do’ you told him, watching his face the whole time as he flipped to the first page and you knew he’d seen it immediately.

This book belongs to:

George Tony Mount

To say naming George was easy would be a massive understatement.

First name, sure. You know you wanted something fairly traditional and when Debbie suggested it one afternoon as you all sat around to try and share ideas, the pair of you looked at each other with hopeful eyes almost immediately.

The middle name picked itself. Carrying on the tradition and a gentle nod to Mason's dad and all he did for the pair of you. You still remember the day you told Tony your thoughts around this and the little twinkle in his eye told you all you needed to know.

It was the last name that was a bit of a pickle. The pair of you not speaking about it as it had always been a bit of a contentious subject and so far no one had the guts to talk about it.

You knew it was partly your fault. Telling Mason soon after your engagement that when you got married you were unsure if you wanted to change your last name. It was the last tie to your old life and where you came from, the last piece of them you had, as you weren’t fully back on track with your dad yet but things had changed since then.

You knew Mason wasn’t thrilled by your thoughts on this subject. He wanted you to be his in every sense of the word and for his little boy to be his. But he also understood where you were coming from and loved you enough to look past it.

You could see Masons eyes full of tears as his bottom lip wobbled. A shaky breath leaving his lips as he looked up at you and your heart was thumping out of your chest.

‘Mount? You want him to be a Mount?’

‘I do’ you whispered. Taking his face in your hands so you could press a kiss to the end of his nose. And when we get married next year, I want to be a Mount too’

Your heart broke at the relieved whimper that left his lips. Dropping the book to his lap so he could wrap you up in his arms. His tears making your neck damp as you held onto each other for dear life before he pulled back to hold your face. Your own eyes now full of tears as you hadn’t realised how much it meant to him.

‘Really? Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure Mase. I want everyone to know we’re yours and we belong to you’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘You’ve given me everything I could ever want or need Mason. You’ve loved me when I didn’t deserve it and stood by me through thick and thin. All that I am, and all that we are now, it’s because of you and I’m ready to give myself to you fully. I know I said I didn’t want to lose my ties to my family but you’re my family. You and little Georgie are my whole life and it just feels like the final missing piece’

‘You’ve always deserved my love’ he whispered. ‘You deserve everyone’s love and I’m so happy you get to feel it from everyone now.

‘I think that’s partly the reason why. Knowing my dad and his family better now helps. I know I’ve got him now and losing my last name doesn’t mean I’m losing him or that side of me. But I’m gaining a part of you and you’re the most special person in the whole world to me and I’ll always choose you. Good days, bad days, come rain or shine I’ll always choose you Mase.

‘God I love you so much’

‘I love you too’

‘I can’t believe I’ve gotta wait another five weeks to show you’ he joked, making you roll your eyes as you realised what he wanted but couldn’t have just yet.

‘Well how about you run down and grab those cookies from outside so we can share them. Distract you a little bit’

‘That sounds like a good idea. I’ll drink some of the milk too’

‘Don’t forget the carrot’

‘I could never forget the carrot’ he winked, kissing your forehead before jumping out of bed and sneaking downstairs. Making you laugh at his attempts of being quiet and as soon as he was out of sight you realised this year for Christmas, you finally had everything you’d ever wanted.

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cafterdark · 2 months

Text

I don't think y'all truly grasp what fucking a god would be like.

Not only are they beings who can shape reality like clay, but they have such a massively different conception of time, morality, and existence that they become alien to you

For example, let's say you are a normal guy:

One moment you're looking at yourself in the mirror, the next in a quiet field. Before you even have a chance to react, a voice rips through your tissue paper body. It is multilayered, unable to stick to one voice, but is it smooth and alluring and almost feminine.

"I have chosen thee to be my temple." The voice says.

"W...who are you?" You stutter out.

The voice doesn't answer. For a moment you wonder if you've gone insane, then she begins. A thousand hands of light touch you, some delicate and precise, some wild and rough. They grab and grope and tear and claw and brush and pinch and slap all over, all at once. One hand grabs your short hair and forces you to look up in the air and she says:

"Let me show you your purpose."

You are launched in time to a temple, backwards or forwards, you don't know. It is lit by candles, showing that you're at the feet of a massive marble statue of a nude woman. The hands force you to your knees, all while feeling up your boiling body. You look up and only catch a glimpse of her beautiful thighs before you're unstuck in time again.

You feel yourself dragged back to reality. You're in a woman's body, being fucked by two other women in a dingy hotel. One hold the leash to a collar around your neck, the other holding your legs as she fucks you with her dick. The hands are still there and guide you, teasing each moans from your throat and buck of your hips. You've never felt this good ever as you start ascending the mountain of arousal. The collar chokes you enough for a momentary blackout

You're back in the temple, still looking up. You catch a glimpse of her hips, grabbable, with curves in just the right spots. You blink in awe and find yourself in another woman's body, actually no, a robot woman's body. You're connected to a machine made of tech so powerful you can't comprehend by series of wires and plugs throughout your body. A woman, dressed in lab wear smiles, kisses you, and starts the machine. You feel a jolt of pleasure shoot through you. The woman's smile widens, then a notification appears on your HUD

Sensitivity increased 150%

A soft glide teaches down your back and you feel your entire body kicks in response. You ascend further up, climbing step after step towards orgasm. Each touch the machine simulates makes you skip ten steps. The woman's laughs at you makes you skip more. The heat is unbearable, your fans spinning at Max speed, their noise filling the background. You get a warning notification about overheating and you're back at the temple.

The hands keep your arousal steady as the hand tilts your head further up still. You're enraptured by the most perfect pair of tits you have ever seen. The last bit of thought you we're holding onto is wiped away by their glory. But before you can properly worship them, you're thrown back in time.

You're in another temple, hazy and thick with the perfume of incense. You're in a priestess' body slick with oil, prepared to worship your goddess with your other priestesses. You look around and see the rest of your order staring at you and approach. After a long moment, you realize that you're the offering. The other women attack you with kisses and teeth and hands and nails in just the right spots. Each blow brings you closer to the peak. They pin you down and begin fucking you with their trained tongues and you blank out. You're so close now you can see the peak. You pray to just be allowed to reach it.

You're set back to the temple again and with one swift yank of your long hair, brings your eyes to the statues face.

It's you.

You don't know how you know. It looks nothing like you, but it's you. And you're gorgeous you can feel the orgasm coming, it's so so so so close now. The world stops, your body freezes.

You find yourself stuck one step before the peak, staring at your beautiful features and unable to do anything about it. You're stuck there for a long time. An hour? A year? A Millennia? A second? You don't know. But by the end, you're asking Her to let you cum. She responds:

"Do you know your purpose?"

"Yes... Goddess," you pant out. "As your temple... Where your followers... Worship you"

"Good Girl" She says.

Those two words bring you over the edge and you find yourself cumming harder than you've ever done before. Each convulsion rips away a part of your past life, what you ate for breakfast, your job, your hobbies, your name. If you could think through the tsunami of pleasure, you wouldn't care. Goddess will provide, she always will. But for now, you are drowning in devotional ecstasy.

After an eternity, you finally feel the afterglow bleed in. The hands let go and you collapse to the floor, letting the darkness consume you.

You wake up on the bathroom floor and groan. Was it really just a dream? You get up and look in the mirror and see you. Not the fake you that you wore before, but the you Goddess crafted, her masterpiece. You smile and dance in your body, that statue turned flesh, and laugh a beautiful laugh to celebrate and thank Her.

"You know your purpose and are trained in it," She says in the back of your mind. "Begin."

"Yes Goddess"

You leave the bathroom and begin your new life. After all, what's a god without her temple?

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vampsywrites · 9 months

Text

III — i remember her hands, and the way the mountains looked.

Synopsis: In which the Sullys approach the mountain clan for sanctuary. The Olo'eykte agrees but proposes one condition: Toruk Makto's eldest son must be promised to her daughter. Surprisingly, instead of the solemn response one would expect, Neteyam agrees almost instantaneously.

Tags: Female! Mountain Na'vi! Reader, Arranged Marriage, Strangers to Lovers, Neteyam is whipped, A LOT of romantic tension

Word Count: 4.5k | AO3 LINK

< PREV | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT >

In the early morning light, you took Neteyam to a secluded spot in the village, away from prying eyes. Aside from being Tsahìk, your expertise in climbing with ropes and harnesses was also well-known, and you had taken it upon yourself to teach him the ropes — quite literally.

As you began the lesson, your arms gently guided him, demonstrating the proper way to tie and secure the rope over his waist and thighs.

"Tuck this into here," you instructed, your voice soothing yet firm. "This must be tight to ensure safety. Watch."

Neteyam looked on, watching intently but his attention was elsewhere.

Instead of fully absorbing your instructions. his eyes remained fixated on every detail of your unique appearance. From the slope of your flat nose, the curve of your lips, and the thickness of your eyelashes that accentuated your big, milky eyes. Along with this was his strange fascination with your frosty blue skin, ample and adorned with delicate ivory specks.

"Are you listening?" you check.

"Yes," he affirmed but this was far from the truth.

In Neteyam's defense, he was listening, just not in the way you might have wanted. From the moment you met, you had been a woman of few words — reserved, and enigmatic. However, now, as you took on the role of his karyu, his teacher, Neteyam saw an opportunity to experience a different, more personal side of you. And so, he wanted to etch the sound of your voice into his memory, to savor every word that left your lips.

Your voice had a lilt that captivated him — calm yet firm, with a low and husky undertone that was enhanced by your distinct Iuva'rian accent. Every now and then, your words would subtly slip, and your village dialect would shine through, adding an intriguing layer of depth to your teaching.

The sound of you clearing your throat snapped him out of his deep thoughts, and the Omatikayan blinked blearily, shaking his head for a few seconds to refocus his attention. Dismissing his momentary distraction, you reached out and handed him the end of the rope.

"Attach the end of the rope to this tree," you instructed, pointing to a massive pine nearby. Neteyam moved to tie a secure anchor around the trunk, ensuring it would hold firm. You then took the other end of the rope and demonstrated how to loop it through his harness, which was fashioned from sturdy leather. To your relief, Neteyam paid proper attention this time and followed your instructions to the best of his ability.

"This harness will distribute your weight. Allowing you to use your hands and legs more freely," you explained, patting the leather. "It is your lifeline."

Stepping back, your eyes ran up and down his body, assessing everything. You noticed how he hadn't secured his harness properly, the rope left uncomfortably loose. With a huff of disapproval, you settled in front of him, your focused gaze fixed on his mistake. Your hands, soft yet purposeful, moved with practiced ease as you adjusted the harness, ensuring it was secure and would hold his weight properly.

As your fingers brushed against his lower abdomen and thighs, a surge of static energy seemed to pass between you, and a shiver ran up Neteyam's spine from the unexpected sensation. The closeness between you, the shared proximity, made his heart race, and he found himself mesmerized by every move you made.

Tilting your head up, you caught his gaze, and a lopsided frown appeared on your lips.

"You are looking at me with those eyes again," you chided.

"What eyes?" he murmured, still dazed and lost in his admiration of you.

"You must stop staring at me," you responded with a hint of a snarl, trying to bring his focus back to the lesson.

"Can't I stare at my future mate?" he grinned smugly, tail swinging by his feet languidly.

In response, you hissed and gave him a light slap on the side of his head. "Focus. Your form is bad. Fix it."

With an amused expression, Neteyam firmly gripped the side of the rock wall and adjusted his posture, heart set on impressing you and proving his worth.

"No," you tutted, stepping back to demonstrate the proper posture. You inhaled deeply, showcasing how to engage the core muscles and tighten the abdomen.

"Stronger," you instructed, tapping at your tensed stomach to emphasize the point.

He tried to emulate your actions, sucking in air and adjusting his form, but the task proved more arduous than he anticipated. Frustration flickered across your face, and Neteyam couldn't help but feel a pang of dissatisfaction, his ego taking a hit.

Again, you moved towards him, now pressing your front against his back. As your arms encircled him, a wave of searing heat surged through his body, leaving him breathless. His heart pounded wildly in his chest as your breath brushed against the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

Your hands, warm and gentle, traced the contours of his bare, muscled skin as you adjusted his arms and sides. The intimate touch sent his mind into a whirlwind of emotions, and he struggled to focus on anything other than the intoxicating proximity between you.

Finally, once his form was proper, you stepped away to view his posture, still unaware of the effect your touch had on him.

"Good," you hummed with approval. "Keep that form as we climb."

As you prepared him to start ascending, you placed a calming hand atop his chest, noticing how his heart pounded rapidly beneath your touch. Unaware of the true reason for his flustered state, you peered up at him, thinking he might be having second thoughts about the climb.

"You are scared?" you questioned, the slightest hint of concern in your voice.

"'M not scared," his words came out in a mumble as he tried to hide the truth. "Why would I be scared?"

Huffing softly, you made one last adjustment to his form, your hands gently pressing at his hard abdomen and slapping at any awkward limb placement, an effort to help him overcome whatever uncertainties he might be facing.

"Listen. As you climb, I'll stay below to control the rope. If you slip or lose your grip, I'll hold the rope tight to catch you," your small hands brushed up his jawline, turning his head to face you. "Trust me as I trust you."

"Got it," Neteyam nodded and began his climb. He moved upward, his hands trembling as he gripped the coarse surface of the rock, his fingers struggling to find solid handholds. Each time he tried to place his foot on a protruding edge, it slipped, sending small pebbles cascading down the cliff face.

He took a moment to assess the rock in front of him, his eyes scanning for the best path upward. After a few deep breaths to steady himself, he made a decision and reached out, testing a small crevice with his fingertips. It seemed secure enough, so he cautiously shifted his weight and pulled himself upward.

"Ngh!" Neteyam grunted, his biceps straining as he lifted himself higher up the rock wall. Despite his efforts, his initial progress was still awkward and uncoordinated. He swung his legs around, searching for footholds, but it seemed like every attempt led to more frustration. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and his face burned with both exertion and embarrassment as he struggled to find his rhythm.

He had thought it would be easy, considering how he climbed trees all the time back home, but the mountains presented a whole new challenge. They lacked branches or sturdy trunks to cling onto; instead, they were rough, wide, and open, demanding an entirely different set of skills.

"You are like a baby! You think too much!" you scolded, picking up on his indecision and observing the rigid strain in his back muscles. "Find the holdings in the rock!"

"I am trying," Neteyam replied, voice tinged with frustration. The rough terrain scratched at his skin, his arms strained as he struggled to find the right grip, and the weight of each step felt heavier with every passing moment. "It is not as easy as you say it is!"

"Look for the natural holds, the cracks, and the crevices," you advised, drawing from your own experiences scaling these heights. "Use your instincts, and trust your body. The mountain will guide you."

Neteyam nodded, but his struggles persisted, and it was evident that he was stiff, overthinking each and every step. If he continued on like this, the risk of a fall was high.

"Mawey. Take a moment to rest," you urged firmly. He obliged and halted his movements.

With the climb momentarily paused, Neteyam caught his breath and tilted his head back to take in the breathtaking view before him. The sight punched a gasp out from his chest—the vast fields stretching out like a painted canvas, the lush forests below, carpeting the landscape in vibrant greens, and the riders gracefully soaring on their ikrans high above.

The soft caress of the gentle breeze kissed his cheeks, carrying along leaves and the scents of flora that adorned the mountain's slopes. As the wind brushed through his hair, Neteyam closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the peace and tranquility that settled over him.

"Try again, Neteyam," you shouted up at him. "Let the rock guide you. Slow your pace and take your time; it's not a race."

Taking a deep breath, Neteyam attempted to ease his pace, allowing himself a moment to study the wall of stone before him. He faintly began to recognize the patterns and natural holds, the crevices, and folds that could be used to his advantage.

With newfound focus, he started to move more freely, trusting his instincts and allowing his body to flow with the terrain. His motions became less rigid, and he started to use the momentum of his body to propel himself upward, one confident movement at a time.

"That's it," you encouraged, an impressed smile gracing your face. "You are learning to climb. Let the mountain become an extension of yourself."

As Neteyam climbed higher, he discovered a sense of connection with the ancient stone, almost as if he and it were in sync. The initial clumsiness gave way to a familiarity he hadn't known he possessed. The wind played with his hair, and the distant calls of the mountain banshees echoed through the slopes above. Time seemed to slow as he focused solely on the present moment, the climb becoming an intimate conversation between him and the mountains.

Overlooking the village, you and Neteyam now stood at the high plateau, the world spread out below you like a vast canvas. The mountains had always been your personal sanctuary, a place where you found peace and strength, a respite away from the stress of your responsibilities. So, seeing Neteyam experience this awe-inspiring view for the first time brought a smile to your face.

You moved to sit by him, taking his hands in yours, and carefully tending to the scratches on his arms with a salve you always carried. The soothing ointment provided a gentle touch to his roughened skin, and he looked at you with a mix of gratitude and affection.

"It is rare for someone to pick things up so quickly. You are a very fast learner," you say, breaking the silence to praise him. "You also do not give up easily. You have a strong heart."

"Thank you," Neteyam replied, pride evident in his voice as he preened from your heartfelt compliments, a fanged grin stretching across his cheeks.

He then turned his attention back towards the view, his eyes sparkling with wonder and captivation as he beheld the breathtaking beauty spread out before him.

"It is like nothing I've ever seen," Neteyam marveled, his voice thick with an accent native to the forests. "Back home the sky is usually hidden by tall trees. You'd have to climb up one if you want a glimpse."

Pausing your ministrations, you leaned toward him. "Tell me more," you urged, genuinely curious. "What is it like in the forest?"

A spark ignited in Neteyam's eyes as he delved into a passionate account of his experiences in his home village. He spoke with animated enthusiasm, painting vivid pictures of the lush greenery that adorned the landscape, each vibrant flora seemingly glowing with its own bioluminescent brilliance. The rivers and cascading waterfalls he described were a source of life, teeming with an abundance of fresh fish.

With every word, he brought to life the swift direhorses, their graceful forms racing across the terrain, and the fearsome thanators, lean and agile stalking through the night. Mixed in with that joy, there was a longing in his voice, a yearning to experience it once more.

"Do you miss it?" you asked, cutting him off gently, your keen perception sensing the ache in his heart.

"Yes," he sighed wistfully, the weight of nostalgia evident in his chest. "I really do."

You offered a comforting presence, placing a hand over his shoulder in a gesture of solace. The two of you then moved to lay on the soft grass, resting side by side in the embrace of nature. A companionable silence settled between you, hearts connected over the memories of home and the beauty of the world you both cherished.

In the midst of this peaceful moment, a question that had lingered in your mind resurfaced.

"Neteyam?" you called out, turning on your side. His ears flicked in curiosity as he looked towards you, brows raised.

"The banshee you rode a few days ago... Was she yours?" you murmured softly.

"Yes," Neteyam confirmed, a fond smile touching his lips. "Do you want to meet her?"

You nodded eagerly, and he stood up, offering you a hand. You took it, his battle-hardened palm was rough against your skin but his touch had a comforting warmth to it. With a gentle tug, he effortlessly lifted you off the ground, dragging you toward the edge of the peak.

Emitting a powerful cry, Neteyam called for his ikran, the sound echoing through the air. Moments later, the sky came alive with the powerful flapping of wings, and she arrived with a resonating squawk. Her mighty form hovered before you, and you were left breathless by the sight of her robust wings enveloped in the light.

As she landed gracefully before you, you couldn't help but be in awe of her presence. Her eyes, filled with intelligence and a hint of curiosity, locked onto yours, and it felt as though she could see into your very soul.

Neteyam approached his ikran with a calm and composed demeanor making tsaheylu.

"This is Seze," he introduced you to her. "I have been flying with her ever since I was thirteen."

Your excitement was palpable as you gazed upon the majestic banshee before you. Your hand reached out cautiously, not wanting to startle her, as you gently stroked her strong chest and neck. The sensation of her thick, supple skin beneath your fingers sent a thrill through your entire being.

"She is beautiful," you cooed, tail swishing behind you in joy.

"Yes. Very beautiful." Neteyam's response was soft, and though he agreed with your sentiment, it was clear that his focus wasn't on Seze. Instead, his gaze was fixed on you, and you could feel the intensity of his stare as if he was trying to memorize every detail of your being. There was something in the way he looked at you, a certain depth of emotion that couldn't be easily put into words.

A warm and shy smile graced your lips as you turned away from Neteyam, now facing back toward the vast expanse of the open sky.

"I too will show you mine," you declared. With a sharp whistle, you called for your ikran to join the encounter.

In response to your call, your spirit sister appeared in all her glory, gliding gracefully through the air before landing near you with an air of elegance. Beaming, you watched as her wings fluttered in excitement. It had been long since you last met up with her. Your duties as Tsahìk had kept you busy for a long, long while.

"This is Ayvit. She is my spirit sister," you proudly gestured to her. Reaching for your kuru, you gently made tsaheylu, cooing affectionately at your sweet girl.

"It is nice to meet her," Neteyam said warmly as he moved to run a hand up your ikran's snout. Ayvit let out a soft chirp as if acknowledging Neteyam and his banshee, and you couldn't help but smile at the interaction between them.

"I think she likes me," he remarked, observing the gentle way Ayvit tilted her head in his direction.

"Yes, you are very likable," you replied, timidly averting your gaze to the ground.

"I am?" Neteyam grinned, his expression filled with a mix of amusement and charm. It was evident that his confidence had grown during your time together, and that paired with your newfound ease around his presence further deepened your growing relationship.

With a shake of your head, you gently nudged at his head in a playful manner. Then, turning around, you reached into Ayvit's saddle, retrieving a riding visor from the compartment. As you lifted it up, it became evident that this visor was unlike anything Neteyam was accustomed to seeing back home.

Your riding visor had an exotic design, native to your clan. It was rounder and adorned with vibrant colors and shimmering gems, a striking contrast to the simpler styles he was used to. The woven headpiece was crafted in a soft lilac hue, complementing your skin's natural blue tone.

After slipping off your headpiece that denoted your status as Tsahìk, you placed the visor atop your head, securing it around your ears. The moment seemed to mark a shift, as you felt a sense of liberation wash over you as if you were shedding the formalities to reveal a more unburdened and personal side of yourself to Neteyam.

With practiced ease, you moved towards Ayvit, a rush of anticipation surging through your veins. You climbed onto the saddle, feeling the smooth, cool leather beneath your fingertips. Quickly, you secured yourself, making sure the bindings were tight and fastened well.

"Come," you grinned at Neteyam, tail coiling as a glint of thrill danced in your eyes. "Let's ride!"

With a whoop of exhilaration, you urged Ayvit forward, and with a powerful thrust of her wings, she propelled herself off the mountain peak. Neteyam laughed as he swiftly mounted Seze and joined you in flight.

As you and Neteyam soared through the vast open skies, the wind tousled at your hair and caressed your cheeks, carrying the scents of the wild. The beating of Ayvit's powerful wings resonated in perfect rhythm with Seze's.

Peals of laughter slipped from your lips, blending with the rush of air around you. Gazing at Neteyam, you couldn't help but be captivated by the joy etched on his face. His eyes sparkled with excitement, and a radiant, handsome smile adorned his features.

Together, you explored the breathtaking landscapes from above, the lush forests, the winding rivers, and the towering mountains painted in hues of orange and pink by the setting sun. Ayvit and Seze seemed to revel in the thrill of the flight, each spread of their wings carrying you higher and further, as if they, too, were caught up in the strengthening of your bond.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the hues of warm sunset in the sky washed away, now bathed in the tranquil colors of twilight. With Ayvit and Seze now keeping a steady pace, you and Neteyam glided side by side, enjoying the serene, dreamlike ambiance of the atmosphere.

"We have to return soon," you called out to Neteyam. The warrior looked to you in confusion.

Guiding Ayvit to fly closer to his side, you reminded him, "I promised your brothers and sisters I would teach them how to make a healing salve. They must be waiting."

Neteyam merely hummed in response, his gaze lingering on you with a tender smile.

"Let them wait," he spoke softly. "I want to spend more time with you."

His words stirred a delightful flutter in your chest, and you couldn't help but feel a smile creep onto your face. With a subtle click of your tongue, you urged Ayvit to turn slightly, now flying a bit farther from him.

Shifting your gaze, you couldn't help but steal secret glances at Neteyam's figure, utterly mesmerized as he skillfully guided Seze through the night sky.

Eywa... Had he always been this handsome?

His thick, braided hair, the color of dark ink, cascaded down his broad shoulders, catching the moonlight as it whipped through the crisp air. His strong, sharp jaw and cheek exuded a rugged masculinity that contrasted beautifully with the gentleness in his eyes. Those eyes, the color of rich gold and flecked with hues of deep burgundy were windows to a soul that carried the weight of the world.

Neteyam was both beautiful and mighty.

And he was to be yours.

Late at night, your healing hut exuded a soothing atmosphere, filled with the soft glow of torchlight and the gentle radiance of bioluminescent plants which cast a gentle, ethereal glow that bathed the room in cool colors.

Tuktirey, with her wide, curious eyes, wandered around the room in awe. She was captivated by the sight of the glowing medicinal flora adorning the walls, and her small hands reached out to explore the many trinkets that adorned your hut. With childlike wonder, she immersed herself in the enchanting environment, discovering new wonders at every turn.

Meanwhile, you and the older Sully kids gathered around a table. Guiding them step-by-step, you taught them the art of crafting a simple healing salve, constantly emphasizing its importance for treating mild injuries.

"This is called ngamut," you patiently explained, the unfamiliar dialect causing some confusion among them as they struggled to pronounce the word.

"Gamut?" Neteyam attempted, his accent thick, making an earnest effort to mimic the foreign syllables.

Shaking your head, you repeated it once more, enunciating it more clearly, "Ngamut."

"Agamut?" Neteyam toyed with you, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

In response, you huffed and affectionately flicked the side of his head.

"Ngamuutt," you emphasized, drawing out the word to help him get the pronunciation right.

"Ngamuutt," he repeated, his smile growing wider, knowing he finally got it correct. With a nod of approval, you resumed stirring the paste, your skilled hands expertly mixing the ingredients.

“You two are already acting like a mated couple,” Lo'ak teased, lazily holding his bowl of paste in one hand. The medicine in the bowl, if you could even call it that, was a sad mess of lazily torn leaves and clumsily poured syrup, hardly resembling a proper healing salve.

"Leave them be," Kiri rolled her eyes, taking the monstrosity of a paste away from Lo'ak and attempting to salvage it. "I think it's good that they are getting along well."

"We really do," Neteyam agrees, his expression soft as he peered at you. He holds your stare for a moment before turning to his siblings.

"But I have to tell you—she is a very harsh teacher. It's either her way or die," he grins.

You couldn't help but smirk at his remark. "I told you I wasn't going to baby you," you retorted, playfully flicking a bit of the messy paste towards him.

Neteyam laughed, the sound like music to your ears. "I know, I know," he replied, his grin never fading. "But I have to admit, your teaching methods are effective."

"I am aware," you replied with a smug look before swiftly snapping back into your stern demeanor. "But this flattery will get you nowhere. Come now, let me see your paste."

As you leaned over to inspect the paste Neteyam had made, he unexpectedly turned his face toward you. The sudden movement caused his lips to brush against yours, and you both froze. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Both your eyes met—milky blues locking with golden browns—as you both silently drank in each other's features.

Faintly, you could feel Neteyam's hand brushing gently against your sides, and a shiver ran up your spine from the touch of his calloused fingers against your skin. The connection between you felt electric, a tingling sensation spreading through your body.

The daze was broken as Kiri cleared her throat, interrupting the moment. Both of you snapped out of your trance, but the lingering tension between you and him remained palpable, shimmering just beneath the surface. A touch of bashfulness colored your expressions, cheeks flushed from the shared vulnerability of that brief, intimate encounter.

Lo'ak's smug expression didn't help, fangs poking out from his lips in a teasing grin. You shot him a half-hearted glare, hoping to deter any further teasing, but it only seemed to fuel him.

"Well," he chimed, "looks like you two had quite the moment there."

"Lo'ak, your paste is going to end up poisoning someone," you snapped, trying to deflect the attention from the romantic moment. "Fix it."

Lo'ak's mouth dropped in shock, an offended expression washing over him as he began to protest. Ignoring his complaints, you quickly regained your composure and shifted your focus back to the lesson at hand.

"Neteyam, your paste is watery," you pointed out. "Add more leaves and stir it slowly to thicken it up."

The warrior nodded, still looking a little flustered as he busied himself with the medication, trying his best to focus and ignore the lingering warmth from the almost kiss.

Throughout the lesson, glances were exchanged, small smiles were shared, and the air seemed thick with your unspoken feelings. Kiri and Lo'ak could clearly notice the change, sharing knowing looks between themselves. Despite this, they chose to respect the unspoken bond forming between you and Neteyam, allowing you both the space to navigate this new territory.

As the night wore on, you finally deemed them capable enough, and the lesson was complete. The Sullys began to gather their things, expressing gratitude for your teaching and slowly making their way out of the hut. Neteyam, however, stayed back for a moment, his intense stare lingering on you.

Before he left, he took a step closer, and with a tender touch, ran a hand up your cheek, his rough fingers gentle against your skin. The touch of him against you sent a pulse of warmth through your body, and you leaned into the warrior's touch, savoring the tender moment.

"I'll see you tomorrow, syulang," he whispered, his voice filled with a mix of affection and anticipation.

"Tomorrow," you replied softly, caressing the back of his hand, feeling the steady beat of his heart pulsating through his veins.

As the Sully kids bid their final farewells and left your hut, you pressed your back against the woven door, trying to steady your racing heart. The soft glow of torchlight and bioluminescent plants bathed the room, mirroring the gentle pink glow that now enveloped your very being.

"I see him," you draw in a sharp breath, a hand clasping over your chest.

< PREV | SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT >

some romance is finally blooming ! it would be so bad if something happened to our couple, huh? also guys, i can't thank you enough for the comments! there are a lot of them from both my ao3 and tumblr so i get overwhelmed and don't know what to reply but just know that i appreciate it all so much! xoxoxo

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If you can't see your blog, that means I could tag you! :(

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whorekneecentral · 6 months

Text

Snow Storm

Pato O'Ward x Fem!Reader

Warnings: pato doesn't listen, snow storms, getting stranded, car troubles, reader's mad at him and will lowkey let him freeze, teasing, it's giving dom!pato for like 0.2 seconds, oral (f!receiving), lowkey blackmail, penetrative sex (P in V), creampie.

Word Count: 1,729

Author's Note: this is for the six pato fans out there, I hope y'all like this one :)

merry smutmas series

Your boyfriend insists the roads are fine to drive despite the massive incoming snow storm; as someone who grew up in cold weather, you knew better. yet, there you were stuck on the side of the road with him in the snow.

"Do you seriously have to go right now?" You asked him, leaning over from your spot on the bed.

Your boyfriend nods, "yes, because if I leave it back - I won't finish wrapping it. Plus, it's a week before Christmas, the wrapping paper might be sold out."

Rolling your eyes, you sit up properly. "Pato, don't be ridiculous. They're not gonna run out of wrapping paper."

"You never know!" He huffed, arms flung in the air like a child.

You and Pato had returned to your home town to spend Christmas with your family before heading up to Mexico to join his family for New Year. It had been snowing on and off since you got home a few days ago but it really came down last night. Most of the roads were a disaster but Pato was insistent on getting this stupid wrapping paper.

"The roads are going to be a mess, babe. Can we not just go tomorrow?" You asked him but the man was already getting up, grabbing his hoodie off the end of your bed.

"Please," he shrugs you off, "I drive race cars, a little snow ain't nothing to a driver like me."

You can't help but laugh at his dramatics; you grew up in the snow, you know how brutal it can be to get stuck out there and yet, you stupidly follow him down the staircase and to the car.

Pato takes the side street the two of you had taken many times before. See, you lived in a small town in the middle of basically nowhere. When it snowed, people tended to stay indoors but they did plow the roads, but only the main ones took priority. This meant that the road you were on was one of the last to be plowed yesterday and had yet to be plowed today.

With the snow coming down on top of what had already fallen that morning, the mountain of snow piled up along the sides of the road. Pato's focused on the road but as he turns to go over the hill before getting into town, the wheel stops moving. He can hear the grinding, the wheels spinning but it's stuck in something.

You look over at the man, "are you kidding me right now?"

"Wha-" he sighs, "I'll go check." He tells you, pulling the hood over his head as he steps out of the car.

When he opens the door, you shiver. You had not only followed him out of the house but you were wearing sweats and a hoodie, that was nowhere close to enough to keep you warm.

"So," he says as he gets back into the car, looking over at you with a tight lipped smile. "We're stuck."

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock." You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Okay, so I can push the car out-" he says but you stop him, waving him off. "There's no point, you won't make it over the hill and there's too much snow to make it back to the house right now."

His brows furrow, looking over at you. "So what? We're just stuck here?"

"Yeah, for now at least." You pick up your phone and text your sister, letting her know you two are stuck and if she could please call the roadside assistance. Pato sat quietly, not wanting to annoy you further; after all, you did suggest to wait until tomorrow.

"We're here for at least another 3 hours," you tell him, "she says they're gonna clear the roads and then come this way."

The man nods, staring out the window as you unbuckled, shifting in your seat to climb into the back. He looks at you, confused and you pat the spot next to you. "If we're gonna be stuck for 3 hours, we can at least be warm. Come cuddle."

He climbs over the seat, clinging to you the moment he gets into the backseat. While you were cold, you were used to this weather so it wasn't so bad but for Pato, it was as if you had shipped him off to Antarctica. He's shivering, trying to get as close to you as possible; he wonders if you'd let him get into your sweater with you.

You can't help but laugh at the sight of your boyfriend. He huffs, looking up at you. "What?"

"I told you not to come out today." You laughed and he rolled his eyes. "How rude? Don't roll your eyes at me."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll move and let you freeze to death." You tell him and Pato smiles, sitting up a bit. "You won't."

It's your turn to roll your eyes now, moving away from your boyfriend towards the door. Pato ignores your theatrics and moves closer to you again, cuddling into your side. You don't move nor do you react, you simply ignore the man.

Pato holds back the urge to roll his eyes, his lips pressed to your jaw and moves down to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses behind. "C'mon mi amor, I'm sorry."

You ignore the man, not answering him. You'd move away again but if you move another further, you'd end up outside of the car.

He huffs, "fine, if you won't help me warm up, I'll warm myself up." His hand moves from your thigh to the hem of your sweats, shoving his hand down the front.

"Pato!" You laughed, grabbing his wrist. He smiles, "oh so that got your attention?"

"You mean you shoving your freezing hand down my pants? Yeah," you laughed but the man doesn't move his hand- at least not in the way you meant. His fingers rubbed over your panties, he can feel how warm you are, how wet you were.

"Something's got you worked up?" He asks and you ignore him question, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you try not to moan.

Pato's fingers worked slowly, pulling your panties to the side to rub on your clit and you let out a little whimper - by accident of course.

He figured there had to be a fast way to get you to forgive him. He moves his hand away and you give him a look, one he knows too well - why'd you do that. "I know," he tells you, "I'm sorry babe, one second." He pulls you by your hips to lay on the bed seat, your Uggs on the floor as he reaches for your sweats, pulling them off.

"How is this gonna make me warm?" You grumbled, an arm over your face.

"Shut up, will you?" He glances up to you, repositioning himself between your legs.

His hands rub over your thighs and despite his hands being freezing, it felt like every nerve in your body was on fire. Eventually, his hand ends up right where it previously was - exactly where you wanted it.

You let out a breath when you feel his lips on your thigh, soft kisses being peppered across the surface of your inner thigh. Your head falls back against the seat when you feel his tongue on you, he’s yet to move your panties and you're already a mess.

He finally does, smiling to himself “Fuck-” you breathe, fingers tangled in his hair.

Pato glances up at you, his nose brushes against your clit and he doesn't miss the sound coming out of your mouth or the way your hips jut towards him.

"Pato," you whined, pulling on his hair when he stopped for a moment. He chuckles, "do you forgive me?" He asked, a hand running up the side of your thigh.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking at the man. "What?"

"Say you forgive me and I'll give you whatever you want, corazón."

"Fine," you huffed, "I forgive you." You tell him quickly, pulling him back to you. Pato laughs, his face buried between your legs once again.

Your thighs squeeze around his face; he'd die a happy man right there.

You can't wait any longer, you need him in every sense of the word. Pulling your boyfriend up, he kisses you when he meets your face and you can taste yourself on him, the two of you shuffling around a bit. Pato's sitting now, his own pants pulled down half over his thighs and you're on top of him, straddling him.

He lets you sink down onto his cock. Both of you letting out a satisfied sigh, your hands gripping on his shoulders as you set the pace.

He lets out a groan when you clench around him, his hands squeezing your bare thighs, red finger prints on your skin. Pato's face buried in the crook of your neck.

Your hand tangles in his hair, pulling his head back so you can kiss him. You kiss all over his face, Pato cheeks red from the blush forming on his cheeks.

He loves when you love on him like that.

“You’re so good for me,” you mumble against his cheek, rocking your hips back and forth. “Mmm there,” you breathe, chest pressed to his. His lips find the base of your neck, he bites down softly before kissing up to your jaw.

Pato's arms wrapped around you, holding you close as you bounced on his lap. The two of you are tangled together, not sure where one of you ends and the other starts. The windows are steamy, you're no longer freezing but instead, you were sweating.

"C'mon, just like that pretty girl," he edges you on, lifting his hips to meet you halfway.

“My pretty girl, so good for me.” He whispers into the silence.

You pull him down onto you, his chest pressed to yours and your hand rests on his cheek. Your boyfriend kissing you and with a few sloppy thrusts, you feel yourself being pushed over the edge.

He groans, feeling you clench around him and he follows behind you, now coming down from his own high.

The two of you clinging onto each other, his hands slip under the back of your sweater and you giggle, bucking forward on his lap which makes him groan.

"Don't do that," he tells you and you roll your eyes, "then don't tickle me!"

Pato laughs, pulling you in for a kiss. "Warm now?"

"Sweating," you huffed, smiling against his lips.

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#pato o'ward #pato o'ward x reader #pato o'ward smut #f1 #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 smut #f1 x reader #merry smutmas xoxo

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loveindefinitely · 3 months

Text

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

06 — PULL A TRIGGER, CLIMB A MOUNTAIN

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

Graves watches you, a sleazy smirk on his face as he sits in the helicopter, blood dripping from his forehead and empty rifle in hand.

With a wink, he chimes in through your channel, “See you when you’re useful again, baby.”

Three hours earlier.

“Change.”

Looking up, you give the hulking man the most annoyed expression you can muster, cocking your hip and folding your arms over your chest. He, in response, only raises a brow and folds his own arms, a clear mocking of your own stance.

Everyone else is already in the other room, checking over weaponry and making plans. They’re loud enough to be heard here, jovial laughter and quickly-spoken Spanish filtering in. A song plays, too, a nice kind of melody that you find yourself enjoying.

“I usually need a shot or two first,” you snark, making no move to take the folded clothes from the balaclava-clad man. “You buying?”

As he shoves the uniform into your chest, you shoot Ghost a nasty glare.

“We have stuff we need to do without you,” he quips, pushing against your shoulder hard enough to have you taking a step back. “That uniform’s too recognisable.”

“What, the American flag’s too much for you?” You lean in once more, shoving your own hand against his chest. He doesn’t budge. “I deserve to be involved, when I’m giving you intel. This whole exclusion bullshit reminds me of kindergarten.”

“Then change, and stop acting like you belong in one,” Ghost snaps, and with one final look your way, storms out of the main room, slamming the wooden sliding doors shut behind him as he does.

You’re alone, now.

The room is vast, and at the small table still sits the laptop.

You’d… just. Done that. Threatened the very man who had taught you everything you know, the very man who had practically adopted you after your mother’s death. The very man of whom you’d just sentenced to death by your own hand. Your own lit match.

“Fuck,” you hiss, burying your face in your free hand.

This was the first time you’d had true solitude since. Well. It might’ve only been a day, but everything that’s happened has made it feel like years. Your throat itches from the knife wound, and you can feel your ribs’ bruising when you inhale.

“Fuck,” you curse once more, looking to the sliding doors.

After the call with Shepherd, the four men had been… well, they’d all had a very individualised response.

Soap had brought you in with an arm around your neck, ranting about how ‘badass’ you had been. Gaz had joined in, ruffling up your hair, placing a hand on your shoulder and asking if you were okay.

You’d said yes.

It had been a lie.

Ghost, without a word, had left to check over his magazines. Price had given you a firm nod and a pat on your back before, he too, left to the other room to sort things out.

“Lucky yer on our side, hen,” Soap had joked goodnaturedly. Gaz had rolled his eyes, saying, “You’re just happy your little Sweetheart can take you in a fight.”

Soap had immediately tackled him to the ground, and that was that.

Now, you stood, lone in the vast space of the room. It was still very early morning, the quiet sound of birds outside mixing with the rambunctiousness of the Los Vaqueros on the other side of the doors. Soft light filters in through the boarded up windows, casting over you in an odd haze.

Dropping the uniform onto the table, your brows furrow when you notice not only the 141’s standard uniform, but also a balaclava not unlike Ghost’s own.

The fabric is oddly soft as you run your hand over it, the paint cracking slightly against the nylon. Putting it aside for now, you then look over the uniform. A black long-sleeve compression shirt, baggy beige cargo pants. They’re definitely a bit too big for you, but admittedly, Ghost was right. It’d be too easy to spot you on the field if you were in Graves’ uniform.

Looking around the room, as if to cement the fact that you were alone, you quickly change, swapping out your bloody uniform for the new one.

It’s when you’re about to pull on the shirt that you look down, seeing the bruises lining your stomach. From the fight with Soap, or from one of your confrontations with the Shadows, you aren’t sure. Pressing softly against one, you can’t help a small grunt at the burst of pain.

You pull the compression shirt over your head, the fabric tight against your skin. How he’d had your size for the shirt and not the pants, you weren’t sure, but you weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Pulling over the new vest, you transfer all of your old items into it, finding this design much nicer. Not as constricting against your breasts, designed more unisex than Graves’ had been.

Grabbing the balaclava, your feet carry you to the sliding doors, and you open them with little struggle.

You nearly stumble when you find all of the men within pulling on their own masks, stopping in your tracks at the sight. Ghost and Price’s backs are to you, and when you see Ghost pulling on one of the same masks, everything clicks.

He hadn’t wanted you to see his face – had used getting changed as a distraction.

And yet, here were the Los Vaqueros, some of which had never even spoken to Ghost, having the privilege. It shouldn’t make you angry, you shouldn’t care, but you can’t help the onslaught of rejection that floods your system.

When you step forward, into their line of sight, you straighten your spine and take out your gun from its holster, reloading it in precise movements, not looking down at it once. When the magazine clicks into place, you narrow your gaze on Ghost.

“Are we getting this done or having a fashion show?”

“That’s cold,” you murmur, eyes squeezed shut as war-torn fingers swipe grease paint around your eyes, careful in their placement. You sway when the vehicle drives over a pothole, but the fingers continue their ministrations without pause.

Price chuckles softly, wiping his thumb underneath your eye. “Used to do this for Ghost every other day,” he says under his breath, collecting more paint from the pot and continuing to spread it across the upper half of your face.

You’re in the back of a van with both Price and Gaz, Alejandro behind the wheel as you head back to his colonised base.

“You look like one of us now,” Gaz chimes, to your right. Watching you both carefully, his own paint already done, he leans back into his seat. “Uniform, mask… we’ve corrupted you, love.”

You roll your eyes beneath your eyelids. “Good luck with that.”

“Don’t test me,” he laughs, at the same time that Price pulls away once more, looking you over, before deciding that more paint will be needed.

“Feel like a kid at a fair,” you muse, earning a soft chuckle from Price. “Do I get glitter too?”

“Maybe if you’re a good girl,” Price jokes softly, and you let out a laugh of your own. Internally, you register your cheeks heating at the comment, a part of you yearning for such praise from the man. If it didn’t mess up your paint or cause the two to give you weird looks, you’d slap yourself.

“Can’t believe you’re Graves’ Colonel,” Gaz admonishes, and you barely restrain a huff of annoyance. He corrects himself. “Were. Man, he did not deserve you in his ranks. You probably would’ve done better as Commander than he ever could.”

You let your lips curve into a somewhat appreciative smile, eyes still shut as Price continues his studious work. “Believe it or not, we all loved him. Behind the scenes, he treated us pretty well. The guys, anyway.”

You can’t see it, but Gaz and Price share a knowing look, both of them raising their brows. Your eyes remain shut throughout their small, silent exchange.

“How so?” Price asks, gruff, and the tone encourages you to tell the truth.

“Well,” you swallow, unsure of how to approach the issue. You never have, never felt a reason to. “Just. Small things. Jokes, and stuff. I’m the only woman in the Company, actually–”

“What?” Gaz blurts out, not seeming able to stop himself. “You’re serious?”

You let out a somewhat self-deprecating chuckle. “...Yeah? That’s pretty normal in military jobs, y’know. Didn’t think it was that weird. At least I’m a Colonel.”

“You don’t think that’s… weird?” Price asks, and it’s only then that you realise he’s stopped painting your face. You blink open your eyes. “The only woman in his Company, and she’s his Colonel?”

Chewing on your inner cheek, you shake your head. “I was one of the very first to be hired by him. We… He was my partner. In nearly every sense of the word,” you admit, a small truth. “I mean. I don’t think that I loved him. Just. Never really had anyone else.”

“How old were you when you joined Shadow Co?” Gaz asks, slowly, carefully.

You mull it over, before supplying an easy answer. “Eighteen, or so. He was twenty-seven when he started, and –”

“That’s so fucked,” Gaz curses, burying his face in his hands. “Seriously. He’s a fucking asshole.”

You’re desperate for a change of topic, anything else but this. Not now, not when your wounds are too fresh, not when you’re about to come face to face with him again. With a deep breath, you divert the situation.

“Am I done?” You ask, looking to the window and trying to catch your reflection to no avail.

“...Yeah,” Price breathes, “You’re done.”

Easing back into your spot, you find your leg bouncing once more, the adrenaline of the upcoming mission keeping you antsy and energetic. You haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, but you somehow find yourself more awake now than you had been hours ago.

Resting his hand on your knee, Gaz gives you a reassuring smile. “You ready?”

Letting out a low, unsure exhale, you find yourself nodding. “Yeah. I think so. I know what I’m going to say to him. I’m. He’ll come around.”

Gripping your mask in your hand, you move to pull it over your head, the fabric snugly fitting around your skin. It’s an odd sort of comfort, a way of protecting yourself from the emotional wreck that this mission will create. For the first time, you think that you can understand the attachment Ghost has to it.

“If we kill ‘im,” Price starts, but when you instantly flick your gaze to him, starts to backtrack, “If. If it comes down to it. You can’t hold it against us.”

You just check over your ammo, your cartridges, before simply replying.

“I’ll kill him myself.”

“We won’t make you do that,” Gaz says, adamant and firm as he leans in closer to you. “You don’t have to kill ‘im. I know most of us are wanting to do the honours, anyway.”

“I know Soap and Alejandro are just about begging to,” you acquiesce, but you find yourself focusing on the gun in your hands to reset your mindscape anyways. “But. It’s different. If he’s really done all of this… I want closure.”

“You’ll get your closure. Bloodshed or not,” Price pats your back, and you give him a small tilt of your lips, before realising that your mask covers the movement.

“You still good to split with Price and meet with the other team from the helo, hermana?” Alejandro calls from the front, turning slightly to look to you. You give him a thumbs up, and even with his mask on, you can tell he’s wearing a toothy smile.

“Your gun all good?” Gaz asks, jerking his head to the weapon. “Ammo in your pockets, cartridge full?”

Pulling your free hand into a gun gesture, you smile.

“Pew.”

It’s with the weight of the world on your shoulders that you watch Price’s helicopter get shot.

“We’re hit! We’re hit!” Price calls through your shared radio channel, his voice frantic enough to have you skidding to a stop. Distantly, you think you can hear Ghost say something, but it’s quickly shadowed by Price’s, “Going down. We’re going down!”

You’re about a hundred feet away from where Rodolfo and Soap stand, the two also seeming to pause behind a warehouse of some sort.

When you see Soap move to push Rodolfo up the wall, you run as fast as your legs will take you to their position, calling out to them, “I’m coming with!”

“Thought you weren’t making it, cariño!” Rodolfo calls out as you fall alongside them, your heartbeat raging in your ears.

“Can’t get rid of me that easy,” you jest, then pause when you see Ghost to your side. Jerking your head to the wall, you ask, “Need a personal invitation?”

“Price and the pilot need help. You three finish this,” he shakes his head, before turning and leaving for the crash site. Shrugging, you spin back to where Rodolfo’s extending his hand to help you up, which you accept, reaching the top of the wall and swinging your right thigh over it, straddling the brick.

Extending your arm down, you pull Rodolfo up, Soap taking his other hand in a firm grip. When Rodolfo swings around to sit between you both, he curses under his breath.

“Look!” Soap hisses, and when you do as he says, your own stomach falls down to the dirt floor beneath you.

“That’s not ours,” Rodolfo murmurs, and you can barely find your voice.

“A tank,” you say, mindlessly, watching on as a fucking tank pulls into the training area of the compound. “Graves… he has a fucking tank?”

Neither of the two respond, both instead jumping off of the wall, falling into a crouch as they land. They both extend hands to you, more of a supporting gesture than anything, but you don’t take them as you too land on the other side of the brick, entering the training area.

“Ye ready for this?” Soap asks the two of you, a hint of mania creeping onto his blood-flecked face.

“Hell yeah,” Rodolfo breathes, before looking to you with a friendly smile. Ruffling your hair, a familiar gesture, now, he squeezes the nape of your neck. “If you come out of this alive, hermana, we could use you in the Los Vaqueros.”

You bark a laugh, stunned, almost, before shaking your head. “You should talk to your boss about recruiting people, first.”

Rodolfo shrugs. “Ale likes to make me happy.”

“Interviews can happen later, aye?” Soap chuckles, and the three of you look to the tank once more. “Bigger fish to catch, and allat.”

You go to say something else, when –

“Didn’t realise you boys were into kidnapping women now. That’s a bit sketchy, ain’t it?”

Graves. He’s – he’s got a radio, he’s talking, he’s here, he’s. He’s fucking with you, trying to play mind games, trying to break you all over –

“Can’t wait to bake this bastard,” Soap grunts, and you find your footing once more. Sure, you were ready for battle, but your entire reason for being here was to talk to him. Get him to realise his mistakes, come forward, go back to the man you knew.

Rodolfo and Soap are running somewhere, doing their part, and you –

“Is what they said true?” It’s the most important question you have right now. The answer you yearn for.

A moment passes.

“Where did you go, gorgeous? When’d they get ya? Did they blackmail you in Las Almas?” He diverts, and you tighten your grip on your gun, swallowing your litany of curses.

“Answer my questions, Commander. Is. What they said. True.”

“It doesn’t matter, baby. Remember where your loyalties lie,” Graves takes on a sweeter tone, a more… condescending one, you think.

“Please,” you find yourself whispering, begging for him to just. Break this nightmare, rebel against it, be Phillip. “Please tell me this isn’t really you.”

“Oveja pequeña,” he coos, and you swear your spine erupts in hives, “I’m still your Phillip. You’re the one who’s changed – look at you, running off with the 141. I’m disappointed.”

You erupt, then, like a dormant volcano, finally gathering the final push to let lava reign free.

“I’m going to fucking kill you! You just killed fathers, tore apart families! I fucking hate you!” You yell into the radios, no tears falling, merely anger and vengeance clouding your vision.

“Don’t forget that you are under my orders. Whether you’re in my bed or not, you’re my Colonel,” he seethes back, and like a shot while you’re already down, you realise that this is a hopeless cause. You weren’t going to save Shepherd. You weren’t going to save Graves.

All you had left to save was yourself.

They’d lied to you, an indefinite amount of times, for how long, you weren’t sure. Your whole relationship – was that a lie, too? Was your entire life?

“I’m your second in command,” you finally admit out loud, hiding behind a crumbling wall as the tank shoots just a few feet away from you. “So when you get taken down, guess who comes out on top?”

“Listen to yourself!” He shouts, his voice cracking in his sudden anger, “Listen–”

“No, you listen!” You find yourself crying out, taking a few shots at the tank, allowing Soap and Rudy to do their part. “Listen to me, Phillip. You’re going to regret this – all of this. When were you going to tell me you were under Shepherd’s orders, huh? How long have you been fucking me over!”

“Whenever you first came around my cock is my guess, baby,” he responds, icy and cold.

His words only seem to further encourage you to breaking point, adding more and more fury to rush down your veins like its very own hit of morphine.

“Guess what, Commander?”

“Don’t bull–”

“That first time, and every time since?”

He doesn’t bother to interrupt you.

“I faked it.”

With that, you switch Channels to one shared with all of you.

You had heard everything you needed to, and along with it, realised something of vital importance. A small inconsistency that changed everything.

“Ghost team,” you say, neutral and unforgiving, “Graves isn’t in the tank.”

“What’re ye talking about?!” Soap calls through, exuding exhaustion, the sound of explosions crackling through behind his vocals. “He has to be–”

“He’s not,” you say, firm, absolute in your decision. “I don’t know where he is – but he’s not in there. Not his style, anyway – prefers to be in the spotlight.”

“What do we do then, hermana?” Rodolfo asks, sounds strained just as Soap had.

Your answer is easy. “You guys focus on the tank – I’m taking Graves down.”

With that, you run for the wall once more, and with nothing but your intuition, you know exactly where you’ll find your ex-Commander.

As per usual when it comes to your gut-feelings, you’re correct.

It’s within the hanger on the compound that you find him getting into a helicopter – a wound on his forehead and tactical glasses on. Somehow, he’s already found himself injured – a small, selfish part of you satisfied with that information.

“Commander!” You yell as you break through the small window of the hangar, using the butt of your gun to do it. It’s as the door to the heli shuts that he notices you – and you switch back on to his radio.

“This is your last chance,” he grits out, his voice thin and furious. “Before this becomes more than a… domestic fight.”

You wince as the blades start turning, taking shelter behind one of the cargo boxes, wary of any bullets being shot your way. “The only domestic thing about us was your inclination for treating me like your little wife.”

“Always did think you’d look pretty barefoot and pregnant,” he muses, and oh, have you never wanted to kill a man more in your life.

“Aww,” you mock, as the blades’ whirring gets louder and shots echo around you finally, “See, I think you’d look pretty bleeding out at my feet.”

“You did look rather good at mine,” he retorts, and your emotions get the better of you as you peek, shooting three Shadows behind the heli with easy headshots. You’re barely there for two seconds before a burning pain echoes through the side of your shoulder, and you duck down once more.

“Couldn’t even get off,” you pant, relentless to the very end even as your breaths turn into heavy falls of your shoulders, “Was like fucking a Ken doll.”

“You’ve always been a petty bitch,” he snaps, and you smirk.

“I am a bitch, you’re right. And you know what bitches do when someone taunts them? They bite.”

You raise your gun, and for a scary, short second, you realise that blood is flowing in a stream that’s causing the sleeve of your black shirt to grow sticky and damp. Now isn’t the time to care, however, as you take aim at one of the windows of the heli.

Pulling the trigger, the bullet bursts through the window, glass shattering and falling to the ground. It’s as soon as it does, however, that it takes flight, boosting in its acceleration immediately.

Fully peeking, this time, you watch as the helicopter quickly takes off, and even if you had the capacity to shoot at it, it wouldn’t hit the intended target, not with your trembling hands.

Graves watches you, a sleazy smirk on his face as he sits in the helicopter, blood dripping from his forehead and empty rifle in hand.

With a wink, he chimes in through your channel, “See you when you’re useful again, baby.”

You get one final sentence in, before the radio cuts off. Even though you can’t see him from this distance, you’re sure you’re making eye contact as you deal your final blow.

“My callsign isn’t baby. It’s Sweetheart.”

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @oreo-cream @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee

author's note. to everyone asking about the covid, its prettyyy bad haha. i can hardly leave my bed and need 3 blankets in the peak of summer!

at least that means i have downtime to write before my life gets VERY hectic. thank you all for your support again, the feedback and praise for the last chapter made me feel 10x better and i genuinely appreciate you all SO much. thank you thank you thank you!

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flowerandblood · 4 months

Text

The Fall from the Heavens (3)

[ dark • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: oral sex, smut, angst, incest, obsession, violence, swearing, humiliation, chauvinism, mention of injury ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

When he learned of the death of Daemon's wife, he knew it was a sign from the gods that his time had come − Vhagar, the largest and oldest dragoness in the world, was left without a rider.

He thought that at last he would make his father proud, that he would take his niece to Essos as he had promised her.

It seemed to him that the heavens were finally smiling on him, that everything made sense and was slowly beginning to come together, that he could see above the mist that surrounded him his destiny.

As he fled from the fortress in the middle of the night he thought only of the fact that he might die and hoped that if he did, his betrothed would mourn him greatly and never marry any other man.

Her sign of love and loyalty, of respect for his sacrifice for her and their future family.

Vhagar was frightening and huge, like a giant, dark, moving mountain, with her every movement the earth shook around her; he couldn't believe it when she obeyed his command, his body trembled as he climbed the ropes to the great saddle on her back, he screamed with fear and joy as she flew with him into the skies.

He was the rider of the greatest dragon in the world.

He was like Visenya, like Aegon the Conqueror, and his future wife was like sweet Rhaenys.

Everything was as it should be.

He ran through the underground caverns to wake her and tell her everything, to kiss her, to spend the night in her embrace and listen to her assurances that he was fearless, that he was brave and that she was proud to become the wife of the man who had become the rider of the most powerful dragon flying in the skies in their lifetime.

It was then that he came upon them.

He thought he would never let them humiliate himself again, that bastards or weak, quivering little girls who couldn't even tame a dragon would never stand in his way again.

All that mattered was her, and though he knew she would be upset, he felt that she would forgive him, that she would understand that this was revenge for all the years of humiliation he had suffered from them.

And then Luke cut his face with his blade − he suddenly heard his own loud, squeaky, almost girlish scream and grabbed his left eye where he had lost his sight completly.

He was given poppy milk to ease his pain and a stick was put in his mouth that he was told to clamp his teeth on; his mother cried out loud, horrified when she saw what had happened to him, the maester said the eye could not be saved and would have to be taken out.

That he would be a cripple.

He wailed and screamed, feeling the cut of the heated blade on his skin, struggling and writhing like an animal, tied to a chair, and then he stopped feeling anything, staring dully ahead, his mother and Aegon unable to look at it.

He saw her as if in a dream, and though she always smiled at the sight of him, this time she screamed loudly, terror and fear in her eyes.

She covered her mouth with her hand trying to hold back the sounds that came from her throat.

Then he understood.

So what if he had claimed a dragon, if she would never desire him again?

How would she force herself to marry someone who was from now on supposed to look like him?

He returned to King's Landing with the thought that all was lost and he didn't want to see anyone, much less her.

He didn't want her tears of sympathy, her assurances that she still loved him, her pity, the fact that in order not to offend him she would refrain from showing how disgusted she now was by his face.

He was no fool.

Her letter only angered him − he tore it into little pieces clenching his lips, thinking she was an idiot, giving him books now that he had lost one eye, reminding him that he would never see well again, that he would always be defective, that he would have to learn everything from the beginning.

However, as soon as he did so he immediately regretted it and burst out crying, looking at the pieces of parchment lying on his sheets, thinking of how he wished he could read it again because it was her handwriting, her words to him.

His conviction of his ugliness and the fact that what had happened crossed him out in her eyes as a man she could desire deepened his state into complete withdrawal, sinking into the darkness of his thoughts, fears and desires.

He needed someone to loathe, to throw all his ill emotions at, and he had chosen Luke as such a person, however it was the thoughts and dreams of her that kept him awake at night.

Waiting for her letters was his obsession.

She sent one every two months, always on the same day, for many years. At first they were short and full of uncertainty, but then it seemed to him that she had the impression that he didn't read them anyway, so she began to write and confide in someone who no longer existed, revealing to him the darkness and suffering of her own heart.

He was embarrassed by his own reactions, that whenever he saw a sealed message from her lying on his table he would take it reverently and sit down on a chair by the fire, as if in some kind of ceremony pulling off the lac and unrolling it slowly, feeling his heart beat fast.

Dragonstone appears to me like a prison, like a black coffin, the sky above me full of clouds. I can't remember the last time light dawned in my heart − when I wake up I wonder for a moment about the meaning of it all, only to realise that thinking about it is pointless, it only sinks me further into the darkness.

It seems that the more I move away from what surrounds me, the greater the silence that settles in my head.

After what happened something inside me died.

Not in the aspect of my body, but in the sense of a conviction that something is missing, like when you look in a mirror reassembled from hundreds of pieces and, even though it is whole again, you can clearly see its cracks.

I wonder, are you sleeping well, uncle? Are you having nightmares again? I often return in my dreams to that night. I see you and although I want to say something, I can't get anything out, just as I did then. I wake up with the conviction that I am still a child.

I pray a lot, although I don't know myself to which gods anymore. I guess to any of who would be willing to listen to me. They don't answer me, just like you.

He repeated to himself in his mind that he would read her despairing, feminine ramblings to mock her, but in fact he was immersed in her thoughts, in her world, trying to imagine her, analysing each word with pietism, returning to the sentences that had taken the most root in his heart and would not leave him afterwards for days.

He read her letters for hours, treating such evenings like a sacred day, running his thumb over his lower lip, staring dully ahead in the light of the blazing fire, thinking of her words.

Although he pretended that what she wrote meant nothing to him, once in a while, usually when he was waiting for her next message, he would take all her letters and read them one by one, analysing how her handwriting had changed, now much prettier and assured, how her choice of words had evolved, rich and full of metaphors.

He knew that, like him, she read a lot.

She never brought up the matter of his or her family, the details of their conflict, their betrothal and the fact that his mother had insisted that he marry one of Lord Baratheon's daughters.

When he learned that Rhaenyra planned to marry his niece to her cousin of House Arryn he grabbed all her letters she had sent him over the years, which he kept locked in his wooden drawer, and almost threw them into the fire, hesitating at the last moment, squeezing them in his hand, panting with rage.

Although he kept repeating to himself that it was a good thing he wouldn't have to take a bastard wife, immediately his mind went into a fury at the thought that she might have become someone else's mistress, borne children to other man, and he found himself sinking into her letters again, as if re-appropriating her in this way.

He feared nothing more than that one day she would stop writing to him.

He dreaded what he would do then.

The days when Aegon could mess with him were long gone. His older brother the drunkard knew he was no match for him in hand-to-hand combat, he was taller, smarter and stronger than he was.

Yet it was Aegon who was to inherit everything that would not fall to Rheanyra as future queen.

He wanted to be his opposite in every sense of the word; his appearance made him even more isolated from the opposite sex and he didn not look at women at all, spending long hours in the Great Sept with his mother praying at her request.

If it had been up to him, he would have prayed to the gods of Old Valyria, but he saw her loneliness and loss, and wanted to be a support for her, a son she would be proud of.

Despite what he tried to tell himself, the tension he felt as a man grew stronger within him, even more so in the evenings when he leaned over her letters again, when he thought of her scent, of her hand holding the quill.

He wondered involuntarily what she looked like now, what he would notice if he undressed her, if he exposed her bare breasts to him.

Would they fit in his hand, would they be soft and warm?

Would she moan sweetly if he touched her there?

He tilted his head back, trying to read further, settling himself more comfortably in the chair, his free hand slipping under his breeches, gripping his already half-hard, throbbing manhood.

He imagined that it wasn't his hand but hers that was touching him, that she wasn't disgusted by him, that just like before her hands were stroking his cheeks, her lips were finding his in a sweet, warm kiss.

A murmur escaped his throat at the thought, a wave of heat surged over him and he quickened, fucking himself with his own hand until he came with a low sigh of relief, imagining that she was sitting on top of him, that he had just filled her with his seed, that she was begging him not to stop.

However, when he regained his sanity he felt rage and shame.

He hid her letters in a drawer and did not take them out for weeks, as if offended that it was their fault he had to pray again and beg the gods for forgiveness.

He promised himself that this would not happen again, however, it always ended the same way.

The knowledge that he could not forget her enraged and calmed him at the same time, as if this state was natural, the parallel hatred and desire for her became one and the same in his eyes.

He hated her because he desired her, desired her because he could not have her, could not have her because he hated her.

He locked himself in this circle, not allowing anyone to see what was poisoning his mind and heart.

If in the poems women appeared innocent and bright, she was to him the symbol of his downfall, his flame of his eternal suffering, which burned him every day, but which he did not dare to extinguish knowing that complete darkness would then prevail inside him.

When it became known that Vaemond Velaryon had challenged Luke's claim to the throne of Driftmark he laughed out loud at the Small Council meeting, amused, embarrassing his mother and grandfather.

He thought the gods were cruel but fair.

The grin disappeared from his face, replaced by a strong heartbeat when their Queen conveyed that Rhaenyra, along with her entire family, would appear in King's Landing in a few days to settle the matter.

With her entire family.

He sat by the fireplace that evening, running his thumb over his lips, feeling that there was complete panic in his mind, hundreds of thoughts running through his head.

He wasn't ready for this.

He didn't want to see her.

He wanted nothing more than to see her again.

He was disgusted by her and her brothers, by the fact that he would be sitting at the same table with her.

Would she touch him with her soft hand? Did she still smell of vanilla? Would she whisper that she missed him?

What was he to answer if she did?

Mock her, tell her that she should retain the remnants of her dignity.

Tear off her gown, press his lips to her bare body, saying that he would sooner kill her than let her marry someone else.

He let out a loud shuddering breath, burying his face in his hand, feeling like his head was about to explode, his heart pounding like mad.

He had the feeling that he was losing his mind, that he was descending into madness.

When he saw Jace and Luke among the crowds, when he saw how small and skinny they were compared to him, when he saw their mouths wide open in shock as they realised who they were looking at, he thought he had never felt more satisfied in his life.

"Nephews. Have you come to train?" He asked in a deep, teasing voice feigning concern as he played with the hilt of his sword in his hand, flipping it between his fingers.

He wanted nothing more than to humiliate them in public.

His musings and wild excitement were interrupted by Vaemond's entrance into the courtyard − he grinned broadly at the sight of him, feeling a sense of satisfaction, sighing quietly, thinking of how the gods had rewarded his patience.

He turned impatiently, extending his hand to his servant, willing him to hand him another wooden shield and froze in half-step, out of the corner of his eye noticing a silhouette looking at him from the cloisters.

It seemed his heart knew who was standing there even before it reached his mind, for it began to pound like mad, his breath stopped in his throat.

He forced himself to look there again and that's when he saw her − he couldn't believe how much she had changed.

Although he could see the obvious features and similarities by which he recognised her immediately, her eyes, her eyelashes, the shade of her hair, the shape of her nose and face, it seemed to him that if she had been a bud when she left the Red Keep, she was now a flower that had blossomed, a ripe fruit that begged to be plucked, to bite into its flesh.

It occurred to him, looking at the unashamedly exposed bare skin of her shoulders, that it must have been pleasantly soft and warm.

He imagined his lips brushing the hollow of her neck, the scent of vanilla he would smell and he shuddered, ashamed and horrified at how hard his manhood throbbed in his breeches.

This sight, so clear, blunt, final, completely shocked him, and though it lasted only a moment, he managed to remember the shape of her breasts and hips, the shape of her mouth, her terrified gaze full of longing, from which he felt a tightness in his throat and this huge, overwhelming, cruel desire.

He turned away from her, furious, thrusting his sword at Criston, their blades clashing in the air with a loud clang of steel.

That evening he felt that something hung in the air, he felt her presence in the keep, he had the impression that if he turned he would see her silhouette behind him.

He played between his fingers with his dagger and looked at it, wondering if he would feel relief if he killed her, if he would then regain control of his body and mind again.

Maybe it was the right path.

Maybe it was because of her that he was unable to move on.

He shuddered and tensed all over when he heard a quiet knock on the door to his chamber − he felt a cold sweat on the back of his neck, knowing that it was her, that destiny had reached him.

He felt it in his bones.

He wanted to remain silent, he wanted to show her that she no longer had access to his world, that he recognised years ago that there was no way for them that they could walk together.

I pray a lot, although I don't know myself to which gods anymore. I guess to any of who would be willing to listen to me. They don't answer me, just like you.

He closed his eye, feeling a squeeze in his throat at the thought of those three sentences that echoed through his mind and heart like a bell, that undeniable desire on her part to be reunited with him that he pretended not to share.

"Come in." He said coldly, feeling the thrill of excitement, his heart pounding so hard that he felt like it was going to burst out of his chest.

The door opened with a quiet creak of wood, and she appeared in it, surrounded by the glow of candlelight, looking like a saint, like a ghost, like an innocent, sweet maiden who was lost in the black maze that had always been meant to lead her to him.

He resigned himself to the fact that there was no escape from it.

She closed the door behind her and turned to look at him; he wasn't sure if it was the flames that was trembling or if it was her body that was quivering all over with fear, in her big eyes terror, desire, suffering, everything she had written to him about.

Only after a moment did he realise that his jaw was clenched, that he was involuntarily still playing with his dagger in his hand as he looked at the indistinct silhouette of her naked body peeking through from under her nightgown, her long dark hair loose, its curls falling freely over her back.

He felt his length throbbing hard at the thought of her coming to him dressed as a lover, as if she were his, and he licked his lower lip with his tongue, catching himself breathing loudly.

Gods, how long he had waited for this.

"Did you received my letters?" She asked quietly, as usual without any further pleasantries, her voice trembled slightly betraying her fear. He shuddered to hear that she no longer sounded like a child, the way she spoke was melodious and pleasant, soft, warm.

"Yes." He replied in a low, deep voice, sounding like an echo in an endless, dark bottomless well. He saw that she blinked rapidly, as if she hadn't expected such an answer; she pressed her lips together and swallowed loudly, gathering the courage to say more.

She knew she had ventured into the dragon's cave and might never leave it again.

He knew, he felt that she was aware of what was on his mind, that she saw it in his gaze.

"Have you read them?" She asked at last, there was something final in her question.

He parted his lips slightly, lifting his chin in a defiant gesture, stretching comfortably in his chair, wondering if he should humiliate her with words that he had burned them all.

To let her know that she no longer meant anything to him.

He wanted to say it, but he couldn't.

"Yes, my Lady Strong. I have read them all. Many times, here, in this chair." He hummed, running the blade of his dagger across the armrest, making a deep, chiseled line on it.

Go on, he thought, ask me why I didn't write back, what I thought of your tendentious, weepy musings, what I thought of your feminine, touching guilt, of your weakness, of your coming to me now like a dog to beg forgiveness.

She, however, asked nothing.

He shuddered and threw her a surprised glance as she suddenly moved ahead and walked around his chamber, as if she had lost interest in the subject, making him feel discomfort, as if he had lost control of the situation, his advantage over her.

"Does your mother-whore know you're here?" He asked dryly, coldly, wanting to take away her confidence, to embarrass her, to strike at her dignity, reminding her that she herself had come to a grown man in such a shameless negligee.

She, however, merely threw him a surprised glance as she approached his bookshelves, the small one he had been given as a child replaced by three new ones, made of oak wood, high to the ceiling, filled to the brim.

She reached for one of the volumes and he felt a squeeze in his throat when he saw that she had taken out The Reflections on the Dignity of the Ancient Philosopher Areon.

"My, as you put it, mother-whore, never knew when I visited you, uncle. I was very determined not to be caught." She said calmly, but with an air of regret and weariness, as if the situation between them was tiring her, as if she believed that facing him like a ghost from the past would allow her to move on.

He thought they both could have done it, but he wasn't sure if the blade he held in his hand wouldn't have cut her neck then.

The thought that someone else might touch her body made him furious.

He snorted, turning his gaze to the flames, involuntarily turning his dagger in his hand − he grinned despite being tense and bitter.

"Do you often visit men like this?" He asked reluctantly, though inside he was dying to prove to himself that surely she had already slept with her guards or other men who would give her pleasure, that the sweet, innocent girl he remembered was long gone.

He heard her footsteps and felt her presence; he lifted his eyes to her, surprised, and noticed that her gaze was cloudy, her brow furrowed.

She looked as if she had been exceptionally offended by those very words.

"Have you no shame?" She asked him in a cool, trembling voice; he could feel the pain in the way she asked the question, his lips tightened into a thin line.

He was struck by how direct the question was.

He wasn't used to being spoken to like that.

But before he had time to respond with anything, to finally stab her in the back with words that were like poison, she began to speak, as if a dam had suddenly burst inside her and her thoughts poured out at him.

"I don't know who you are, the man who sits now before me, but if there is even a fragment of the boy I was meant to marry in you, let that boy know that he was and will be the only one in my heart. He was my best friend and I failed him. It is hard to live with the thought that someone you loved so deeply has died in a way, but there is neither a grave to pray over nor any hope of peace for his soul. What I fear is that the boy I knew has disappeared among the darkness and is dying in it every day."

He was ashamed that he felt a squeeze in his throat, that he felt a burning under his eyelids, that his heart was pounding like mad, that he froze completely in disbelief and shock as he stared at her wide-eyed.

She was crying in front of him, as if she was really mourning someone's death, and he didn't know what to do, even if he wanted to humiliate her, tell her to leave, he couldn't get anything out of himself.

He drew in air loudly and his whole body stiffened, the dagger fell out of his hand with loud clatter when she surprised him completely by sitting down on his lap, snuggling into him like a little child and burst out sobbing.

He had the feeling that she was not embracing him in the here and now, but a figure from the past that she missed so much.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." She whined in a desperate, trembling, quavering voice − he felt he was struggling to catch his breath, his nostrils filled with her scent, the smell of vanilla, her familiar warmth, his manhood hidden beneath his breeches swelled in response to this sudden, unexpected closeness.

She shuddered feeling it and looked up at him, her face flooded with tears, terrified and ashamed, her gaze asking him what she had just felt underneath her. He began to breathe through his mouth, feeling the panic rising inside him because of the heat he felt in his lower abdomen.

There were drops of her tears on her eyelashes, her eyes big, her gaze hot, tender, terrified, her cheeks flushed with emotion, her lips puffy and plump, slightly parted in an accelerated breath.

"Can I kiss you?"

He wasn't sure if he really heard it, it seemed to have only resounded in his head as his memory of that sunny day, but involuntarily he leaned lower.

He sighed as if relieved when her arms suddenly embraced his neck, her breasts snuggled into his tunic, and her wonderfully wet, soft lips pressed against his in a sticky, loud kiss.

They both moaned into each other's mouths as they felt him throb under her again, harder this time − he wasn't sure if it was his will that guided the movements of his hands as one clamped down on her hip and the other on the back of her neck, holding her in place, not allowing her lips to pull away from his as he slid his tongue deep into her throat.

They both trembled as he tentatively began to rock his hips, rubbing against her, overwhelmed by her familiar closeness and scent, her so-needed, gentle hands stroking his hair and cheeks, her thumb running over his scar under his eye patch.

The sight of her body, her sweetly parted lips, her hot gaze in which everything lurked, and her scent, the smell of fucking vanilla filled his entire mind.

He rubbed against her his already hard cock again and again, sliding his free hand under her chemise, placing it on her naked, hot hip, digging his fingertips into her skin, his manhood reacting to his movements instantly with a strong, pleasurable throbbing, he involuntarily began to pant.

He saw the blush on her sweet, innocent face, her hips in a slow, smooth motion began to move back and forth, pressing what was underneath her; he shuddered all over feeling it and they both sighed quietly as her fingers ran over his scarred cheek.

"− uncle −" She whispered softly into his mouth, exactly like in his dreams, like when he touched himself between his thighs with his hand, with longing and desire.

He was unable to remember when she pressed her sweet-tasting lips to his, hugging her soft breasts into the fabric of his tunic, what the reason for their disagreement was, it seemed to him to be completely trivial and unfounded.

He thought it was obvious that the lovers had argued with each other and then reconciled.

That was all he thought about as he undid the ties of her nightgown, sucking and caressing her mouth, jaw and neck with his swollen lips, leaving wet, hot marks on her skin, his hands slid it slowly off her shoulders, revealing her bare body, her lovely breasts, unashamedly before him.

He delighted in this sight, almost mythological, noble, for breasts were the joy of husbands and the source of milk for their offspring, something beautiful, admirable.

He could feel her trembling all over in his hands, terrified by her negligee; he was sure now that no one had ever seen her naked before him and this thought spread like a wonderful, hot wave through his body.

"− easy − your husband will treat your body with proper respect −" He murmured in a deep voice trembling with arousal, his large hand grasped one of her breast and squeezed it tentatively; he sighed feeling how warm and soft it was, he heard her surprised moan.

He grasped her cheeks in his fingers, with a brutal, sudden movement drawing her face closer to his; his hand slid lower, ran over her soft, wet, full lips. She moaned helplessly because of the increasingly rapid bucking of his hips, the bulge in his breeches rubbing against the spot between her legs.

"− please −" She babbled, and he decided to take pity on her, sliding his tongue deep inside her throat, stifling her loud mewl, his fingers began to tease and play with her nipple, her whole body shivered; he felt her hands tighten in his hair, her lips melt into his in a quick, hot dance of saliva and teeth.

"− uh − I − I feel a tickling inside me, uncle −" She mumbled out as innocently as if she really didn't know what was happening to her, as if she wanted him to help her understand what her body was trying to tell her, however he, hearing this, lost his temper.

Despite the material of his breeches separating them where their bodies met, he could feel her moisture.

She was wet.

She wanted him inside her.

"− it's understandable − you missed your uncle − hm? −" He whispered into her mouth with a kind of tenderness and understanding that surprised him, as if it had been obvious that this was how it would end. She nodded quickly like a child who agreed with his teacher, who wanted to be guided, to be shown what was right.

She squealed as he stood up with her, holding her in his arms, just thinking about the fact that he hadn't felt this calm for years, the sight of her, the smell of her made his head spin.

He couldn't even remember why he was mad at her, why he hadn't written her back, why he wanted to kill her.

How could he ever hurt her, his sweet little wife?

"− lie on your back − yes, just like that −" He murmured with delight, looking at her partially exposed body; her lips was pink and puffy from his caresses, her breathing quick as she looked at him dreamily, watching as he began to undo the fastenings of his tunic, getting rid of it and his chemise, leaving only his breeches.

He climbed onto the bed with a loud creak of wood, not quite sure what he should do, sensing subconsciously, however, that this was the day of their reunion, their reconciliation after years of separation, the figures of Lord Baratheon's daughters and Lord Arryn's son seemed to him nothing more than a joke.

Aegon spoke to him of how wonderful it was to taste the woman between their thighs, that they quivered with delight when he licked them there, and since he would devour her whole if he could, he decided to try.

She was horrified and distraught when she saw his face between her thighs; she tried to push him away, asking him fearfully what he was going to do, but only tilted her head back as his tongue ran over her leaking, throbbing, hot womanhood, the sound she made surprised even him.

"− o-oh, gods −" She whimpered as he licked devotedly what spilled out of her, the taste and flesh of his wife, her proof that she didn't despise him, that she still wanted him, that her tight cunt was waiting for him and for his caresses.

"− have you touched yourself here? −" He asked between one lick of his tongue and the next, her thighs trembling in his hands, her fingers clenched in his hair, trying to rub against his face. He grinned involuntarily sensing her desperation, seeing that she nodded and ran the tip of his nose over the bud hidden between her folds, she moaned loudly when he did it.

Encouraged, he grasped it in his mouth and began to suck on it, licking it with his tongue; her whole body arched, uncontrollable moans erupted from her mouth. He tried to cover her lips with his hand, fearing that someone would eventually hear it, but she clamped her hands on his wrist, blocking his movements.

"− please, uncle, too much − too much −" She whined out trying to escape; he stopped, seeing that her body was shaking in convulsions, surprised how sensitive the female body was and how many secrets it hid.

He thought he now understood why it was Rhaenys that Aegon the Conqueror wanted in his bed.

In the art of the body, one could not be aggressive and brutal as on the battlefield.

What they were doing was some sort of a feast, tasting and satisfying their desires, full of moistures and hot embraces.

He hummed as he leaned down again and slipped his tongue deep inside her, feeling how rough and wet her fleshy walls were, groaning quietly as her wonderful taste spread across his palate.

"− uncle − mghmm −" She mumbled breathing hard, with each flick of his tongue drifting away more and more, he could feel her insides pulsing all over around nothing.

"− it'll be wonderful to feel it clench around my cock one day − don't you think, sweet niece? −" He asked, pressing his face closer to her body, licking and rubbing her walls at the spot that when he touched it with the tip of his tongue she trembled the most, moaning helplessly, her hips coming up to meet his face, her breathing getting louder and louder.

"− oh g-gods, Aemond − oh gods,oh gods,oh gods −" She mewled, startling him as she raised herself up on her elbow, tilting her head back, bliss and delight painted on her face, her plump, glossy lips parted in sweet moans as if in disbelief that something so wonderfully pleasurable had shaken her body.

It was the first time he had ever seen female fulfilment and it was a stunning, wonderful sight.

He groaned low as he felt how much moisture flowed out of her, kissing her hot, throbbing entrance devotedly, slowly licking everything off, not wanting to waste a drop, even though she begged him to stop.

Everything he drank from her was for him, the wonderful nectar of his sweet wife.

He rose on his knees, wiping his face with his hand, looking at her in disbelief, panting loudly; she lay as if without strength, with her hands spread on either side of her head, her plump, puffy lips slightly parted in ragged breath.

His niece.

"Touch me." He demanded, slipping off his breeches, taking her hand in his, with a desperate, sudden movement clamping her fingers on his swollen, twitching manhood, leaking from his own wetness. They both moaned helplessly when, with movements of his hand, he showed her how she was to touch him.

She looked up at him in shame, squeezing him with sure up and down strokes, feeling him throb all over in her grasp; he rocked his hips involuntarily, sensing that he was embarrassingly close to fulfillment.

"− fuck − fuck, come here −" He gasped, grabbing her by her hair, forcing her to rise up and kiss him − their lips collided in a sticky, messy kiss, the combination of their tongues and their saliva, the smell of her, the sight of her bare body, the scent of her sex, her moisture around them, proof of what they were doing.

Against their gods, against their family.

He didn't care what happened next.

"− don't fucking stop − faster − oh fuck-fuck-fuck −" He growled out and moaned low, surprised at the helpless sound that came from his throat, coming with a sigh of relief onto her nightgown, his translucent, pearly spend spurting out onto her, startling her; he hushed her with his kisses, whispering to her between the sticky brushes of their lips.

"− easy, it's just me − shhh −" He whispered, letting go of her hand, allowing her to release her grip, her fingers all sticky with his seed.

"− lick it off − don't waste a drop −" He growled, wrinkling his eyebrows and she swallowed loudly, obediently licking her finger after finger, looking him straight in the eye. He watched her with satisfaction, thinking of how obedient and good a wife she would indeed be.

"− you are going to spend the night with me −"

______

From the author: In Stay and love, leave and die oneshot Aemond would not allow her to enter his chamber, he would remain silent - in his opinion, she had forgotten about him and suddenly wanted to regain his favor, which he found pathetic and irritating, not worth his attention. None of her letters reached him through the years, having been intercepted and burned by Otto. The next day, he informed his mother that either she would leave the Red Keep or he would, and she decided to return to Dragonstone so as not to escalate the conflict. In that universe, they actually speak to each other only in Strom's End.

______

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

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sprout-fics · 3 months

Text

The Hunt

König x 'Maus' F!Reader

(Part 13 of 'Little Mouse')

Word Count: 5.3k Rating: Mature Tags: Stealth missions, Banter, Cat and Mouse, Hypothermia, Sharing body heat, Cuddling, Snuggling, Angst Warnings: None A/N: Thank you for staying with the series despite the break!

You're starting to think you might die out here.

It's been hours since you three dropped into the Kazakhstan mountains, just narrowly avoiding an incoming snowstorm that has since painted the steep mountains white. The air is thick with the blank, icy taste of snow, and you struggle to catch Soap and Ghost in their snowgear as they ascend up the cliff to the remote radio tower station that is the source of your intel. They're strong, clambering up the slope one at a time while the other watches their six. You supervise them from afar, perched on a cliff opposite of the valley, trying to catch sight of them despite the curtain of white that falls between you.

Laswell was the one to point you here, as she usually does. The station chief has been combing through intelligence for months, searching for breadcrumbs on Makarov. The man is a ghost in the wind, vanished from prison and now hiding secretly as he plots his next move. He could be anywhere in the world. Your hunt for him had been delayed by your tangle with KorTac, but now even they seem to have vanished into the breeze with nary a trace.

You adjust your scope, zooming in on the sight of Soap and Ghost perching on a cliff edge, shoulders heaving with exertion. You smirk under your snow mask and sweep your sights further up the slope towards the target they are ascending towards.

The tower itself is unassuming, a lone and decrepit thing in the middle of nowhere. Yet all it had taken was a single errant ping from a satellite to realize the traffic out of this seemingly normal outpost was far larger than originally thought. It could be nothing, it could be everything, but one thing remains clear, and it's the message Laswell managed to pull and decipher from a single static transmission, letters spelled out in Russian.

KorTac.

It's the first lead you've had in over a month. The mercenary group had seemingly gone underground following your raid on their satellite base. By the time Laswell had managed to pull an order to survey the site via drone footage, there was nothing left. The entire place had been burnt to the ground, devastated, nothing but ashes to comb through in search of answers. Since then the group had vanished, gone in the wind. Not defeated, but biding their time, waiting in the dark and drawing plans that would eventually come to full fruition.

"Bravo 09, this is Bravo 07, how copy?"

You barely catch a glimpse of Ghost as he raises a hand to his headset. The transmission is tinted with static due to the snowstorm, but you can still make out the low, hushed accent of the older man's voice as he checks in.

"Got you in my scope, 07." You report back, mouth moving behind your snowmask, wet with condensation. You shiver, feeling half an inch of snow on your back, not moving from your sniper position, ready to wait here hours more if need be. You hope for the sake of your fingers and toes it doesn't come to that.

"It's cold as balls out here, LT." You grouse in addition, and you see Soap's head tilt towards Ghost as he regards his partner.

"My balls are cold." Johnny agrees irritably, but there's a touch of playfulness there that hasn't been dampened by the snow.

“Feeling a little shriveled, Johnny?” You snark crudely, and hear the Scot make an indignant little scoff in return.

"Focus, both of you." Ghost snaps, to which you both silence yourselves with a snicker. "We're almost at the perimeter. We'll be going radio dark after that."

"Copy." You reply, adjusting your scope with numbing fingers to focus on the steel fence that surrounds the radio tower and the adjoining building. "Good hunting, you two."

Neither Soap or Ghost reply, focusing instead on climbing the last few ledges on the opposite side of the mountain. You watch as they take a break at the top, crouched near the edge. Eventually you hear Ghost’s voice filter over the comms.

“Break’s over, Johnny.” Ghost declares, and stands, offering him a hand and hauling Soap up so they advance forward along the slippery, snow laden cliffside. An incoming wall of white obscures your view of them as they round the edge towards the fence, and you hear one last garbled transmission from Ghost before they vanish.

It’s silent after that, with nothing but the wind howling in your ears and prickling under your skin. Even with your thick, downy parka there’s little respite from the bone biting chill that seeps into your veins. Perched in place as you are on overwatch, you know there’s no moving until your two comrades find their way out to you once more.

So you huddle in, ignoring the chatter of your teeth and trying to steady your hands on the rifle, hoping and praying that the chamber doesn’t freeze, and that you won’t need to use it. The cold grips tight to your veins, and you try to imagine the lulling warmth of a campfire that you can’t afford.

Hurry back. You think towards your two comrades. Before I fucking freeze to death.

There’s a tinny sort of whine in your radio, and you shift to adjust so the transmission comes through.

"Bravo team, this is Watcher-01, do you read me?" Laswell's voice comes in, tinny and crackling but still recognizable.

You blink, brow knotting. Laswell had signed off shortly before your parachute jump into the mountains. Whatever has caused her to reach out like this must be urgent. Maybe the tower is a bust, and she's decided to pull you from the mission.

Ghost and Soap don't respond, and you think they might have already switched off their radios. So instead, after a pause, you respond in their stead.

"This is Bravo 09, send traffic Watcher."

There's a pause before Laswell responds. "Bravo 09, advise all stations we may have KorTac operatives in the field."

You suck in a breath, feel cold air seize your lungs and descend into your veins with icy realization. If KorTac is here, then that means this tower is much more important than originally thought. You haven't run into any members of KorTac since Price's rescue, which means...

He could be here.

You store the thought as quickly as it came, trying to find Soap and Ghost against the rocky outcrop, only to come up empty handed.

"Copy, Watcher. Ghost and Soap have gone radio silent." You report with a little grunt of frustration, knowing the two of them have already made their way inside. It could be too late, they might have found out the hard way just what waits for them. “They’ve likely breached the perimeter.”

"Then keep an eye out, Rookie, we need to-"

You blink as static garbles Laswell's next words, swallowing them with a crackle that fades to a high pitched whine.

"Watcher, repeat." You try, leaning a hand up to your headset to try and regain the signal.

Static.

"Laswell?"

Silence.

The storm must have knocked out the signal, which does not bode well for your mission. You try once more to raise Soap and Ghost, to no avail. You breathe in and quell the uncertain flutter of your heartbeat, feeling a familiar sense of knowing dread thrum low through your chest. The extrasensory insight you rely on to discern the state of the world around you hums with warning, does little to ease the low roll of your stomach.

It's fine, you tell yourself. Soap and Ghost have handled far worse than this. You weren't there for Las Almas, having joined the team only after, but you heard the story from Johnny. Barely armed, pursued, injured, out of supplies and ammo, and yet somehow they had survived. This, with them well armed and in pursuit, should be no challenge.

It takes a few minutes to repeat this to yourself, but it does nothing to relax the anxious, knowing pulse of sixth sense that hovers in the back of your mind.

When the radio crackles again you nearly jump, muttering a transmission before anything can come through.

"Laswell, do you copy?"

Static.

Then, a different voice.

"Hello, Maus."

If you were cold before, the voice that filters through your radio sends you hurtling into hypothermia, jolting at the familiar, purring intonation of the man who has long since pursued you.

“König.” You breathe, unable to contain the shocked breathlessness from your voice.

“Long time no see, as they say.” He murmurs, and you can hear the low, sultry delight of his voice at your response. You should have stayed quiet, shouldn’t have spoken, switched to another channel to get a hold of Laswell, tried to reach Soap and Ghost to tell them to retreat.

“What are you doing here?” You hiss instead, gritting your chattering teeth.

“I could ask you the same thing. You’re a long way from home, aren’t you, fraulein?”

You don’t respond to that, too busy trying to ignore the way the KorTac operative’s voice itches pleasantly under your skin. It’s a vain betrayal, and you internally chastise yourself for remembering the darkness of the supply closet that accompanied your last rendezvous, the soft, yearning words between you. You’ve tried to lock away the memory of it, the way his voice rumbled softly down at you with a traitorous promise that you know will mean the end of you both.

"I might try and kill you again." You breathe, voice wavering as you desperately try to reign in the wickedness of your heart. "I can't promise you I won't succeed."

"You won't." He tells you, and his voice is resolute. There is no uncertainty, no hidden conviction in the utter confidence of which he speaks. "You can try, Maus. You won't be able to."

"And if I don't?”

König blinks at you, eyes fluttering shut for all of a moment before he speaks.

"Then we'll be here again." He murmurs, and you want to shudder at the sudden softness of his voice, allowing that forbidden thing inside you to stretch forward into him. "Again and again, Maus. Over and over until one of us surrenders."

You’ve tried to forget in his absence, shutting out the way you’d closed your eyes when he had tried to kiss you, vainly attempting to replace it with the knowledge that he’s tried to kill your friends, that he was responsible for Price’s capture, for your capture so long ago. In the weeks he’s been gone you’ve curled silently into your bunk, trying to convince yourself how wrong, how selfish you are for allowing yourself to harbor feelings for him.

Now, when he’s here, now that his voice purrs into your radio with that beloved endearment, Maus, you find your steadfast resistance crumbling down around you like snow shifting on the mountains- preceding an avalanche.

“I missed you, Maus.”

It sounds almost like a whine, a needy thing that would be pouting if there wasn’t an undertone of secret, gleeful intent beneath.

Don’t. You remind yourself, body scrunching tight as you try to control your breathing so he doesn’t hear your shuddering exhale.

“Where are your friends?” You ask instead, voice even, flat.

He’s silent then, and you swear the absence of his words speaks of disappointment.

“That’s not how this works, Maus.” He replies, voice betraying his discontent.

You snort. “Tell me then, how does this work?”

There’s a strange crackling sound over the radio, and if you listen closely you can hear him chuckle.

“It works. Just with you and me.”

You let out a freezing breath at that, and you know it crackles over the comms towards him. You’re silent, but it’s different now as you begin to ease from your original surprise. Against your better judgment, you allow yourself to be soothed by the gentle tenor of his voice, allow yourself to remember what it felt like to nearly be kissed by him. The phantom touch of his knuckles under your chin, tipping you up towards him ghosts across your skin with a wicked, traitorous temptation.

“What are you doing out here, Maus?” König asks, and it's more like a sigh, a reminiscent thing that seems to recall your previous wayward parting.

“Recon.” You tell him flatly, refusing to divulge any more details lest it compromise your mission.

“Alone?”

You think of Soap and Ghost struggling up the cliff side, vanishing in a cloud of white towards the perimeter of the radio tower. He can’t be allowed to know they’re here. God only knows what may happen to them, to him if they find each other.

“Yes.” You breathe, but your hesitation betrays your lie for what it is.

König hums in consideration, and you know him well enough by now to know the narrowing of his eyes, the slight tilt of his head as he weighs your words.

“I think you’re lying, Maus.” He intones, and you stiffen at that, at the small whisper of threat that lingers in his voice- the sound of a man born and bred to kill, to hunt and maim.

You, in your naive fantasies, forgot he too was a hunter.

“I think your friends are here.” He goes on, voice low with danger, and you feel your muscles go taut, eyes wide and shoulders stiff. “Should I go say hello?”

“I’m alone.” You tell him again, but your voice is a thin, desperate thing, caught tight in your chest.

König chuckles, as if he finds your rising panic amusing.

“A joke, Maus.” He explains, and it does little to relieve you, not with the way it failed to sound like anything other than a threat.

“But...” He continues, his voice hanging between you like suspended frost. “I guess if you are alone, you wouldn’t mind company, mm?”

You close your eyes, scrunching them shut at the way your heart clenches with an excitement you shouldn’t feel. The idea of his touch on you again is both exhilarating and terrifying- like drinking poison just because you love the taste. He’s a venom that slips into your veins, purrs under your skin and warms you through even as you burn from the inside out.

The logical part of you knows to refuse him. Yet there’s also a chance that if he remains where he is, he has a very good chance of bumping into Ghost and Soap, which is the absolute last thing you need right now- for the mission, and for yourself. You need to draw him from the tower, away from the others.

“You’re welcome to.” You purr back, refusing to show your wavering voice. “That is...if you can find me.”

He pauses at that, and you wonder if he expected you to refuse him and instead pleasantly surprised.

“A game?” He asks, and you hear the rising excitement in his voice, like a predator who has caught the scent of something delicious. “And my prize?”

You huff at that, oddly endeared by his sadistic sort of playfulness. “I suppose you’ll have to find out, König.” You reply, voice low with promise.

“You’re a vexing woman, Maus.”

Thank God Laswell can’t hear this.

“Try and find me if you can.” You goad, narrowing your scope on the fence perimeter where Ghost and Soap have yet to emerge. “Good luck.”

“Oh I won’t need luck.” He purrs, and you shiver.

“Then I’ll see you soon.” You reply, and switch the channel on your radio off.

Silence follows, and you release a deep, slow exhale to steady yourself. The snow muffles all sound, even the thump of your heartbeat as it beats unevenly against your tender ribs. You try to tame the excitement that hums inside you, forcing yourself into stillness until the cold embraces you again.

It’s unlikely he’ll be able to find you, buried as you are. You’ve allowed snow to accumulate on your back and legs, slowly engulfing your pale snow gear in a further camouflage. You’ve been here for well over an hour, and can stay much longer than that if you need. Not moving, barely breathing. Still and silent in the way snipers are, waiting for your chance to pull the trigger.

There’s a part of you that hopes he finds you, somehow. It’s a selfish, dangerous thing, fed by the excitement of hearing from him for the first time in weeks, scratching the itch you’ve desperately been trying to bury inside yourself. It’s the thing you’ve felt for a while now, a secret desire that betrays all the values and loyalty you hold dear to.

The desire to be caught.

You scrub a snow laden hand across your face, hoping somehow the frost will clear your mind of traitorous thoughts. You need to focus on the mission- ensuring that Soap and Ghost make it to the extraction point without anyone tailing or firing after them. You drew König out not because you wanted to see him, but because you were trying to protect your teammates from an enemy operative. That’s all this is. No wayward, illicit romance, no purring over the comms and suggestive flirtations, and certainly no memories of staring up at your enemy in a dark room and hoping he would find the courage to kiss you.

For fuck’s sake, get a hold of yourself.

You push the image away as far as you can, and train your scope once more on the ice laden cliff across the narrow valley.

It’s quiet in the minutes that follow, and you feel the heavily falling snow continue to pack along your spine. You try to contain your chattering teeth and shivering hands, noting with irritation the undue wobble of your scope as you sweep your sights across the landscape-

What?

A shape, there and gone in a mere moment, vanishing along the narrow path off to your right in a cloud of white. You’re certain you saw something, but when you train your sights, there’s nothing there.

Maybe...

You should move to a better position.

It might be a good idea. The motion would heat up your trembling, frigid limbs, and the snow would hopefully cover any tracks you leave behind. Yet there’s risks of doing so. The second you move, even with your snow camouflage, there’s a risk of being spotted by the operative hunting you through the snow.

You purse your chapped, cold lips under your snow mask, and weigh your options.

-and that’s when you hear the sound behind you.

You flip over quickly, reaching for your side arm, but the weapon is buried against your side in the snow, and as you fumble for it a huge, towering figure lurches into view.

“Found you, Maus.” König rumbles as he steps from behind a tree, and before you can bite a reply, try to raise your silenced pistol, you freeze.

“What-” You manage, a little forced, blinking. “What are you wearing?”

König pauses mid-step as he stalks towards you, eyes wide under his hood. Your question catches him off guard, and he glances down at himself in confusion. His hood, normally a dark, ominous black, is now a strangely, ghostly gray that matches his long, snow-white layers and tan tac vest. Black boots and thick gloves are tugged over his pants and sleeves, but his helmet remains the same.

“...You don’t like it?” He asks, and you laugh out of pure disbelief.

“I-” You try, side arm now forgotten. “Yes?”

You shake yourself, and reach once more for your weapon.

“Ah-” König tuts, quickly moving forward too fast and gently placing a boot over your arm. “Please don’t, Maus.”

You frown at him, try and wiggle your arm, only for him to increase the weight on it. “Asshole.” You seethe, and König huffs an indignant little sound. “What if I said that was your prize?”

“A bullet?” He tilts his head at you. “You shouldn’t have.”

“No, I really should.” You insist past chattering teeth, and tug more severely at his ankle despite your heavy, shivering limbs.

He watches you struggle in vain, and you hate the amused little glint in his eyes.

Finally, you flop back into the snow, winded.

“I won.” He provides smugly, and you punch at his calf in one more outraged attempt to dislodge him, with no success.

“So what then?” You seethe. “Are you going to capture me again?”

“No.”

You blink, look up at him, startled by the sudden severity of his tone. He bites out the word like you’ve insulted him, sneering and dangerous. You’d only sort of been joking, but the reflexive refusal that you’ve managed to elicit has you pause, considering.

“We’re...past that, Maus.” He goes on, voice softer. The boot eases from your arm a bit. “I thought we agreed on that much.”

"Some things are more beautiful when they are free, Maus."

It’s difficult to decide how you feel about that.

Part of you is relieved that König has decided to forego the obsession of capturing you. For reasons still unknown to you, O’Connor had kept Price alive during his captivity. You have a feeling that for you, your fate at the hands of KorTac would be far less kind. Held by ransom at best, an unmarked grave at worst, it’s fortunate for you that the Austrian towering above you has decided much the same.

Yet you also wish somehow things could go back to what they were- simpler. König trying to take you alive, and you- trying to kill him for it. Instead, the haunting memory of the darkness inside the storage closet of the KorTac base, of how you’d almost let him kiss you, of how you saw his face, remains a treacherous addiction you desperately try to rid yourself of. Now, this, whatever it is, seems to have spiraled beyond your reach, unable now to discern the lines between villain and dangerous ally, a balance you fail to reconcile with every frost-bitten breath inside your chest.

You try to force a glare up at him, but instead feel your expression cast between dismay and doubt, a visage that he absorbs and blinks slowly down at you.

“You’re shaking, Maus.” He notes quietly, voice barely audible above the ice-laden wind. “Are you afraid?”

“No.” You bite back, and that at least is the truth. “Just freezing my ass off.”

König tilts his head at you, and is silent for a moment, considering. Yet then you see his eyes behind the mask, crinkling at the edges as he smiles.

“Poor little liebling.” He coos, and you frown harder at that, the almost condescending dip of his voice. Yet before you can protest König uses his boots to gently roll you onto your stomach back to the position you were at before, and then abruptly dropping his weight onto your back.

“W-what-” You croak in surprise, face warming as you try and squirm under the massive bulk of him pressed flat against your spine. “What are you doing?!”

“You said you were cold.” The giant above you reasons, settling in so he blankets you on all sides with his larger frame. “I’m just trying to keep you warm, Maus.”

Your brain short circuits, fizzling into nothingness as you battle the absolutely absurdity of the situation with the welcome body heat bleeding into your bones from above.

This is so beyond the field manual I might as well burn the thing.

König happily nuzzles into your back, trapping you underneath him. He arranges his arms in a cradle to rest your head in, his own cheek pressed to the nape of your neck with a pleased sigh.

You can’t even find the words to object to this bizarre development, eyes blinking dumbly into the wall of white that obscures the other side of the valley where Soap and Ghost have vanished to. You can only silently thank whatever higher power there is that they can’t see this- can’t see you as you find yourself cuddling with the enemy.

“I’ll take this as my prize.” König murmurs cheerfully, and you make a sound of utter disbelief, confused yet not entirely displeased at this development.

The more you fail to squirm free, the more heat radiates from the form of the soldier behind you, encasing you in a small cocoon of heat that blessedly chases above the shiver in your muscles. Slowly, you find yourself relaxing against him, taking in the warmth for all its worth and silently convincing yourself it’s just for survival.

Can’t RV if I’m hypothermic, after all. You try to reason, blatantly ignoring the tiny voice inside you that speaks otherwise.

“You’re keeping me alive.” You muse aloud, mouth partially covered by your snow mask and the cradle of his arms.

“I am.” König replies simply with a small shrug.

“Why?”

König pauses for a moment. You swear you feel him stiffen, feel the thump of his heartbeat pound between your shoulder blades as he attempts to summon an answer.

“Because I like you, Maus.” He tells you at last, soft and breathy in your ear. “I like you better alive.”

The cold air in your lungs seems to punch at the staccato rhythm inside your chest, forcing a cold intake of air that you pray he doesn’t notice.

“Since that first time we met.” König goes on, voice rumbling low from his chest into the warming dip of your spine. “I saw you, saw the way you fought, the way you...weren’t afraid. You were so soft and small in my arms...”

He trails off then, but when he resumes his musings he chuckles low against your nape. “You were like a little bird, but when you woke up it turned out you had fangs, Maus.”

You feel a small flush of pride at that, at the reminder of the way you had challenged him, had refused to back down despite the towering, intimidating stranger before you. In truth you’d been terrified, knowing your capture could have meant torture, even death, knowing that Gaz had been left behind bleeding and unconscious.

Gaz...

Your face falls in dismay.

What would he think of you like this? With the man who once had almost killed him? Who had dared to steal you away right in front of his eyes? What would he make of this? With you in the arms of an enemy, refusing to squirm free, to kill the man who had once helped kidnap Price.

...With a man who had saved your life more times than you could count?

“We can’t...do this.” You breathe quietly into the snow, eyes half lidded and scarcely gazing at the wall of white before you. “König...”

The man behind you is silent, and you know without seeing his eyes he’s taking in your words, thinking very much the same. Like you, König knows the danger of his fascination with you, the way he’s already betrayed his own company to aid you, to keep you safe. You both know that the lines you have both crossed betray the allies you’ve sworn yourselves to, caught in a dangerous abraxas that neither of you can control.

“Would you?” He asks in a whisper shielded by the wind. “If things were different, Maus?”

You close your eyes, feeling your chest clench with an emotion you dare not name. You should lie to him. You should tell him that this, this is something you never expected, something you can indulge in no longer. You should tell him next time that you won’t hesitate, that you’ll squeeze the trigger and watch this horrid affair finally come to its fateful, bloody conclusion.

Instead, you offer in a scarce whisper:

“Yes.”

There’s a long pause before König sighs behind you, his chest deflating into your spine and the warm breath of him spilling across your nape. You shiver under him, purely out of sensation rather than the cold, reminded of the intimacy of the position you two find yourselves in.

“What am I going to do with you, Maus?” He asks, and despite the melodrama involved you know it’s a genuine question- one you yourself have asked many, many times.

“We could go back to trying to kill each other.” You offer with feign cheerfulness.

“I never wanted to kill you, Maus.”

Right.

In some ways you wish he had. If König never had qualms about killing you, perhaps this could be avoided.

“You could desert.” You say suddenly, surprising yourself. “Defect and surrender to the 141.”

“Do you really think it’s that simple, Maus?” He asks, almost dismayed.

You know it’s not. With everything König has done, with the legacy he’s left on you and your teammates, you know they’d never trust him. Even if you explained to them that König wasn’t the monster they think he is, that he had never done the things they suspect him of, you know all you’d receive in return is your friends’ disbelief and distrust for lying to them, for asking them to trust the man who had once captured you.

The image of their faces, of the hurt and despair and disappointment etched across their eyes, is something you can hardly bear.

This is your fault, you think quietly, with dawning despair. You should have killed him long ago. You should have told your team. Perhaps they’d have forgiven you if you’d confessed, consoled you and told you that this was all just a horrible maladjustment to your capture back then. If you’d told them, if you’d killed him...

“Maus.” König observes at the small shuddering breath you draw in, emotions bubbling inside your chest.

If things were different, then somehow....maybe...

“Bravo-09, this is Bravo-07.”

You jolt, muscles seizing at the sudden staticky tenor of Ghost’s voice over your comms. König braces on his forearms to allow you to scramble for your radio, voice breathless as you respond.

“Go ahead Bravo-07.”

“Sweep cleared. Proceeding to rally point Alpha. Fifteen minutes.”

“Good copy, LT. Are you being followed?”

A pause, then. “Negative, Bravo-09. Place was empty. Looks like they’d just burned it.”

You blink, then twist towards König.

“You bastard.” You manage, eyes wide as you realize what he’s done. “This was a distraction.”

König’s eyes soften with a remorse that fails to quell the anger warming in your veins.

“A necessary one, Maus.” He offers simply, removing the weight of his body from yours. You twist onto your back to face him, a mixture of rage and hurt written clear across your face. König towers above you, a massive shadow that easily dwarfs your prone form.

“You’re lucky you and your friends came when you did. A day earlier and you’d all be dead.”

“Why?” You manage, voice strangled. “Why distract us?”

“You know I can’t tell you that, Maus.” He offers, almost sadly. “We’re still enemies, after all.”

He steps away from you then, and even when you know he sees your hand reach for your sidearm, he doesn’t flinch. Instead he pauses, offers you a clear line of sight that would allow you to take the perfect shot at his turned back.

“...But maybe not forever.” He finally offers, and steps easily into the trees, vanishing.

You watch after him, expression pained, asking the snowy sky for answers it cannot yield.

In the place where he once was, your finger trembles on the trigger.

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