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aothotties · 6 months

Text

How they help you get over someone

Word count: 1016

Warnings: Levi is in his 30s, car sex, mating press, pet names (mama), squirting, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex.

“But i just feel so dumb, im literally so stupid” you huffed to your gym buddy, Levi as you spotted him.

He finished his set then sat up and turned towards you

“Y/N, you're so young. You're going to make mistakes plus you're a girl. No ones mad at you for believing what he said to you and having sex with him” he said plainly

You always vented to Levi when you were upset and he always found a way to give you great advice and help you through everything. Him being older made it easier to trust him because you felt like he was grown grown and had it all together

“I'm mad at myself. I feel like I'm too old to still fall for the same bullshit I fell for in highschool. Were you like me at my age?” you stated as tears threatened to spill from your eyes

“ I was worse” , he responded, “don't feel bad about it. Its a normal thing for you to be upset that he fucked you then never spoke to you again, youre not the problem. Any woman, no matter what age, would be upset about that. I mean there's some succubuses out there that just smash everyone and don't feel a thing, but most women aren't like that”

You couldn't lie, levi always reassured you and made you feel better about making regular human choices and never allowed you to beat yourself up for making mistakes

You both finished your workout and left the gym. He walked out next to you and made sure you were safe in the parking lot because it was late at night. You stopped at the car and he pulled you into a hug

“You'll be alright, mama. Don't be so hard on yourself” he said and you buried your face in his chest and began to cry

Even though his words made you feel better you were still sad. He rubbed your back and let you get it all out and refused to let go until you finished crying

You pulled away and wiped your tears on your shirt

“Thank you, i really appreciate you, Levi” you said to him once you composed yourself

“Dont worry about it, i'm always here if you need me” he responded.

You stared up at him completely enamored. You had the strongest feelings for him and had them for a while. You tried sleeping with that other guy thinking it would help you get over him but it clearly didn't work. You just ended up sad and crying in his arms which strengthened your feelings. You were convinced Levi didn't feel the same and you were too sacred to say anything in fear that it would ruin the friendship you have

“Aye aren't you glad you asked me to be your gym partner”, he said trying to change the subject

“yeah , i guess” you laughed as you responded

“You guess? You know you wanted to be like me, that's why you approached me and asked for my help” he nudged you a little bit as he teased

“That definitely not the reason i approached you but yeah let's go with that” you told on yourself before you even had the chance to realize it

He looked down at you and smirked as he nodded, “ yeah i know”

He confirmed in that moment that he knew exactly how you felt about him and apparently he felt the same because he grabbed you by your wrist and pulled you towards his car

Levi drove a nice white tesla and you had been dying to see the inside

He had you in the back seat folded completely in half as he pressed his weight onto you

His dick was reaching so far inside you that your mind went blank. All you could do was moan his name while he fucked you at a steady pace.

Sweat rolled down his abs as he was sliding in and out of your dripping wet pussy. He was mesmerized by the way you were sucking him in. He was also taken aback at how good your body looked folded under him.

Sometimes at the gym he would make slick comments about your ass but you never realized it was his way of telling you he felt the same.

“Fuck Levi, r-right there. Im gonna cum baby” you whined as you grabbed his biceps

His pace didn't change and he continued to fuck you all the way to your peak

“Mmhmm mama, cum for me” he said as he watched your face contort in pleasure

Your high flooded over you and you came hard all over his thick cock. You felt bad that you squirted on his perfectly clean seats but he couldn't care less. He wanted to see you cum for him over and over again and didn't care about what happened to his car.

He never let up and kept going until you came for him multiple times. Each time you came a mantra of praises left his lips.

His pace became more erratic as he came close to his climax. You could feel his dick throbbing inside you as he was about to cum

“ gonna cum inside you mama, f-fill you up real good” he stated between deep grunts

He slammed into you hard one last time then you felt as his hot thick cum spilled inside you. He slid out and watched as it pooled out of you but he quickly pushed it back in with his fingers.

You both threw your clothes on and you stepped out of his car and wobbled as you tried to stand up straight. He laughed at you and shook his head. He put his arm around you and walked you to your car

He leaned down and pressed a kiss on your forehead

“Best cardio i've ever done” he stated as he opened the door for you

You hopped in your car and deleted the other guy's number knowing damn well he did not match up to Levi in any way.

#aot #aot x black reader #aot smut #aot x reader #aot scenarios #aot imagines #aot x female reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman smut #levi x reader #levi smut #levi x black reader

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pricesbeltbuckle · 3 months

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Price x an older woman? 🤔🤔🤔 (Like late 40s to early 50s but she looks good for her age)

45, Really?!? - John Price

Pairing: John price x Older!Fem Reader

Warnings: None, Fluff

Price was always teased for being old by his mates no doubt, but he was only 37.

So when he met a woman that was around his age or even slightly older, to say he was in love was an understatement. He was deeply addicted to you.

He saw you at a coffee shop in what he assumed were some comfortable clothes, sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He made a first move on you by asking you what you had ordered.

“Oh nothing special just a Iced coffee with some oat milk and caramel why?” “I’ll be right back.” “Huh?”

He ordered you another coffee and got himself a normal black coffee as he came over to sit down with you.

“Oh! Thank you, what’s your name?” “John, John Price. And you are the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen.”

You giggled and shaked his hand. “Well thank you, but you look awfully younger than me.” “Hm, that's the first time I’ve heard that.” “Well I’m 45.”

Now normally men would be so shocked but him? He just smiled and took your hand in his hand.

“Please, that would scare boys, not a man. I’m 37.”

You were charmed by him after that and you guys ended up going on another date, then another, and another…

And by the 5th date he had asked you out formally and of course you said yes.

Now, a year later you found out about how he works in the military and you had moved into his nice house so when he’s deployed you can take care of it.

You loved when he introduced you to his team and they were all so respectful to you.

“So how old are you? 34?” You saw a man with a mohawk ask.

“Ah I wish, I’m 45.” And to say all of them were shocked was an understatement. “No. No way! You look so young it’s insane.” “Haha thank you! But no, I'm serious.”

They all adored you and their captain's relationship.

“Aye sweetheart I gotta go get something I’ll be back yeah? Just watch them. Love ya!” And then he walked out the front door and they all looked at you.

“You want me to make you all some food?” You asked softly and they all nodded.

You made them all homemade pizza, all from scratch they all watched you in awe.

When John came back and saw them all eating and talking to you, he’s never seen them so relaxed before, and that’s how he knew he made the right choice that day at the coffee shop.

I loved this so much oh my god…THANK YOU FOR THIS.

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outro-jo · 1 year

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i don’t have a title for this

pairing: bang chan (chris) x best friend!reader (gender neutral)

type: one shot

summary: some news about your best friend has you out all night but of course he’s the one that’s gonna come to your rescue

warnings: none tbh, not rly edited, mentions of drinking and nudity

a/n: please use my ask box to request anything else you’d want me to write!

masterlist | info

—————————

you don’t quite know how you got here or where here is, exactly. it started with a couple of shots with some friends at a bar in gangnam. that bar became another bar, then another, and then a club until your feet were almost bloodied from the walking and dancing—thanks to all the alcohol, you couldn’t feel a thing. now you were stumbling through the streets, wandering aimlessly. your best friends who had drug you out tonight had each found someone else to go home with and you walked alone. not by choice, certainly. well, at least not your choice.

the reason you’d actually gone out was because your best friend started dating someone, or that’s what dispatch said. normally you don’t let things like silly gossip get to you but this wasn’t some idol you read about, it was your best friend.

your best friend who you used to bathe with as babies. the best friend who knows about the broken nose you got in grade 4 and why you got it. he knows about the mole in the weird place no one else has seen before. the best friend that begged you to move to Korea with him to go to uni. the best friend who knows ever dark secret you hide, has seen nearly every tear you shed… and the one who has your heart completely.

he has no idea.

your friends could see you immediately spiraling over the article and insisted you all go out tonight. after about the third drink you could start feeling your mind numb and you began to finally enjoy yourself. of course, you did lose count of drinks after about nine. so, here you are, stumbling through the streets.

your phone lit up: “best mate 💕”

“well, well, fancy meeting you here.” you slurred with a goofy grin plastered on your face.

“oh, naur, i’m too late.” Chris scolded himself. he had every intention of warning you about the article but it slipped his mind. “where are you?”

“umm.” you stopped and looked up at the street sign before reading it off. “next to that boba place we like.”

“ok, yeah, i know the one. stay right there! don’t move!” you could hear clattering in the background of him gathering his things.

“aye, aye, sailor!” you saluted the light post and sighed before taking a seat on the ground.

it was only a minute that you had closed your eyes before you felt a hand rest on your shoulder.

“Darling? Babe, c’mon. let’s go.” Chris’s soft voice awakened you only for a minute as he scooped you up and carried you to the car.

the street lights flashed above your head as chris made his way back to your apartment but all you saw was black with your eyes closed. white noise began fading in and you were pretty much out for the count with chris not only getting to your apartment but carrying you inside. it wasn’t until your back was rested on your mattress that you looked up and realized who was with you.

“Chris! you came!” you exclaimed softly.

he looked down at you adoringly, smoothing the hair back on your forehead, “you called.”

you laughed loudly. “I did not! you called me. loser!l

“yeah, yeah, i’m the loser.” he said to himself as he walked into the bathroom for a minute.

your eyes had closed again by the time he came back and you suddenly felt wet on your cheek as Chris took a make up wipe to your face. you felt him clean off your face before asking, “you alright if i change your clothes?”

“yes, mr. gentleman.” you sprawled your arms, “strip me!”

again Chris chuckled and removed your outfit. he tried extra hard not to stare at your mismatched lingerie for too long. a small smirk played at the corner of his lips remembering how you had told him once that if someone is matching lingerie/undergarments they’re planning on hooking up. he took comfort in knowing that your only intent of the evening was to blow off some steam.

he wished so badly that you were sober and could have an actual conversation of what’s happening. how it was all a lie spread by a sasaeng when they saw him and sana together.

that probably hurt you a lot too. seeing him with another long time friend he constantly told you he had no feelings for and it was everywhere that they were now together, but they weren’t.

instead of having that conversation, he pulled one of his old tour shirts out and carefully put it on you. he loved seeing you in his clothes, made him feel like you were his.

chris took a seat on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair off your face. he watched for a moment, the way your chest would rise and fall. you were so peaceful like this, so beautiful. his thumb rested on your cheek, rubbing it up and down. after a moment or two, chris went to stand up and leave but you caught his wrist.

“noooo,” you whined into your pillow. “please stay with me.” you raised your arm to welcome him in.

chris chuckled and relented. he clicked off the lamp and climbed in next to you. he assumed the position of the big spoon behind you, pulling you in close. this wasn’t unfamiliar to him. your body pressed against his, the smell of your shampoo and perfume lingering around you. it was so safe and comfortable.

he remembers the first time you saw him after he moved. it was after a particular conversation you had with him that involved him crying that he might not get to debut. at 13, you had convinced your elderly grandmother to use her credit card so you could fly (unaccompanied) from australia to south korea. thankfully chris’s parents were coming in a few days but the days you had with chris before they came were magical. he snuck you into the dorms and he held you like he is now.

“chris?” you voice broke the fading memory.

“yeah, love.”

even half asleep your heart cracked at the pet name. “why her? why didn’t you tell me?” you nearly cried. with your face still smushed against your pillow, Chris would have almost thought it was cute, if you weren’t so sad.

“baby, we’ll talk in the morning. I’m not dating her. please, just go to sleep.”

you turned to him, rubbing your face. “you’re not?”

he shook his head.

“well, now i can finally date you.” you didn’t even think. the words fell out of your mouth without a thought and disappeared. they didn’t faze you one bit as you rolled back over, snuggled into him and went back to sleep.

but Chris was as stiff as a board. he couldn’t move. he didn’t want to dare disrupt a universe in which you had just confessed your feelings to him. he was too scared the if he moved, he’d jinx it and go back to a world where you weren’t potentially his. you did say it though. the words echoed in his head and his heart raced.

finally he unfroze and leaned down to kiss your cheek. “yes, baby, you can finally date me.”

“oh, good!” you sighed. “i love you, Channie”

#straykids #skz #stray kids #stay kids reaction #stray kids scenarios #stray kids fluff #stray kids smut #bang chan #bang chris #bang chan fluff #bang chan smut #friends to lovers #childhood friends to lovers #best friends to lovers #confession #stray kids fanfic #bang chan fanfic

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baohanhanesel · 2 months

Text

World Praise Day with TF141

GN Reader, no warnings. Could be read as both platonic and romantic. 🤷

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick did see what was coming. The shit-eating grin on your face spoke loudly. He had a feeling you would make one of your casual "to blow off some steam" jokes until he saw your eyes look him up and down. He choked on thin air.

"Are you checking me out, mate?"

"Your body's a sight for sore eyes. The fair amount of muscle and flush skin." You brought your fingers to your lips, kissing them and flicking your wrist away; you sent him an air kiss. It damaged him as if you called an air strike on the guy.

"Load of bullshit, aren't you?" He laughed, eyes crinkling while he smiled

"There it is!" You threw your hands up in the air. "The beauty my art is inspired from!"

"Shut your trap, geez... Don't bring the sketchbook into this, sappy bastard." As much as he tried to play it cool he was flustered. His face got red and laughter started to sound lighter than ever.

"Love your smile" you say." The way your lips curl upward is mesmerizing. The shade of your lips is pretty by itself." The specific praise was doing things. You knew. He knew.

"About to kiss you with these pretty lips if you do not shut up." He chuckled, smirk wide as ever. He was happy and a kiss would only let you know just how happy you were making him. So when you did not stop, you were made just as happy as he was.

John "Soap" Mactavish had just joined you in the common room, you were ready to attack once you caught a glimpse of his messy mohawk.

"Always taking care of yourself like a good man. Even when it is messy it remains just as pretty. Do you even have bad hair days?" Your smile got wider and wider while you took his startled expression in. He blinked, then smiled brightly. "Would die for your smile, Mactavish. Pretty privileges everyday,"

"Yer aff yer heid, lass/lad. "He laughed hard, smirk bright as the damn sun. "Ya know how it feels tae hae the privilege How's it feel, ay?"

You flushed back at the counter attack and the smile. You were just about to make your own move before he reached for your hand "Haes seen war, aye breathtaking. You'd be mah choice in mah lest breath. If a'm jammy enough tae see ye as th' lest damned thing oan earth, ah'd already hae taken a taste o' heavens."

You stopped functioning. His heavy Scottish accent was getting your head fuzzy. The praise attack you started is getting overpowered by his flirt attack. And boy, he is winning.

"Mactavish." you warn him, yielding. He is too good you fear your face is no different than a tomato right now.

"Yah whit's it? My bad!" He brings your hand to his lips. "Ah cannae use mah bonny privileges now? Na? " Fuck him and his confident smirk. You don't know whether to slap him or kiss him.

Captain John Price had just light up a cigarette, letting it stay in-between his lips while he looked through the reports you just brought in.

"Another successful mission. We nailed the mission, captain. Saved our asses, without lead we'd be dead." Praising his work did little, but you had to start somewhere. He gave a tight lipped smile, exhaling the smoke. "Your hat's fitting you nicely, sir. The way it casts a shadow over your temple brings your eyes out. A sight, it is."

He grumble-laughs. You don't know which. You'll go with the latter though. "Your beard, too. Gathers your features together Strict 'n all?"

He dismisses you with a nod and a forced smile. You can see his eyes doing best to not look at you. "Can I get started on your scent?"

"Don't." he snorts, raising his one hand up to rub his temples, tilting his head down. You were about to yield until you notice he was actually trying to suppress a smile.

"I'd do just about anything to see that smile, sir. Makes me proud of myself." You blurt out, because you are willing to take your chances.

"Lovely cheeky thing "he chuckles, blush covering his entire face. "Pretty personality to match your face. You are a strong soldier, I am always proud of you."

Your smile widens.

"Happy world praise day, love." your smile falters, you end up laughing because he knew what you were at but despite it all he still let you humour him.

"Not a single word was a lie."

"As was mine. Back to work, love."

You shake your head, walking out of the office. Today's been very efficient so far.

Simon "Ghost" Riley was cleaning his gun while you were sitting across from him, sewing shut a gash on your uniform. You stole a few glances before collecting enough courage to speak. You were a brave soldier. Bravest of them all. You surely could praise the man before you with that courage.

"Good work" You beam "So fast too."

"Is all experience." He grunts. "You'd be fast too if your hand got on one of these." He had a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

You had a feeling it was because you dislocated your shoulder in the last mission while using a rifle. It was bad luck. Not like you were that inexperienced. He just liked to toy with you.

"You are the best, lieutenant. I don't have to do much with cleaning."

"Because?"

"You clean the battlefield well enough for us all."

"As I should." So praising his work wouldn't work. "Your eyes, always so expressive. You like our banters, sir?"

"Naturally." He scolds, hands fidgeting with the gun.

"I like your presence. You are safe. You are the safe for me." He didn't utter a single word after that. "Always patient with me too. I am grateful for you. Can always rely on you. You are strong in every aspect."

You notice him hanging his head too low, eyes dragging on the ground. He is... flattered? You don't know but it doesn't seem bad. His eyes are actually very expressive as you stated earlier. But it is not enough to tell everything he feels. So you stop for a moment before he starts the conversation again.

"You trust a man with a mask?"

"I trust the man under that mask. Pretty like your knife skills, yeah? I never doubt it, witnessing it myself." This earns him a full-blown laughter.

"Enough." He cuts you then, standing up. He is burning red under that mask. He can't help but feel embarrassed. The silence caught into you, you blink at him. Did you go a bit too far?

"Thank you." he spats the word as if it is dirt in his mouth and he leaves, overwhelmed by you.

#call of duty #cod #cod modern warfare #john soap mactavish #soap cod #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #johnny mactavish #simon riley #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #gaz cod #captain john price #john price #price cod #tf 141 #task force 141

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bonefall · 6 months

Note

How would Cloudstar react to the fates of his children? Would he view Gorseclaw’s actions as betrayal? Would he accept Ripplestar as one of his own?

Cloudstar has a unique place in the Skypelt Pantheon as what we would consider the Grim Reaper. He is associated with cyclones, funnels, and thermal winds in a positive sense, and rats in a negative sense. He is the only "fetcher" of recently deceased souls in SkyClan culture, as opposed to Forest Four culture where fetchers can be any spirit.

Just to put into context what Ripplestar is looking at when he, a simple damned spirit, no bells and whistles, is approached by a Dark Souls boss asking him if it's culturally appropriate to call him his son.

"I am aware of the four other Clan's cats and how they view the rights of their queens, and of the insult that it is when a tom who did not raise them claims fatherhood," His voice is low and morose, perpetually carrying the tone for comforting the deceased, "but you were raised by my mate, as brother of my children. You gave your life to my memory. Might I claim ye as my own?"

"That value is younger than I am," Ripplestar keeps his tail curled behind him, wary of StarClan cats and that which they lead you to believe, "but you must understand that I doubt your intentions. What do you stand to gain?"

Cloudstar shakes his head ever so slightly and a breeze ruffles the demon's fur. "Death has no tricks and neither do I. Skypelt, not Silverpelt, has a place for all who have fought for us," he pauses before continuing, "I am making a personal offer that to me, you are more than an ally. We could be family, if that is your choice."

The rebel leader's gaze still glimmered with distrust, and he held the godlike figure in his brighter eye. "Family. Is Gorseclaw our family?"

The silence spoke loudly, but it was the shared pain and betrayal between them that made the wind howl.

Cloudstar didn't need to answer. Ripplestar turned his face foward so both eyes, dull and bright, rested on the spirit, a sad smile on his face. "Aye. Then we're all family."

#better bones au #Skypelt #BB!Ripplestar #BB!Cloudstar

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olenvasynyt · 25 days

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The Idea of Choice with Elucien

There is a topic that is often brought up with Elain and her mating bond with Lucien: she should be allowed the option of rejecting Lucien as her mate. And I really want to talk about this, because this idea of choice has been in the books since Lucien first whispered that Elain is his mate at the Cauldron.

Lucien has always given Elain the option of choice. In fact, I think she has more room for choice than her sisters, because unlike them, she knew about her mating bond from the very start. Before she gets to know the male she has this bond with, before she falls in love with him. She has the choice to get to know him and open up to him or to continue staying away. This is very unlike Nesta and Feyre, who were forced into the same rooms as their mates.

Lucien has been giving Elain space to choose.

And I totally think that Lucien will give Elain the room to reject the mating bond, maybe even suggest it, which brings me to something that happens in Outlander (because yes, I have to make more comparisons between Elucien and Outlander).

Spoilers for Outlander S1 E11:

Claire finally tells Jamie that she is from the future, and he understands that she has been wanting to get back to her old life, he takes her back to the stones.

"It's what you wanted. Aye? What you've always wanted...to go home." "It's your own time on the other side of that stone. You've a home there, a place, the things you're used to. And Frank. There's nothing for you on this side. Nothing save violence and danger."

He says goodbye to her and expects her to go through the stones because it was what he believed she wanted.

But Claire chooses him. He goes down to make a fire and is ready to leave in the morning, and she comes and chooses him.

"Take me home to Lallybroch."

Is this not something that Lucien would do for Elain? He sees that she is possibly uncomfortable and not interested. She misses the life she once had as a human, and she might be getting more comfortable with the IC and the Night Court. I can imagine him and Elain finally getting to know each other but Elain is still hiding her feelings for him, and he is kind enough to accept her rejecting the mating bond if she wants to. He could say it's too dangerous for her to be mated to him, that she won't have a life with him because he's an outcast with no title. He is struggling to find a home.

But Elain chooses him.

#pro elucien #elucien #pro lucien vanserra #anti e/riel #acotar

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witch-and-her-witcher · 4 months

Text

Silver Lining

azris | T | undercover, canonverse, no magic, one bed | 3.4k

A very happy @acotargiftexchange to @bubybubsters! Although we aren't your original secret santas, @octobers-veryown has created this dashing moodboard to accompany the gift fic below I have written. We hope these tick a few of your likes from your list: secretly good/High Lord Eris, a hint of Feysand and Elucien, and of course - The One Bed Trope.

Many thanks to the darlings @queercontrarian and @popjunkie42-blog for the quick and efficient beta reads!! <3

ao3

~*~

“So we’ve reached our decision?”

“All in favor say ‘aye’.”

The chorus of resounding confirmations come from around the table. Each one is like another hot coal added to fuel Azriel’s ire where he stands back, leaning against one of the House of Winds’ red walls.

Elain and Lucien, acting as the representatives of Day Court, are the last vote. Elain’s eyes flicker to Azriel, apologetic, before she nods towards Lucien.

“Aye,” Lucien enunciates, threading his fingers through his mate’s above the tabletop. There was a time it would have eaten Azriel alive to see such a display, but now he only cares about the fate all those gathered today have sealed for him.

Feyre clears her throat where she and Rhys stand tall at the head of the table of the gathered High Lords, High Ladies, and their representatives. “Then it’s decided. High Lord Eris will travel to his contact in the south of the mortal realms under cover … aided by the Night Court’s Shadowsinger. Both of you hold the fate of Prythian in the success of your mission, travel swiftly and with the grace of Mother on your side. We’ll prepare whatever you may need for your journey.”

Shadows writhe around him as Azriel fights to control the swell of conflicting emotions. Of all the fae to be forced to safeguard —

“Give us time to discuss details and we can present an itemized list to the Council?”

The Autumn lilt in Eris’s speech grates Az’s nerves for no reason other than the male’s tongue has no right to sound so pleasant.

“The Council grants two hours. Speed and secrecy are our only allies in this mission.”

“Understood.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

A muscle twitches in Azriel’s jaw. “What other choice was presented to me?”

Eris’s muscles bound together under the collar of his finely embroidered tunic as he shifts through paperwork, dips his quill in ink, and begins jotting down a list. He doesn’t look up as he answers, “I can find another spy’s service. You were readily available, that’s why your High Lady volunteered you. But considering …”

Azriel waits impatiently for Eris to collect or finish his thought — or to stop pausing for dramatic effect, whatever it is he’s trying to accomplish with this oddly cordial conversation.

Russet eyes flicker up to him. “Considering our history, I would understand if you wish to decline. The nature of this mission requires a complete trust in each other and if you still harbor ill will towards me because of a centuries old feud, I must insist you back out. I’m the High Lord now, my people require I return. They require this mission is a success.”

Reasonable.

So gods-damned reasonable.

Where is the arrogant prick he’d lunged across a table over a century ago to choke?

Azriel’s wings ruffle with annoyance. He’d heard Eris has changed with the relief of Beron’s death, has grown into himself as High Lord and no longer has the time to spend stirring up trouble for the sake of it.

He’s heard he’s a changed male. Living up to the words another had said to him about “being a good male under it all.”

But he hadn’t believed it.

Until now.

The shadows whisper of the sincerity the High Lord speaks with. They also whisper that no spy readily available in the Prythian network will be as good, as reliable, as seasoned, as Azriel.

Certain death, they whisper, unless it’s you, Master.

Something twists in his gut as he watches the proud male, his sharp jaw and freckle smattered cheek bones, assessing the documents in front of him once more. Writing down his list of supplies to request from the Council: cloaks of invisibility, lamas bread, a network of mounts prepared for them at predetermined way points.

It will be hard riding, hard living without the use of their own magic. Only their common sense, weapons knowledge, and a few enchanted items will be between them and death on foreign soil.

It’s for Prythian, he tells himself as Azriel moves close enough to feel the body heat pouring off of the High Lord of flames.

“I have contacts with a new enchanted shroud that has improved upon the cloak of invisibility's flaws. They’re expensive as hell … But let the Council dip into their coffers.”

Eris peers over his shoulder, cunning mouth twisting into a smirk as he watches Azriel’s flowing script as he adds to the request list.

“Let bygones be bygones?”

“A temporary amnesty, lets say.”

“Alright, Shadowsinger.”

“Some day, I would like to not be embroiled directly in life or death plots,” Eris mutters, stretching his legs as they dismount their exhausted mounts.

They’ve been riding hard for nearly twenty-four hours straight and have swapped horses thrice.

Azriel has never known such pain as the ache in his seat, in his knees, even in his shoulders from holding himself balanced on his horse while they have trotted most of those hours, sometimes breaking into full canters in stretches of path Eris deems too dangerous to linger on.

They’re now at their first rest spot since entering the southernmost duchy of the mortal realms. It’s a desolate mountain town, but Eris recollects from travels past that it's the safest.

Azriel dismounts and tries not to lose his balance, the glamor that has hidden his wings and other more fae features does nothing to assist with the odd balance he’s needing to learn quickly without their weight.

“That will be the day Eris Vanserra is found dead.”

“Touche.”

Azriel nearly smiles at the omission. He has to catch himself to remember despite the truce he doesn’t fully trust this male. It goes against what they agreed upon, but since it wasn’t an official bargain … Azriel watches the swagger Eris approaches the inn with, the soldier of his youth replacing the mighty High Lord as the glamor has rounded out his ears, dimmed the luster of his fiery locks so its merely enchanting rather than breathtaking to watch the curls of his longer pieces of hair along his neck —

Enchanting?

Azriel pinches the bridge of his nose.

Too long in the saddle. Too many days on lamas bread alone.

“I need a hot meal and bed,” Eris says to Azriel as he holds the door open, “If memory serves, this place serves a hearty stew and non-moldy bread.”

The tavern on the bottom floor of the inn is crowded with all types — mostly sellswords, likely half moonlighting as the bandits that haunt these routes, but there’s a few distinguishable merchants as well. The number of people overflowing from the bar, the tables, and even the dance floor where the band is playing a lively jig, makes Azriel’s skin crawl.

Without his shadows, he feels naked. Exposed. Vulnerable.

The only blessing is the Illyrian broadsword strapped to his back and Truth-Teller on his thigh.

“Get us food while I get our rooms?” Eris asks, surveying the crowd. Although he doesn’t appear outwardly nervous, there’s an obvious calculating edge to that russet gaze.

If there are no rooms left, it will be a hell of a night sleeping in the stable with the horses for their already aching bodies.

Azriel nods wordlessly and heads for the barmaid.

She smiles prettily at him as he approaches — flashing her gaping smile, several teeth missing. Azriel keeps his features carefully controlled. It isn’t his first time interacting with humans, but for his purposes milling about average folk hasn’t been as necessary …

“What’ll it be, sir?” she begins pouring a stein of ale before he can ask. “For you and your partner, yes?”

Azriel straightens. “He’s not my —”

“ — business partner? But you rode in together. You two are nicer dressed than most of the business types that stop through. Fancy those swords are more expensive than this whole shitty inn, eh?”

“Likely not,” Azriel says with a frown. “Two hot meals, please.”

“Alright, alright, the strong, silent type. Got it. Don’t you worry, Greta will take care of you. Here’s your ale, I’ll get you a meal that will fill both of your bellies to bursting and maybe you’ll share some of those pretty coppers I know you have with Greta.”

Azriel takes the steins and tries to avoid eye contact with anyone else in the tavern. Even with the glamors, they stand out.

When Eris drops into the booth beside him — one Azriel acquired by swooping in before another raggedy band of humans could beat him to it, cowed only by his size to move on — he’s grimacing into the pale brown reflection in his drink. There’s a fly floating on the surface he’s been debating removing.

“We should have had Lucien give us less teeth in the glamor,” Eris grumbles.

Azriel looks up and notes the flush on the male’s face, the obvious aggravation in the tense draw of his shoulders.

“Tried to swindle you, too?”

“The astronomical rate the innkeep charged me and for one bloody room, Mother above.”

Azriel freezes.

There’s only one key on the table between them.

Eris exhales into his drink before taking a strong pull of the weak alcohol. Azriel watches the bobbing of his throat as Eris swallows, the press of his lips as he removes the cup and the quick dart of his tongue to swipe any foam from his upper lip. It’s nearly distracting enough to pull his thoughts from the critical detail Eris seems to be brushing over.

“How many rooms?”

The High Lord looks at Azriel’s still full stein. “Why haven’t you — Cauldron, that’s disgusting. Go get a new one, why are you brooding over it instead?”

“Because Greta will shout to the tavern again that we are sizable targets to steal from and when I have to kick all of their asses, it’ll risk blowing our cover,” Azriel says through his teeth. “Eris. How. Many. Rooms.”

Eris clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth and shrugs, averting his gaze. “One. It’s all they had left.”

“How many beds?”

“Stop asking stupid questions.”

And just like that, the truce broken.

“It’s not stupid,” Azriel growls, and every overwrought nerve ending is screaming at him to reach across the table and strangle this good-for-nothing, spoiled High Lord with his nose in the air and complete disregard for —

“Grow up, Azriel. Haven’t you shared a bed before? You have brothers.”

“Not in centuries. I like my privacy.”

Eris shrugs. “You’re welcome to your privacy out with the horses then.”

“Prick.”

Their meals are set on the table in front of them. Eris smiles up at Greta and her lack of teeth and attempts to push her assets together in an enticing manner.

“My companion here needs a fresh ale, could you be a darling and get him one minus the fly?”

“Oh my! Oh no! Let me fix that right up!”

“No, it’s fine —”

Azriel and Eris lock stares across the table, all three of them grasping at the stein.

Greta fumbles, “Sir …Surely you don’t want to drink a fly?”

Eris’s russet eyes burn with repressed flames. “You’re not so uncivilized, right, Azriel?”

Damn him, of course Azriel doesn’t want a drink with a fly, but Eris has no right to make decisions for him. Anger burns through him, indignation at having his own problem solved for him, like Eris has any right with his handsome face and swaggering charm to just —

Greta laughs awkwardly. “I’ll just bring you a fresh one, let you two sort this out.”

At least he won’t have to worry about the barmaid flirting with either of them again. The stein falls to the table in a clatter and ale and the fly leaps over the sides … Right onto Eris’s slice of buttered bread.

The fly’s wings twitch as the ale soaks into the bread.

Eris bares his teeth at Azriel. “Do you feel satisfied now, you Illyrian —”

“ — here we go, I knew you were full of —”

“ — I’ve been nothing but decent, you’re the child that can’t —”

“Here’s that fresh ale! Oh … I’ll get you another slice of bread, sir … but it’ll cost you.”

Eris grimaces through a smile at the barmaid. “That will be amenable, Greta. Thank you.”

They brood over their dinners, silenced by the woman’s uncomfortable gaze. At least the food is as hearty as Eris claimed it would be, even if they’re searching for more surprise seasonings of bugs.

Lively music and the din of the crowd fills the space between them.

Exhaustion tugs at Azriel.

All he wants is to stretch out on a semi-decent mattress and rest his eyes and body for a few hours. But the best he’ll get is a sliver of that. If not for the logistical nightmare of the sheer size of both of them trying to fit in one bed without touching, the unpleasant —alright, occasionally pleasant— surge of feelings that close proximity to Eris causes in Azriel…

Sleep will be difficult, even as exhaustion settles into the very marrow of his bones.

It’s just like sleeping with his brothers, he tells himself. Not that his cheeks flush with heat or his skin feels too tight just at the thought of sleeping beside Cass or Rhys.

Gods, he’s screwed.

And now he’s been a complete idiot about the ale.

Azriel scoops the last of the meal into his mouth and dabs at his mouth politely. When Greta had promised their bellies would be bursting, she likely didn’t realize she was feeding an Illyrian sized appetite.

There’s still food on Eris’s plate.

He’s barely eaten the meat, sticking to the greens and potatoes. Azriel furrows his brow. Is Autumn Court largely vegetarian? Or is the High Lord just too snobby?

“What?” Eris asks, setting his fork down and sitting back.

Azriel looks between his plate and the male. “Are you … going to eat that?”

“I can’t stop thinking about that fly.”

“Haven’t you had worse out in the field?”

Eris looks around the tavern as he admits, “I haven’t been in the field in a while. My palette has become more refined.”

“Spoiled, you mean.”

“Fine. Spoiled.” Eris shoves the plate towards Azriel. “Have at it.”

Setting aside the flare of anger between them, Azriel accepts the plate with a polite dip of his chin. He needs to get control of himself before they’re in one bed, trying to navigate the small space.

Admittedly, the more food he inhales, the less slighted he feels over Eris trading out the ale anyway.

Eris’s eyelids are drooping by the time Azriel scrapes off the last bite of meat and gravy.

“I’ve ridden hard before, but it must be the lack of magic,” Eris says through a yawn. “I feel drained. Almost like —”

“ — faebane?”

“Exactly.”

At least there’s none of the stomach churning nausea to go along with this form of magicless exhaustion.

They pay Greta and Azriel slides a few extra coppers into her hand out of guilt for his display of emotion she had to bear witness to.

“Well. It’s a bed.”

Azriel sighs despondently.

A small bed compared to the one he has at home, that he’s used to winnowing to whenever he does rest. So, maybe Eris isn’t the only one spoiled by the passage of time and changes in positions and the luxuries those positions afford.

“At least I don’t have my wings,” Azriel says with a sigh. It would have been impossible with them.

Eris unbuckles his sword belt and sets it on the narrow table. He begins unfastening the buttons on his jacket, his boots next, until he’s standing in only an undershirt and his trousers. Freckles dot the pale skin exposed from his loose collar that bares his clavicles, the strong muscles of his neck and shoulders that are lined by the thin fabric the rest of the way down.

Strong. It’s not easy to forget this High Lord has earned his place.

“Don’t bring road dust into the bed,” Eris says absently, otherwise not commenting on Azriel’s hesitation to undress when they’re both standing so close in the small square footage of the room.

He climbs into the bed and shoves himself against the wall. There’s just enough space remaining for Azriel.

Suddenly self conscious, he blows the candle out before shucking his sword and jacket. At home, he sleeps in the buff, but of course on a mission, with Eris in his bed —

Why is he even thinking about that implausible scenario?

Azriel toes off his boots and slips under the covers.

Their shoulders touch if they both lay on their backs. The quick touch sparks a quick movement in both of them to readjust, surprising Azriel. Eris is just as jumpy, and this close he can pick up the High Lord’s elevated heart rate.

So, this isn’t straightforward for either of them.

Eris clears his throat once they’ve finished shifting and the bed no longer creaks beneath their substantial bulk.

“I don’t believe I properly thanked you yet for agreeing to accompany me on this mission. I know you understand how important it is to keep Prythian safe, but without you …”

“You’d be going into a suicide mission?”

The click of Eris swallowing is like a bell ringing. In the dark, neither of them can see the other’s face, read the vulnerability that opening up to a lifelong enemy entails, but there’s other tells.

“Why did you offer to do it then? If you knew I’d be justified to say no?”

“The truth is maudlin… and a little bit pathetic. But we’re getting close to seven hundred and I’ve heard that’s when the sentimentality starts to creep in for anyone other than my prick of a father.”

“Sentimentality or senility?” Azriel quips out of instinct, then corrects quickly, “Sorry. Go ahead.”

Eris chuckles low and warm.

It sends a shiver down Azriel’s spine, and the soft huff of air as the other male must have angled towards Azriel draws across the exposed skin of his arm in his short sleeve shirt. The fine hairs there prickle in response, drawing to attention in the same way every nerve ending seems to with the shift in their discussion.

“Everything Lucien has overcome, his spirit to impact change. It inspired me. And my mother is so proud of the male he’s grown into.”

Azriel thinks of his own mother. The worry creases along her lines when she asks after his well being, if he’s been taking care of himself … Does he make his mother proud? She says he does, but is that simply because he hasn’t remained as the little boy locked away? Has he actually accomplished anything to make her truly proud?

“It’s pathetic, I know.”

“It’s not,” Azriel says quickly. Too quickly. Heat rises from his chest, up his neck, and creeps across his cheeks.

Eris sighs. “It’s naive to assume I can accomplish anything through a grand gesture, but I know how everyone questions if I’ve really changed. They don’t understand what it took to survive Beron’s iron rule … But I would like to be an honorable male who can act in the light, like Lucien.”

Silence blankets them until Azriel wonders if Eris has drifted into sleep.

He knows his entire being is screaming for rest and he’s fighting the urge tooth and nail because … because those words mean something. Eris is sharing something significant and Azriel had agreed to join him because of the need to protect his own loved ones, but now.

Now he’s glad he’s here with Eris.

Eris shifts on the mattress and their arms brush. Azriel doesn’t jerk away this time. Eris has paused, but when Azriel doesn’t move, he relaxes his body into the position.

“Since I’m tied to your grand gesture, I guess maybe it will drag both of us into the light,” Azriel says, the words quiet like a secret.

“We can both look like fools together.”

“As long as we’re successful fools.”

Eris laughs through his nose and Az doesn’t stop the small smile from parting his lips as his eyelids slide shut.

“Lets focus on getting out of this alive and we’ll see about the rest.”

Azriel doesn’t respond. His stomach is alight with too many feelings, anticipation and excitement. Thankfully it's all drenched in his heavy meal and half of Eris’s and so his mind can’t race for too long.

Maybe he’s been fighting this undeniable draw between them for too long, holding on to an old feud solely to keep this distance wedged between them.

As Eris’s breath even out beside him, Azriel shifts ever so slightly to increase the span of their bodies that touch in the bed.

Maybe it’s time to remove the distance.

#azris #azriel x eris #azriel #eris vanserra #acotar winter gift exchange 2023 #acotar #acotar fanfic #my writing

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definitelynotstable · 8 months

Text

Camomile pt. 15 [Ghost x gn!Reader]

pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt. 5, pt. 6, pt. 7, pt. 8, pt. 9, pt. 10, pt. 11, pt. 12, pt. 13, pt. 14, pt. 15

AN: plot at the start and fluffy hurt/comfort at the end.

Synopsis: Closely follows the “Cartel Protection” and "Close Air" missions from the mw2 (reboot). Rights to the game developers <;3 Word count: 2.1k Warnings: canon divergence, canon typical violence, guns, wounds, swearing, death etc Ghost x gn!Reader (Callsign: Rags)

✧˚ · .

Ghost makes it across the ledge behind you and hauls you to your feet. You’re in a daze as you follow Soap and Alejandro over the rocks. Bullets ping and whir but your sole focus is the back of Soap and Alejandro. There’s no cover to pause and return fire, your only choice is to run and hope they miss.

Suddenly Alejandro stops.

“You’ve led us to a dead end mate!” Ghost yells from behind you and you flinch, looking up. Beyond the ledge is a sheer drop which leads down to a narrow gorge.

“We jump from here!” The colonel calls back and you freeze, “Don’t loose your weapons!”

Your feet have become one with the stone beneath them as Alejandro and Soap jump from the edge. Ghost tugs at your arm and you turn to meet his gave with wide eyes.

“It’s jump or die, Sergeant.” He says sternly but not unkindly, pushing you forwards as the bullet spray nears.

You gulp, grasping his hand tightly on instinct as your chest constricts painfully.

“Together?” You ask, knowing you’ll have to jump sooner rather than later regardless of his answer.

“Together.” He confirms, tugging your forwards and stepping from the cliff.

✧˚ · .

The water is a shock. It isn’t too cold but the impact is jarring. It streams up your nose and you resist the urge to gasp, struggling against the weight of your gear to paddle to the top. A hand wraps around your tactical vest and yanks you to the surface.

“Move down river to the bridge!” Alejandro calls, muffled by the water as you emerge. “Use the rocks for cover!”

Pushing back the memories that cling to you alongside the water, you focus on the burn in your shoulders as you pull yourself through the water.

“All stations, this is Victor-0-1. How copy?” Alejandro calls over the comms, buzzing in your ear.

“–dow-1! Do you–? –ay again. –o you’re–?”

A distinctly American drawl answers, static crackling and cutting him off.

“Radio’s picking up something.” Soap confirms from in front of you.

Ghost is beside you now, pulling through the water with more strength than you. “Sounds American.”

“Could be Graves?” You ask, arms burning as you push to keep up. “The PMCs Shepherd hired?”

“Sounds like it,” Soap nods back at you, finding a rock and pulling himself up against it as the water splashes and sprays; the gunfire picking back up.

The army hides in the trees along the bank and you rest your gun on a flat rock in front of you, scoping them out amongst the treeline. There’s too many to take out at once but together you manage to clear enough hostiles to give you time to make way upstream. It becomes almost a game. Take cover behind a group of rocks, return fire, dive below and swim upstream to the next set of rocks before pausing again and firing.

You round the bend and eventually the bridge comes into view. Armoured vehicles are parked in a convoy, on the offensive.

“Armoured vehicles on the bridge!” Ghost calls over the radio, an unspoken question in his voice. Are they friendly?

“They’re not ours!” Alejandro swears, clambering up to settle behind another rock. “Fuck! It’s the army.”

Bullets fly from the bridge, they have a clear vantage point and armour to cover.

“We can’t do shite against their armour!” Soap calls out to Alejandro who has his back to the rocks, reloading.

“We have to hold here to get extraction!” He replies, popping out and sending a barrage of bullets in their direction.

Suddenly the radio crackles to life, the American accent clearer than ever.

“This is Shadow-1! Engaging the bridge north of your position. Danger close!”

“Thank fuck.” You breath, holding your fire.

“Who the hell is that?.” Alejandro asks, turning to you and Ghost, mistrust in his gaze.

“Commander Graves,” Ghost replies, “Shadow Company. They’re with us.”

The rocks beneath you shake and bridge explodes. Flaming bits of debris splashing into the water below.

“Shadow-1,” Ghost grips his radio, when the screeching of metal lessens, “Bravo 0-7, Good shots! Fire for effect!”

Soap lets out a boyish “whoop!” As the last bit of the bridge crumbles into the river. He’s arguably smartest out of all of you to be a demo-expert but at the end of the day still just a guy who enjoys blowing shit up.

“All stations, no enemy movement detected. You’re clear.”

✧˚ · .

You make it to extraction, sopping wet but pumping full of adrenaline. Grave’s sends coordinates – a hit on Hassan nearby – and you slip into the back seat with Ghost as Alejandro slides behind the wheel, Soap in the passenger seat. The radio buzzes as you pull up to another compound, not unlike the last.

“Ghost this is Shadow-1, orbiting the compound now. Standing by for visual.”

Ghost grips his radio, the vehicle pulling to a rolling stop next to a shed and some barrels. “Shadow-1, Bravo 0-7. We’ll make our location with IR laser, over.”

With a “roger” from Graves, you pile out of the car, guns raised.

“How do we find Hassan?” Soap asks the question that’s been balancing on the tip of your tongue.

“He’ll have an armed guard, cartel protection.” Alejandro replies, heading off towards the scattered buildings.

Ghost radios off the information to Graves and the party begins.

✧˚ · .

It’s not often you’re able to work with the kind of firepower Graves and his men employ. National incidents are always a risk and a shit-ton of redcap to prevent them.

PMCs don’t have those kinds of parameters.

Within ten minutes the compound is set ablaze. It’s a mess but a well orchestrated one. Ghost holds comms with Graves and soon you’re leading Hassan in cuffs towards an armoured car.

“I am a Quds force Major! You have no right–!”

–“Shut the fuck up!” Soap interrupts, ramming him into the side of the vehicle as you open the door.

“You will pay dearly for this!” The Major growls and spits in your face and you flinch away with a scowl.

“Ok fuckass.” You call back, giving the door a hefty slam once Soap slides in beside him. Ghost rounds the car and sits on the other side as Alejandro greets Rodolfo with a grin.

You’re left with the back to yourself and sit with your gun between your legs, eyes sharp and alert as they follow the landscape that flies through the back window.

It’s dark by the time the convoy rolls to a stop beside Graves and his crew. The trucks converge on a centre point, headlights creating a bastardised spotlight where Alejandro forces Hassan to his knees.

You stand beside to your Lieutenant, just out of view of the scuffed laptop Graves has set up to stream a visual to Laswell and Shepherd.

“You know we can’t hold him.” You murmur to Ghost who leans down, ear tilted towards you.

He nods with a sigh, readjusting his grip on his rifle, “Shepherd and Laswell know that.”

“I know they know that –“ You gesture at the man who is currently taunting Hassan, a grin on his lips, –“but does Graves?”

The discussion becomes heated and Graves picks up the laptop before slamming is back down on the bonnet of the truck.

“Actual, let me finish this.” He sounds like a schoolboy, eager to please his father.

“There’s nothing I would like more,” Shepherd drawls through the grainy screen, “But Laswell’s right. Without proof we need to turn him loose. See where he leads us.”

Soap lets out a frustrated growl, joining Graves by the laptop. “He’s right here, you can’t be serious!”

“I’m afraid I am, son.”

Ghost moves besides you and your eyes catch something reflecting in hands. You grab the phone from your Lieutenant and step forwards with a frown.

“Did we get anything from his phone?”

“Affirmative. We got a hit.” She says, eyes narrowed as smoke swirls around her, Illuminated in the blue glow of her laptop.

“Good.” Shepherd responds, “Now take him back and let him go.”

✧˚ · .

It’s past midnight when you roll into base. It feels like a failure, having to let the Major loose and the men stumble from the trucks into the barracks without the usual banter of a successful mission.

As one of the few countries with women in the Special Forces, the base at Las Almas has a seperate wing – albeit small and unkept. The shower teeters between boiling hot and freezing cold but by the end you manage to pull the tangles from your hair. If you were allowed sweatpants while on missions you’d have pulled them on but instead you settle for a pair of grey cargos and a long-sleeve black shirt.

Stuffing a couple of teabags into your pocket, you let your door click shut behind you and step cautiously into the hallway.

“Rags?”

You freeze at the voice of your Lieutenant. You turn to face him and he tilts his head, surveying you.

“Where’re you headin’?”

You fumble with your pocket, pulling out the crumpled tea to show him.

“A kitchen? And maybe a kettle.”

Ghost huffs out a laugh, eyes crinkling. He unfurls his palm towards you and you step closer to have a look at what he holds. Two camomile teabags sit perfectly in his hand; it’s as though he’s ironed them.

The kitchen isn’t far and he leads you inside, holding the door open as you pass. It’s warmly lit and smells of tobacco. A couple of glasses sir on the table alongside a deck of cards.

“Soap and Alejandro.” Ghost comments as he notices you inspecting the remnants of the game. “You just missed ‘em.”

You nod and come to stand beside him, arms crossed as you watch the kettle boil. A pale hand brushes your cheek and you meet Ghosts eyes in surprise.

“What’s this?’

You raise a hand and trace the cut lightly with your finger. His hand remains. “A rock or something, I think – not sure.”

He watches you carefully, as usual saying more with his eyes than he does with his mouth. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

“Hm?”

He drops his hand from your cheek to the base of your neck where it meets your shoulder. You hesitantly meet his gaze.

“Rodriguez. It wasn’t your fault.” His eyes are soft and warm and full of understanding.

It makes the beast of guilt inside you squirm and rear its head. You pull a lip between your teeth and hope it disguises the wobble that’s started. But you eyes sting all the same and you will the moisture gathering there to dissolve before he sees.

A thumb swipes across your cheekbone, however, and catches a tear you hadn’t realised escaped. He’s standing close to you now and you feel exhaustion surge like a wave. Without thinking, your forehead drops forwards and thumps softly against his clavicle. You sniff, too tired to register the professional boundary that you may have just crossed but wasn’t that bridge burned long ago?

A hand settles gently in your hair and you suck in a shaky breath, tears staining his navy shirt. He smells like deodorant and a hint of camomile lingers on the hand which cups the back of your head.

“I know it isn’t.” You say finally, sniffing again. “But it feels like it is.”

You pull away from him and his hand falls to rest on your shoulder.

“I had to push him off.” You swallow thickly, searching his eyes for something, anything, that will alleviate your pain. “I had to shove his body off the fucking cliff.”

Ghosts eyes mirror your own. “I know.”

You step away, shaking your head, and reach for the kettle, needing something to occupy yourself with under his piercing gaze.

“I know I didn’t pull the trigger. I know it could’ve been any of us but why him. Why there?” You’ve started crying again and tears run down your cheeks in streams. Your voice cracks. “Where he used to play as a child.”

Strong arms wrap around you as the world blurs; a large hand rubbing firm circles on your back as you gasp. “I know.” He whispers, chin settling on the crown of your head.

“It isn’t fair.”

“It isn’t.” He agrees. “It never is.”

“Why.” You demand, knowing how illogical and stupid the question sounds. But instead of laughing, the lieutenant presses his lips into your hair.

“I don’t know.”

✧˚ · .

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istumpysk · 7 months

Text

OPERATION ICEBERG: THE TIER LIST

THEORY:

Tormund Giantsbane x Maege Mormont

TIER:

People's Choice! Great job on Lemongate, I feel more at ease putting my faith in you again.

Possible: These theories could be true, but additional evidence is needed, as different interpretations or errors are possible.

vs.

Under Consideration: These theories haven't garnered strong or extensive evidence, but they're worthy of discussion.

vs.

50/50: These theories are complete toss-ups.

vs.

Low Probability: While not impossible, these theories are unlikely based on the current evidence.

[Tier list overview]

EVIDENCE:

Gather 'round, children. This is a fun one.

The theory:

The Tormund Giantsbane x Maege Mormont theory suggests that they may have had one or several intimate encounters, and Tormund could potentially be the father of one or more of Maege Mormont's daughters.

The proof:

In A Storm of Swords, the character Tormund Giantsbane is introduced, and we learn his various titles, one of which is "Husband to Bears."

Mance Rayder laughed. "As you wish. Jon Snow, before you stands Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. And here also Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts." - Jon I, ASOS

The sigil of House Mormont is a black bear. Members of the Mormont family, who hail from Bear Island, are frequently referred to as bears within the story.

The Mormonts of Bear Island were an old house, proud and honorable, but their lands were cold and distant and poor. - Eddard II, AGOT

The maester had taught him all the banners: the mailed fist of the Glovers, silver on scarlet; Lady Mormont's black bear; the hideous flayed man that went before Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort; a bull moose for the Hornwoods; a battle-axe for the Cerwyns; three sentinel trees for the Tallharts; and the fearsome sigil of House Umber, a roaring giant in shattered chains. - Bran VI, AGOT

"I am touched by your concern, Lord Mormont." The strong drink was making Tyrion light-headed, but not so drunk that he did not realize that the Old Bear wanted something from him. - Tyrion III, AGOT

Catelyn smiled despite herself. "You are braver than I am, I fear. Are all your Bear Island women such warriors?" "She-bears, aye," said Lady Maege. - Catelyn V, ASOS

"He wants you," said the She-Bear, after his third visit. Her proper name was Alysane of House Mormont, but she wore the other name as easily as she wore her mail. - The King's Prize, ADWD

Ser Jorah had been with her then, her gruff old bear. - Daenerys X, ADWD

Maege Mormont, the head of House Mormont, has five daughters: Dacey (now deceased), Alysane, Lyra, Jorelle, and Lyanna.

No one knows the father of Maege's children or if she married. Yet, all her daughters bear (ha!) the Mormont surname, and none appear to be considered bastards.

The tale that's commonly told is that Lady Maege took a bear as her lover, and this bear is the father of her children.

Maege Mormont is called Mormont because no one knows her husband's name, or even if she has one. - So Spake Martin

"Aye, Dywen says. And the last time he went ranging, he says he saw a bear fifteen feet tall." Mormont snorted. "My sister is said to have taken a bear for her lover. I'd believe that before I'd believe one fifteen feet tall. Though in a world where dead come walking . . . ah, even so, a man must believe his eyes. I have seen the dead walk. I've not seen any giant bears." - Jon I, ACOK

"Whoever the king names will not have an easy time stepping into your armor, I can tell. Lord Mormont faces the same problem." Lord Janos looked puzzled. "I thought she was a lady. Mormont. Beds down with bears, that's the one?" - Tyrion II, ACOK

"No. My children were fathered by a bear." Alysane smiled. Her teeth were crooked, but there was something ingratiating about that smile. "Mormont women are skinchangers. We turn into bears and find mates in the woods. Everyone knows." - The King's Prize, ADWD

Tormund is no bear, but you might say he's built like one.

Beside the brazier, a short but immensely broad man sat on a stool, eating a hen off a skewer. Hot grease was running down his chin and into his snow-white beard, but he smiled happily all the same. Thick gold bands graven with runes bound his massive arms, and he wore a heavy shirt of black ringmail that could only have come from a dead ranger. - Jon I, ASOS

But as the distance between them diminished Jon saw that the horseman was short and broad, with gold rings glinting on thick arms and a white beard spreading out across his massive chest. - Jon X, ASOS

He was not a tall man, Tormund Giantsbane, but the gods had given him a broad chest and massive belly. - Jon XI, ADWD

In the culture of the free folk, men often "steal" women for marriage, demonstrating their strength.

We look up at the same stars, and see such different things. The King's Crown was the Cradle, to hear her tell it; the Stallion was the Horned Lord; the red wanderer that septons preached was sacred to their Smith up here was called the Thief. And when the Thief was in the Moonmaid, that was a propitious time for a man to steal a woman, Ygritte insisted. "Like the night you stole me. The Thief was bright that night." - Jon III, ASOS

"He's of my village. You know nothing, Jon Snow. A true man steals a woman from afar, t' strengthen the clan. Women who bed brothers or fathers or clan kin offend the gods, and are cursed with weak and sickly children. Even monsters." - Jon III, ASOS

"Harma and the Bag of Bones don't come raiding for fish and apples. They steal swords and axes. Spices, silks, and furs. They grab every coin and ring and jeweled cup they can find, casks of wine in summer and casks of beef in winter, and they take women in any season and carry them off beyond the Wall." - Jon V, ASOS

Bear Island is a secluded island in the north, situated in the Bay of Ice. Due to frequent raids by the free folk and the ironborn, Mormont women have become fierce warriors to prevent being carried off.

Catelyn smiled despite herself. "You are braver than I am, I fear. Are all your Bear Island women such warriors?" "She-bears, aye," said Lady Maege. "We have needed to be. In olden days the ironmen would come raiding in their longboats, or wildlings from the Frozen Shore. The men would be off fishing, like as not. The wives they left behind had to defend themselves and their children, or else be carried off." - Catelyn V, ASOS

(map!)

Now, for the crucial evidence.

In A Storm of Swords, Jon asks Tormund about his titles. Out of all Tormund's designations, the author chooses to delve into the backstory of "Husband of Bears."

We'll dissect this story step by step. However, please remember that Tormund is known for exaggerations and fabrications. Distinguishing fact from fiction and extracting the elements of truth can be tricky.

"Are all crows so curious?" asked Tormund. "Well, here's a tale for you. It were another winter, colder even than the one I spent inside that giant, and snowing day and night, snowflakes as big as your head, not these little things. It snowed so hard the whole village was half buried. I was in me Ruddy Hall, with only a cask o' mead to keep me company and nothing to do but drink it. The more I drank the more I got to thinking about this woman lived close by, a fine strong woman with the biggest pair of teats you ever saw. She had a temper on her, that one, but oh, she could be warm too, and in the deep of winter a man needs his warmth. "The more I drank the more I thought about her, and the more I thought the harder me member got, till I couldn't suffer it no more. Fool that I was, I bundled meself up in furs from head to heels, wrapped a winding wool around me face, and set off to find her. The snow was coming down so hard I got turned around once or twice, and the wind blew right through me and froze me bones, but finally I come on her, all bundled up like I was. "The woman had a terrible temper, and she put up quite the fight when I laid hands on her. It was all I could do to carry her home and get her out o' them furs, but when I did, oh, she was hotter even than I remembered, and we had a fine old time, and then I went to sleep. Next morning when I woke the snow had stopped and the sun was shining, but I was in no fit state to enjoy it. All ripped and torn I was, and half me member bit right off, and there on me floor was a she-bear's pelt. And soon enough the free folk were telling tales o' this bald bear seen in the woods, with the queerest pair o' cubs behind her. Har!" He slapped a meaty thigh. "Would that I could find her again. She was fine to lay with, that bear. Never was a woman gave me such a fight, nor such strong sons neither." - Jon II, ASOS

I was in me Ruddy Hall, with only a cask o' mead to keep me company and nothing to do but drink it.

Tormund is first introduced as Mead-king of Ruddy Hall. Ruddy Hall is beyond the Wall, but we don't know where.

The more I drank the more I got to thinking about this woman lived close by

Regardless of where Ruddy Hall is located beyond the Wall, it wouldn't be near Maege Mormont.

a fine strong woman with the biggest pair of teats you ever saw.

Maege Mormont is short and stout, and likely has large breasts like her daughter Alysane.

The daughter was tall and lean, the mother short and stout, but they dressed alike in mail and leather, with the black bear of House Mormont on shield and surcoat. - Catelyn V, ASOS

She had a temper on her, that one, but oh, she could be warm too, and in the deep of winter a man needs his warmth.

Maege Mormont has a temper,

The Old Bear sighed. "You are not the only one touched by this war. Like as not, my sister is marching in your brother's host, her and those daughters of hers, dressed in men's mail. Maege is a hoary old snark, stubborn, short-tempered, and willful. Truth be told, I can hardly stand to be around the wretched woman, but that does not mean my love for her is any less than the love you bear your half sisters." - Jon IX, AGOT

but she can also be warm.

Lady Mormont took her hand and said, "My lady, if Cersei Lannister held two of my daughters, I would have done the same." - Catelyn II, ASOS

Catelyn had grown fond of Lady Maege and her eldest daughter, Dacey; they were more understanding than most in the matter of Jaime Lannister, she had found. - Catelyn V, ASOS

Fool that I was, I bundled meself up in furs from head to heels, wrapped a winding wool around me face, and set off to find her. The snow was coming down so hard I got turned around once or twice, and the wind blew right through me and froze me bones, but finally I come on her, all bundled up like I was.

If he started at Ruddy Hall, Tormund would have needed a boat to reach Maege Mormont. He couldn't have walked.

Edit: D'oh. Thank you to @transdimensional-void and @grennseyelashes for pointing out the Bay of Ice could freeze over.

The woman had a terrible temper, and she put up quite the fight when I laid hands on her.

Maege Mormont is a fierce warrior.

Catelyn smiled despite herself. "You are braver than I am, I fear. Are all your Bear Island women such warriors?" "She-bears, aye," said Lady Maege. "We have needed to be. [...]" - Catelyn V, ASOS

The daughter was tall and lean, the mother short and stout, but they dressed alike in mail and leather, with the black bear of House Mormont on shield and surcoat. By Catelyn's lights, that was queer garb for a lady, yet Dacey and Lady Maege seemed more comfortable, both as warriors and as women, than ever the girl from Tarth had been. - Catelyn V, ASOS

It was all I could do to carry her home and get her out o' them furs, but when I did, oh, she was hotter even than I remembered, and we had a fine old time, and then I went to sleep.

Again, he couldn't have taken her home without a boat.

Edit: D'oh. Thank you to @transdimensional-void and @grennseyelashes for pointing out the Bay of Ice could freeze over.

All ripped and torn I was, and half me member bit right off, and there on me floor was a she-bear's pelt.

She-bear has only ever been used to describe women associated with House Mormont.

Catelyn smiled despite herself. "You are braver than I am, I fear. Are all your Bear Island women such warriors?" "She-bears, aye," said Lady Maege. - Catelyn V, ASOS

Ser Jorah sat up in his hammock. "Befriend her, then. Marry her, for all I care." That left a bad taste in his mouth as well. "Like with like, is that your notion? Do you mean to find a she-bear for yourself, ser?" - Tyrion VIII, ASOS

Alysane Mormont, whose men name her the She-Bear, hid fighters inside a gaggle of fishing sloops and took the ironmen unawares where they lay off the strand. - Jon VII, ADWD

And soon enough the free folk were telling tales o' this bald bear seen in the woods

This is a bit goofy, but a She-Bear leaving behind her pelt and wandering around bald is somewhat reminiscent of Alysane Mormont's tale about Mormont women being skinchangers.

"Mormont women are skinchangers. We turn into bears and find mates in the woods. Everyone knows." - The King's Prize, ADWD

with the queerest pair o' cubs behind her. Would that I could find her again. She was fine to lay with, that bear.

Tormund seems to be suggesting that this was a one-time affair, yet he also mentions that it resulted in a pair of children. Tricky.

Lady Mormont has five children with significant age gaps. If he's their father, it would require multiple visits over several decades. If 'cub' shouldn't be plural and he's only the father of one daughter, then which one might it be?

Probably not Dacey Mormont. She was six-foot-tall, pretty, lanky, willowy, and graceful — nothing like Tormund.

The most probable candidate is Alysane Mormont. She shares a build with Tormund (and Maege), is now the heir to Bear Island, and is the most prominently featured Mormont daughter in the story.

Short, chunky, muscular, the heir to Bear Island had big thighs, big breasts, and big hands ridged with callus. - The King's Prize, ADWD

Never was a woman gave me such a fight, nor such strong sons neither.

Sons, plural. After potentially just one encounter. That's a problem.

He might simply be referring to two of his four sons: Toregg, Torwynd, Dryn, and Dormund. Their mother's identity remains unknown.

However, while Maege Mormont has no sons, she does have five daughters with impressively strong characters who comfortably take on traditionally masculine roles.

Stout, grey-haired Maege Mormont, dressed in mail like a man, told Robb bluntly that he was young enough to be her grandson, and had no business giving her commands … but as it happened, she had a granddaughter she would be willing to have him marry. - Bran VI, AGOT

Like as not, my sister is marching in your brother's host, her and those daughters of hers, dressed in men's mail. - Jon IX, AGOT

One of his companions was even a woman: Dacey Mormont, Lady Maege's eldest daughter and heir to Bear Island, a lanky six-footer who had been given a morningstar at an age when most girls were given dolls. Some of the other lords muttered about that, but Catelyn would not listen to their complaints. - Catelyn X, AGOT

"I have fought beside the Young Wolf in every battle," Dacey Mormont said cheerfully. "He has not lost one yet." - Catelyn V, ASOS

Smalljon Umber and Robin Flint sat near Robb, to the other side of Fair Walda and Alyx, respectively. Neither of them was drinking; along with Patrek Mallister and Dacey Mormont, they were her son's guards this evening. - Catelyn VII, ASOS

Her proper name was Alysane of House Mormont, but she wore the other name as easily as she wore her mail. Short, chunky, muscular, the heir to Bear Island had big thighs, big breasts, and big hands ridged with callus. Even in sleep she wore ringmail under her furs, boiled leather under that, and an old sheepskin under the leather, turned inside out for warmth. All those layers made her look almost as wide as she was tall. And ferocious. Sometimes it was hard for Asha Greyjoy to remember that she and the She-Bear were almost of an age. - The King's Prize, ADWD

Stannis read from the letter. "Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is STARK. A girl of ten, you say, and she presumes to scold her lawful king." - Jon I, ADWD

But again, there are age gaps between all of them, and this would necessitate multiple trips to Bear Island.

Other things to consider:

It's possible that Tormund's She-Bear is actually Alysane Mormont, who has a son and a daughter and also asserts that their father is a bear. However, considering Alysane's age (mid-twenties), it seems more plausible that the She-Bear is Maege.

Some people believe the title "Breaker of Ice" might allude to the Bay of Ice, but that's a stretch.

Tormund has five other children, and he seems to be actively involved in their lives.

Alysane Mormont is currently headed to Castle Black, so there might be more clues ahead.

STUMPY'S THOUGHTS:

Maege Mormont being carried off by Tormund, only to rise in the middle of the night and take herself back home, is one of the more amusing tales I can think of. I mean, if you ignore the rape part.

Truly, I don't even know what tier to put this in. There are so many issues with that story, but given Tormund's nature, it's hard to discern what's real from what's not.

VOTE:

I welcome discussions. Feel free to reblog, respond, or challenge my perspective—I won't be offended by any of it.

Please note, if "no" is the eventual winner, or if it's competitive, a second poll will be conducted to determine the proper location.

NEXT THEORY:

Theon's bastard

[Main menu]

#operation iceberg #asoiaf theory tier list #theory 14 #tormund giantsbane x maege mormont

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gremlingottoosilly · 1 year

Text

Just one shot [Military photographer!Reader x CoD characters] part two

You successfully escaped the hell of the art school — in debt, with nothing but your(shitty) camera, a diploma and disappointed parents who never understood your life choices. Being a part if the military wasn’t your first option, but what else can you do? And at least, people here are fun to work with…

Content: female!Reader, lots of bad jokes, young!Reader, nationality is not stated but has a strong accent, a little bit of angst, I have really vague understanding of the army, Reader is short&not really strong, slow burn, Reader is shy and not very social

Character focus in this chapter: Soap, Gaz

🤨📸

Being one of the few women on base, who were not constantly engaging in combat or military trainings, had more downsides than benefits. You are not just weaker than your fellow soldiers, since your profession let you escape the gym as long as you wanted, but also more desirable to pick on. Short, shy, forced to talk to everyone so you make photos for the yearbook of each unit, while working exclusively alone — by all means, you are the perfect victim to evil pranks and not very clever romance attempts.

Right now, for example, you were clinging to your camera, while desperately trying to look for the way to escape a soldier’s grasp without making too much noise or attack him directly. You are good with riffles, and the camera is heavy enough to be considered a weapon — but still, you are not a close combat fighter.

Of course, this guy was trying to ask you out — a typical behavior for boys who haven’t been in touch with reality for a whole months straight, and were seeing you as an easy target. You hated this and you hates the feeling of helplessness that came with such situations — but there was mostly nothing you could do.

— Aye, mate. I would advise yer stop bothering our fine lassie out here and shut yer puss.

Oh.

There he is, your prince with mohawk and accent that you still can’t quite process.

You never knew that seeing his weirdly serious expression would make you cheeks blush, but you decided to blame it on the general anxiety of this situation. A recruit who was harassing you quickly disappeared after a friendly hand of Soap resting on his shoulder. You didn’t exactly knew what he was saying to him, but it was clear, that not something all fun and cheerful.

And still, Johny — even if would never dare to call him that — saved you. Now you were standing in the hallway, with your camera held close to your chest, and shaky, still unstable legs.

— Thank you, sergeant. I was…well, I wasn’t expecting him to being so stubborn about wanting to know me.

— Yer were standing here like a deer in headlights. He was quite a munter, but why didn’t you said anything, lassie?

— Thought we were alone and it would be useless. Plus, I was really worried that he could broke my camera if I would refuse him too harshly, so…yeah.

You tried to smile, to make some silly joke out of this situation, but Soap clearly wasn’t convinced. If anything, he looked even more worried — and placed one hand on your shoulder, gently squeezing soft skin under your jacket. He tilted his head, now looking a little bit like a bird — cute, curious one. You tried not to think about how pretty his concerned eyes were, but failed.

— Next time, you gonna bring yer arse to me second some hackit would try to bother you again. Got it?

Ah yes, because you really want to bother your very attractive superior about some idiots trying to get to you. On the other hand, however…he looked really worried. And it’s not like you would be constantly clinging by his side — even though you would still need a few photos for the 141 album.

It wouldn’t hurt, to hang out with him and the other members a little bit more, right? For purely professional purposes, of course, you don’t want to seem like a silly little recruit who is hanging out with people way out of her league. Even if this is true, and they are way too cool for someone like you.

📸📸📸

— I’m just not sure whether he likes me or just tolerates me. I get mixed signals and I’m terrible at reading them.

— Mate, if Soap would hates you, he’ll be very vocal about it. You can’t just shut him up most of the time, so I doubt he hates you. Seems like the opposite, really.

Gaz was the easiest person to get along with — and the most friendly as well. Your photoshoots quickly became a way for you to share latest gossips and just chat in each other’s company for a little bit. You liked having a friend like him — while not particularly close one, he was also very acceptable of your way of (over)thinking and shy personality.

And he looked great in sunglasses.

It’s funny, because you actually hated making photos of people in sunglasses, darker lenses would always direct light right into the lense and would mirror everyone in front of it, but Gaz somehow make it less terrible — while looking like a freaking superhero movie character.

— You sure? He always uses his dialects on me and, um, I know English, but he somehow makes me feel like I don’t.

— What kind of words does he using? And you can always ask him to just speak normal English, you know.

— This would be insensitive! I appreciate his culture and don’t want to seem like an ignorant jerk. And, erm, he is calling me bonnie all the time, which is weird, because I am clearly not a rabbit.

Gaz froze in place for a second — a perfect pose for you to make another photo. Then he bursted out in pure laughter and, quite frankly, you have no idea what so funny about Soap basically calling you a bunny without any reason.

— And I thought I am bad at clues. He likes you, for real, if he calls you this.

— Wait, then what…what does this mean?

Gaz laughed again — a pure sound that is forcing you to also start giggling a little bit, only saving a little bit more stability in the camera because of your professionally trained and experienced hands. You smiled, trying not to look at him too much — but really, Gaz is very pretty when he is smiling.

So making a lot more photos feels a little bit obligatory.

— It means that he called you pretty. Like really, really pretty. Scottish dialect and everything.

Soap…called you pretty? Oh no. Oh no, no, no, you can’t have that! You both needs to be professional and…well, you really should stop thinking about these two guys. Way out of your league. You just a photographer, and they are legends.

Gaz patted your shoulder, bringing you to a little but awkward, but still warm hug. And to be quite honest, you never wanted to break this hug. Ever. Especially when he was holding you gently, in a way that didn’t feel threatening. Making you smile every second of it.

Do you have a multiple attraction problem?

#cod x you #soap mw2 #soap x reader #gaz x reader #call of duty #cod mw2 #soap mctavish #john mctavish #gaz cod #kyle gaz garrick #ghost x reader #captain price #x reader #reader insert #cod headcanons

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awingedinsect · 1 month

Text

-Flood me like Atlantic-

Chapter 8

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: cursing, talks of injury, talks of homelessness, there’s a general 18+ content warning for this entire series and it does get a tiny bit interesting at the end here. Yearning Vessel gets his own warning.

“I got you a present.”

“Oh yeah? What is it?”

The little girl smiled, raking up a fistful of sand.

“It’s a surprise, silly.” She said. The breeze was blowing her hair, and Vessel smiled as she pulled it out of her sweet little eyes. “For your birthday.”

He remembers the smell of the ocean, the sound of the grey waves crashing on the shore. He remembers sitting there for hours with her, watching the tide come in as the sun made its journey behind the clouds.

He chuckled. “Aw heck, you didn’t have to do that.” There was a big smile creeping up on his face. “…Do I get a hint?”

“Well, mom paid for it, but I picked it out.” She said, yanking up a few pieces of grass poking through the grout. “and no.” She made a zipper across her mouth, beaming up at him with specks of sand scattered on her pink cheeks. “My lips are sealed!”

“Hey, Vessel.”

Vessel looks up from the pan he’s scrubbing, turning on the faucet to rid it of the suds. The water soaks into the cuffs of his hoodie.

“Hm?”

IV stands beside him casually, shrugging the leather jacket he performed in over his good shoulder.

“I’m heading into town. Anything I can get for you?”

Vessel sets the pan down on the drying rack, hands spidering a little desperately over the pile of dirty dishes in search of his next target. “Oh, no thanks,” he says, blinking at the guitarist’s reflection in the window then immediately looking down when his is in the pane too. He still looks tired, eyes bloodshot and hollow. Almost like he’d been nearly sacrificed and since possessed by an anonymous deity.

“You uh, driving?” He asks, glancing over at the man’s broken arm. An unprecedented wave of guilt comes over him, and he swipes his nose on his shoulder with a sniff. The sunlight is pouring in through the dusty window and it makes eye contact feel doubly impossible. But IV just shrugs, stuffing his hand in his jean pocket and shuffling a ring of keys.

“Aye, I’m the only one up here with a license. But I don’t mind, going to the grocery is pretty much a special interest at this point. You sure I can’t get you anything? Swing by your house for some clothes?”

It amuses Vessel that there’s an unspoken understanding that he’s staying. It would be sweet, if there wasn’t also the underlying idea that he doesn’t actually have a choice. But then again, he doesn’t have anywhere else that he should be, much less a house. He wonders if they can tell. If the inability to pay another night's rent at that damn motel is as plain as the bandage on his face. God, he wants his keyboard.

Out of anything in the world, he’d take those keys under his fingers.

“I’m fine, honestly. I can take a cab to the motel lat-“

“You’re staying in a motel?”

A horrendous blush creeps up his neck, and he dumps a plate on the rack hard enough to make him wince. “I’m… temporarily a bit displaced?”

There’s not a whole lot to read on IV’s face. He just absorbs information, then says some contemplated thing in return. But out of pity or surprise, there’s something closer to concern in his eyes.

“…You got a job, mate?”

There’s a silence longer than III’s fucking legs, and maybe twice as insufferable as the man himself. Even now Vessel can hear him in the next room, quietly muttering over his collection of herbs and spell-making equipment in an attempt to guard against whatever “bullshit the cat dragged in.” II is watching the tv, sipping a soda and giggling at whatever's on the discovery channel.

Vessel’s big eyes finally gather the strength to look up in the window, mouth twitching as he meets IV’s own.

“…I sing.”

And that’s what he does.

That’s how that day passes, and the next, and the next… at first, he’s nervous. Just settles on the edge of the couch to watch the three of them take positions, falling into the flow of practice as easy as a stream into the sea. II looks about as at home behind his drum set as a tree in the woods. Vessel has never seen so much cohesion between a person and their instrument, and it fills his gut with an almost jealousy, seeing something so flawless performed with such ease.

IV forgoes his guitar, obviously. But he still brings a lot to the performance by presence and a few vocals alone. II wasn’t kidding when he said the man could scream. The sound scratches Vessel's ears so gorgeously, he could legitimately start crying.

And then there’s III.

He stands front and center, that same flowery jacket on his shoulders. He looks concentrated. In tune. And yet there’s an ease that rolls off of him so fabulously it can’t help but feel like a subtle challenge.

Vessel watches his fingers move over the strings, rings glinting in the grey-ish light of the foggy forest.

And he feels… something.

He watches them play for an hour before II begs him to join. There’s something in those blue eyes that is undeniable, no matter how out of place he feels. And soon there is a mic stand in front of him, adjusted about three levels higher than he found it.

“Bring Me to Life.” III mutters. And without a piano, the first sounds are nothing but a few chords plucked by his nimble fingers.

The challenge is no longer subtle.

Vessel rocks on his heels, fingers splaying delicately down the side of the mic stand before gripping it low and still for his mouth to caress.

“How can you see into my eyes…”

A very quiet “oh hooo” of impending excitement comes from somewhere behind the drum set, and Vessel smiles.

“…like open doors?”

IV’s screams of “I can’t wake up” ring in all of their ears for several days, so intense it’d be funny if not so impressive. They played for hours that day, only pausing to brew a few cups of III’s jasmine rose tea. II was right; it tasted like ass. And yet in that room, sweaty from pouring his soul into a mic and surrounded by those three, passionate freaks of the industry, he realized he was almost happy. His smile, for the first time in years, wasn’t something he willed onto his face. And if he could hang on forever to the feeling of discovering a smile instead of creating it he would.

II tells him goodnight without any prompting. Just smiles at him, and says it as easy as breathing, before heading off into one of three doors lining the hallway.

IV likes him too. He gets a few changes of clothes and a brand new toothbrush from him, and even shares an intelligent conversation about guitars once Vessel mentions that he likes to play, too. Most of his feeling is in his eyes, he’s realized. They have a way of sparkling and harboring what might be big smiles in another case when he’s intrigued or at peace. The only person who gets him to really smile, is II; When the drummer is curled up in a tiny ball on the couch with his cup of “tea” or going absolutely manic on the drums, closing his eyes and getting carried off in the rhythm.

Even III smiles then.

But not once has he ever smiled at Vessel.

Vessel goes to sleep one night, thinking about it.

What would it feel like to have III’s approval? It’s clear at this point that he’ll never make the guy happy. He resents him too much for that. And yet, he did save his life. Shouldn’t that be good enough?

Vessel doesn’t like him very much, he’s decided. Especially when after belting his heart out at the man’s command he doesn’t even get a “well done”, or a “thank you” when Vessel made a mug of that nasty fucking tea and brought it to him after practice. He just nods his head and half-way looks at him; because at the end of the day, Vessel isn’t worth his attention.

And it makes his face red as a beet.

The moon is pouring in through the window. It’s been a week since it was full, and lighting up the forest outside with him in it. The cuts on his belly seem to be healing well, and he’s planning to take the bandage off his head tomorrow and see what the hell that’s all about.

Why won’t III approve of him?

He turns over on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

“You really are amazing.” II’s voice echoes in his head from earlier in the day, when he was cutting up some apples in the kitchen. “We’re all lucky bastards to have a singer like you messing around with us. Talk to III, we’ve got a gig coming up next week and I don’t know if we’d be half as good without ya!”

His eyes flutter as the darkness becomes staticy, rimmed on the left by faint moonlight and quiet as a grave with the whole house asleep. He thinks about II’s words. Is he in a band? If not, what’s he been doing up here all this time?

He’s not sure he can look at another crowd. Another waiting, patient collection of faces staring at his own until he does something impressive. Until the night goes on and terrible things have a chance to happen.

He shudders hard and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

Can he sing for people?

For me.

A voice speaks somewhere between his mind and his eyelids.

Sing for me.

“I can scream loud enough, for you.” His mouth wraps around the words, muttering them softly with hardly a sound. His tongue darts out on his lip.

He really does love singing with bass.

His hand slips under his hoodie, spreading delicately over the bandages decorating him. His fingers are cold against his hot skin, searing between the pieces of himself and what III taped to him. It doesn’t hurt so bad anymore.

His fingers travel down, grazing softly over the faintest of trails till they touch the band of III’s sweatpants.

God, he’s annoyed. He’s a good singer. Why isn’t he good enough for everyone? Why doesn’t that prick of a bassist say thank you when he makes him tea?

“I can scream loud enough...”

His fingertips push past the elastic, the slightest of tremors in his big hands for no reason he feels like guessing. He didn’t realize until right now how aroused he is by nothing in particular. It’s simply been too long, he thinks. Too long since he created release for all the sounds in his mind.

“…for you.”

For me.

“…Yes.”

After only a few minutes his eyes shoot wide open, full of pleading and hate as he cups a hand over his mouth and bites down hard enough to muffle a scream.

#vessel #vessel sleep token #sleep token art #sleep token fanfiction #sleep token iii

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baek-at-it-again95 · 1 year

Text

Walk The Plank (K.HJ x fem reader)

Chapter 2: Wooyoung’s Choice

You had grown up hearing tales about the infamous pirate crew ATEEZ—the fearless, power-hungry men that roamed the seas in search of the most valuable treasures they could lay their hands on. You almost didn't believe the stories your mother had told you as a child...not until you wound up on their ship

Warnings for this chapter: Mentions of weapons

A/N: Thank for you for the support!

Previous Chapter: The Man in the Black Fedora, Masterlist

Chapter 2: Wooyoung's Choice

"Alright wench, let's lay down a few rules for you."

"Stop. You'll scare her, Mingi."

"Yeosang, sometimes fear must be instilled in order for there to be compliance. We can not have any games here, savvy? For all you know, she could try to collect our bounties, given the chance."

"I-I suppose," the man you learned was named Yeosang says, his scruffy blond hair hiding his eyes. There are eight men that stand before you that you assume to be the original crew—the ones who started their search for treasures far and wide. The captain pushes his way past Mingi and his crew mates.

"Settle down, would you?" He scolds, coming to your side. You feel overwhelmed by the presence of so many eyes upon you—much less the eyes of ATEEZ. "Y/N has made a deal with me and agreed to help us retrieve the Cromer. If you do any harm to her, you will become good mates with the sharks. Do I make myself clear?"

"Aye, Captain," they reply in unison.

"And if she does harm to us?" Mingi asks. Hongjoong looks over at you and gives you a wink before turning back to face his crew.

"Then she walks the plank." Your blood runs cold at his response, muscles tensing at the thought of such a horrid death. "But that will not be necessary, will it, Y/N?" The captain gives you a smile. In one swift motion, he pulls a blade from his pocket and cuts the rope that binds your wrists. You are immediately relieved of the discomfort and begin to examine the ugly marks the rope left behind. "Will it?" He repeats. You look up at him, ignoring the other sets of eyes on you.

"No, Captain," you comply.

"Good. Seonghwa, show our new crew mate to the quarters."

"Yes, Captain." A tall man with his hair shaved at the sides quickly turns around, heading for the door. You keep your gaze on his polished black boots that fit his clean appearance as you follow him. You hadn't given it much thought until now that the pirates are oddly handsome—again something you would not expect.

Seonghwa does not stop until he reaches the crew's quarters. He heads down, then turns and waits for you to follow. "This," he gestures to an abundance of hammocks, some lined with furs, wools, and other various items of comfort, "is where we stay." His sharp brows crease in thought. "However, as a woman, it might be more comfortable for you here."

Seonghwa brings you over to the farther side of the room to a sheet of fabric that serves as a curtain, covering two small beds. "This is sometimes where the men sleep if they are ill, but it might serve you well, as no one is at the moment." You nod as he speaks.

"Thank you, Seonghwa." He seems unsure how to respond, cheeks tinting a bit pink from what you assume is embarrassment.

"You are welcome, Miss."

"My name is Y/N," you remind him.

"How do you know about the Cromer?" he asks curiously, heading up the steps to the upper deck.

"Well, my father is very interested in obtaining artifacts of those sorts. I have walked into his studies countless times as a child and asked what he was doing. He would tell me tales of these artifacts and somewhere along the line, I became interested myself. Who does not want a taste of magic? It is something fascinating that I would love to see for myself," you explain.

"I admire that, Y/N."

"You are not what I imag—"

"SEONGHWA!" A man with big eyes and a strip of blonde hair comes running over.

"Aye, San?"

"Can we show Y/N the guns? I have a feeling she would be a good shot." He grins.

"Not yet. Why don't you take her back to Hongjoong for now," Seonghwa suggests.

"Okay! Come on!" San heads for the captain's quarters that you had left only a few minutes before. He opens the door without knocking and bows, gesturing for you to go ahead. "After you, love." He smiles.

"Thank you, San." You step into the cabin and he shuts the door behind you, the captain barely looking up from the papers on his desk to see who has entered. Taking slow steps, you come to observe the mess atop the table. Maps and illustrations are sprawled across its surface and markings of ink cross each other at every point. "Wow," you breathe out. He looks up at you and lets out a huff.

"Not so great when you look at it for a long time. Frustrating beyond belief," he grunts, setting down his dividers and ink pen in defeat. As he runs his hands through his rugged hair, you pick up his quill, biting your lip in thought.

"Are these places you have already searched?" you ask, pointing at the scribbles on the map with your free hand.

"Yes."

"Impressive," you mumble. "These were not discovered on my father's maps. But have you considered the Cromer to be somewhere that has already been explored?" you question.

"I think we would have already caught wind of someone with such a powerful object if it fell into the hands of colonizers and commoners," Hongjoong explains.

"Well, in order for there to be any information on such an artifact, of course it has previously been discovered. Where it has been left is just theory. We could even be dealing with magic that protects it," you suggest.

He raises an eyebrow. "Continue."

"There is legend that suggests where it is. 'Where the horizon meets the waves, the illusion is created. The answer lies here not, but in the stars they reflect. The crescent waxes and wanes, but its mirror does not follow suit."

"We have followed the stars, to no avail." The captain sighs. "And the crescent it speaks of...we thought it was moon lake. We have been there countless times."

"So, the crescent the legend speaks of is not moon lake."

"Yes, but...what do you reckon it be?" He looks up at you through his dark eyelashes.

"The lake does not wax and wane, but you know what else does not? Promise island, off the course of the New World. The land is crescent shaped, and of course, it does not wax or wane," you finish, drawing an 'X' on the map near the coordinates of where you know the island to be. Hongjoong stands up, looking down to where you marked the map and back up at you in shock.

"That...is remarkable. We have yet to venture to that side of the New World." He pushes himself up from the table and stomps out to the deck.

You follow over and press your ear to the now closed door, straining your ears to pick up words like "reroute" and "northeast." Hearing less and less, you wonder what is happening on the other side when someone comes back through the entrance. The door would have hit you, had you not been quick. Your innocent doe eyes do not fail you as you look at Hongjoong and pretend you were never listening. "We have changed course and it should take a few days to reach our destination. Y/N, you may take a rest now." You find yourself not-so thrilled to leave his quarters, the atmosphere almost comforting. The smell of paper and ink made you feel at home.

"Thank you, Captain." You fiddle with your fingers. "Do you have any books that detail your journeys?" you ask.

"Detail them?"

"Yes, I am sure you have come across many interesting things on your travels, have you not?"

"I suppose...no one has ever asked for them." He scans the bookshelf behind him and pulls out a book with a leather spine, handing it over to you. "Here is one. I hope it does not bore you." He smiles.

******

Here you are, enjoying the view from the crow's nest of ATEEZ's ship. Somehow, the air smells sweeter, despite it being the same. About three days ago, the ship had changed course to head northeast, towards the New World.

You open the captain's book to the page you had left off on and continue reading. So far, you have read through his and his crews' adventure to Wonderland. A sketch of some of the land was drawn by Hongjoong on the next page in black ink that was ever-so smudged. You admire the small picture as you run your fingers over the textured paper.

"Argghh!"

You flinch, startled by the unannounced visitor hanging onto the side of the crow's nest. Jung Wooyoung looks at you with sparkles in his eyes, like a child seeing their favorite toy. "Hey little treasure," he coos, a giggle slipping from his pretty lips. You had learned very quickly that he entertains himself by causing trouble amongst the crew. You set your book down to look at him.

"Hello, Wooyoung."

"What are you doin'? Did Captain force you to read?" he asks, peering at the book in your lap.

"No Wooyoung, I was simply curious about your previous journeys."

"Oh...well...have you read about me?" He grins from ear to ear.

"Yes! You were the one to discover treasure in the Wonderland, were you?" He nods with pride, climbing into the nest to sit next to you.

"What else does it say about me?" he asks excitedly.

"Here." You open the book back up, holding it between the two of you to read together. He scratches the back of his neck, looking at you and back down at the paper.

"I never learned to read," he says.

"Oh." You frown, glancing down at your lap. "I...I can teach you if you want," you offer. His eyes glitter in delight once again.

"Yes! I want to learn!" He squirms around with excitement and quickly leans in to kiss your cheek. You bring your hand up to touch where he had left his thanks, your face warming up.

"Ah, let us start with this word," you smile at him, pointing to the word 'Aurora'. "It seems a bit difficult, but I believe in you. This letter 'A' makes this sound," you explain, demonstrating the different pronunciations that belong to each letter for him. He repeats after you, filled with joy when you praise him for repeating correctly. When you get to the last vowel, you ask him to repeat the whole word by reading it.

"Aurora," he says with confidence. "Those are the pretty lights in the northern sky," he marvels. "Pretty, like you." His compliment makes your heart swell, and you can't help but find him so precious.

"Thank you, Woo."

"Y-"

"Ahoy!" Choi San interrupts, popping up on the side of Wooyoung.

"San!" He exclaims, "Y/N is teaching me to read!" San's eyes light up with similar wonder; they are very alike.

"Y/N, your turn to learn! I want to teach you to shoot!" San says, offering a hand for you to grab on to.

"I suppose that skill could be of use," you reply, taking his hand and climbing over onto the ladder. "Woo, will you join us?"

"I think I'll stay up here. Got to keep a lookout, aye?"

"Alright." You wave and watch him glue his eyes back to the captain's book before you climb down after San.

>>>chapter 3

#hongjoong x reader #ateez au #ateez x reader #ateez #ateez hongjoong #park seonghwa #song mingi #kim hongjoong #kang yeosang #jeong yunho #jung wooyoung #choi san #choi jongho

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saltofmercury · 1 year

Note

hello my dearest, may i request a soft/fluff of baker!reader teaching/showing any cod character of your choice, how to bake/making pastries, just pure fun and giggles 🤭🥰

freaking love your writing, thank you for your time❤️

“Cookies”

Thousands of miles away, at some base in a new country, there’s a craving disrupting Soap’s body. It’s random, bubbling inside him, and growing everyday.

“You think they got chocolate chips here?” He asked Gaz one morning during breakfast.

“Er— I’m sure the cook has something, he’s American.”

Soap, embarrassed by already craving something you made, was not about to ask another man to bake him cookies— let alone bake those cookies, fuck them up, and have to eat them because he asked him to do them.

On FaceTime that night, he’s complaining about how bad he needs those cookies.

“You don’t understand pet, it’s like a need at this point.” He scoffed, his mouth watering imagining the mini chocolate chips you use, the softness of the cookie in the middle, the crunchy, salty edges he saves to get that perfect last bite.

“I could make some and ship them to you,” you offer, knowing that they would get to him pretty late, and if there’s anything worse than a hungry Johnny, it’s a pissed off Johnny.

“Ugh no, as much as I would love that pet, I just know it’s not the same fresh out of the oven like you make them.”

He laughs, then adds,

“look at me, craving sugar like an American, what have you done to me?”

You laugh, and suggest asking the cook if he would make it.

“If he’s American, I’m sure he’s nice and will offer to make them.”

He side eyes you. Remembering how much of an ego he’s got to uphold here. At home, he can be soft, loving, playful.

He’s wrapped around your finger. He’s willing to do anything and everything for you. From carrying your shopping bags, to bringing you your morning coffee. He rubs your feet at night, and warms up your towel once you get out of the shower. He dotes on you, knowing that you’ll return the love if he asks you for something too.

But here? He’s captain. He’s got to lead his team, he’s got to tear it into someone when they do something stupid. He’s a leader here, not your boyfriend.

“Listen, I’ll send you the ingredients. It doesn’t hurt to ask. You’ve got another two months babe.”

Soap’s outside the kitchen area, pacing around. He knows he’s going to look like an absolute knob asking another man for cookies.

The cook comes out. He’s a blond man, shorter than Soap, he’s got a fresh buzz cut, going bald at the crown of his head. He’s got pink cheeks, from endless heat surrounding him in the kitchen. He looks at Soap, offers him a timid smile.

“Hey ya mate, how’s it goin?”

“Hello. I’m good how are you?”

“Captain MacTavish, listen I got an usual request for you…” he holds his hand out.

The man freezes up, wondering what sort of request this entails.

“Uh—sure what is it?”

“I need cookies.”

The man laughs at Soap. Guides him to the kitchen where he’s stored some snickerdoodle cookies and oatmeal raisin cookies in a bin. There’s a green apple in the bin, assuming to store its freshness. He looks at Soap, waiting for him to take one.

“Take one.”

Soap does not mean to be rude. The last thing he wants is to offend someone in the kitchen but these aren’t cookies. These aren’t made with love. These cookies look like odd shaped discs. He rubs his hand over his face.

“Listen mate, I don’t mean to come off as a bampot but I was kind of hopin’ you could follow my bird’s recipe.”

The man covers the cookies and stores them away.

“Oh sure. What do you got in mind?”

Soap hands him the recipe he’s written down from your email. The chef looks at it and looks back at Soap. “Chocolate chip?”

“Aye…”

He smiles at Soap, and begins to laugh.

“Kind of funny you call them cookies and not biscuits huh?”

Soap doesn’t find this funny at all. Because of his bird calls them cookies, they’re fucking cookies.

It takes about two weeks to get the ingredients. Soap waits around the kitchen talking to the chef but criticizing everything he does wrong. There’s just no flow to them. There’s no effort put into the cookies. By the time they come out of the oven, they look wonky, misshaped rocks.

Soap judges these cookies HARD. He takes a bite and immediately hates them. He can't believe he ever trusted someone to even try to copy your recipe.

“Nope, sorry mate. We’ve got to call my bird.”

It’s 2 in the morning when he calls. You ignore it the first time, thinking it’s a dream, but the second time your phone goes off, you pick it up to see it’s Johnny, calling you via FaceTime. Fear runs through your body, assuming the worst.

As you pick up, you're rubbing sleep out of your eyes, hoping it's nothing serious going on.

Johnny's there, adjusting the camera, smiling big and wide. He's not in his usual office surrounded by dull beige paint and steel furniture. He's in a kitchen? A blond man standing next to him.

"Johnny?"

"Hiya pet! Listen, I know it's late over there but I could really use your help."

You're staring at him, confused.

"What's going on? Are you okay?"

"Course I am, I just need you to guide me step by step on baking your cookies."

You can't fucking believe it. You start laughing hysterically, not willing to believe what he's asking you right now. Part of you feels joy, love, and admiration, you kind of don't care that it's two in the morning, you just want him to suppress the craving he's been having.

You stand up, go to the kitchen, and get your supplies out.

You're standing in your kitchen, it's dark, you've got on one of Johnny's t-shirts on, covering your bum, and your hair is up in a rats nest, clipped by two claw-clips.

"Ok, so first you're going to melt the butter. You're going to need half a cup, so a stick should do." You model it for him then ask him to do the same.

Johnny runs over to the fridge, takes out the butter, puts in the pot.

"Babe, make sure the fire is on low, you don't want to burn it while it melts."

The man walks over and lowers the heat.

"Aye! I almost forgot! Pet this is..." Johnny is stunned that he didn't even ask the poor man's name.

"My name is Richard."

Johnny huffs out a laugh. "Aye, it's Chef Dick."

"Johnny..." You start over the other end of the line, and the chef dismisses it, saying he gets it all the time.

"I'm sorry about him, he can be immature sometimes, we're working on it."

"So, you're going to get half a cup of brown sugar, and a third of a cup of white sugar."

Richard looks at Johnny, who's looking for brown sugar but doesn't have any. Richard walks over to the pantry, gets the white sugar and molasses.

"Guess we got to make our own brown sugar." He mixes the molasses and white sugar until he's got enough. He packs it into the cup.

"Is the butter cooled down yet?" Johnny runs over to the pot, touching the edge of it.

"Yes pet, now what?"

"Okay, you're going to mix the cooled butter, white sugar, and brown sugar together until it's a nice paste like consistency."

He's overestimated the coolness of the butter because it's still pretty hot. He stirs it into the bowl, Richard watching him work with a flat spatula.

Richard interrupts, "excuse me, do you think working with a whisk would work better?"

"Yes Richard!" you chirp, "That would be much better than whatever Johnny is using."

Johnny looks over at you, raising the spatula he's used, replacing it with the whisk that Richard hands over.

You start shouting orders at Richard.

"While he works on that, I need you to get a cup and one-fourth of flour in a bowl, with three-fourths of salt, and half a teaspoon of baking powder and baking soda."

Richard completes this request, Johnny still whisking away at the sugar and butter.

"Let me see how you're doing babe." you tell johnny, but both Richard and Johnny hold up their own bowls, Johnny laughing at Richard.

You ignore them, clearly flustered, and tell Johnny to mix in the two teaspoons of vanilla extract and one egg.

Johnny goes and mixes it in, you see the way his eyes light up.

"OH fucking hell, pet this is what they look like!" He's proud of himself, then waits for the next step.

"Okay, now I need you to fold in the flour that Richard has into that bowl, with the spatula you had. Do it in small batches Johnny, don't pour it all in at once."

Johnny is folding it in, Richard helping him with little pieces here and there. Once that's completed, you tell him to put in the chocolate chips.

"You don't have to measure, just whatever your heart tells you."

"Aye, and my heart tells me to put in half the bag." Johnny pours in the chips, then folds them in.

"Look at me pet, just look at me! I can make what you make!" you laugh from the other end, knowing that he's going to hate the next part.

"You preheated the oven? 350?"

"No, fucking hell, Richard what’s 350 degrees!?"

Richard goes over to the oven and preheats it. Richard comes back to the screen, then waits for your next order.

"Alright, you're gonna need an ice cream scoop. Once you've settled about 5 cookies on the sheet pan, you bake for 12 minutes."

Richard looks at you, then Johnny.

"Ice cream scoop?"

"Yeah pet, why do we need an ice cream scoop?"

"To scoop the cookies onto the pan, that's how you get them big enough, the way you like them."

Richard lines up the pan with parchment paper, begins to scoop the cookies onto the pan.

"Jesus dick, you've got the hands of an angel look how evenly you've placed them!"

Johnny brings the phone over, and you praise Richard for giving each cookie a good amount of space.

They wait until the oven beeps, placing the sheet of cookies inside, and Richard setting a timer on the oven.

As they wait, Richard asks for your name.

"oh it's-"

Johnny interrupts, saying that it's classified, and to not get any ideas trying to look you up on any social media accounts.

You ignore Johnny and tell Richard to go ahead.

The three of you talk about what's going on in the world, the plans you have for this weekend, and what made Richard become a chef for the 141. As Richard tells you his life story, Johnny walks over to the oven, beaming that they've officially gone down, only a few more seconds until they're in his hands.

The timer goes off, and Richard and Johnny look at each other. Richard goes to pull the cookies out of the oven, wide eyed at how perfect they look.

“So that’s the secret to the perfect shape huh?”

“Make sure they cool for about 3 minutes!” You yell out.

Richard placed them on a cooling rack, begins to prepare the other cookies with the ice cream scoop.

Johnny smiles at the camera, watching you clean up your things.

“Aye pet, I love you, you know that? I’m glad you could help.”

You offer a tired smile, walking back to your bed.

Richard and Johnny each get a cookie, melting before your eyes.

“Hot dog! These are fantastic!” He looks at you, Johnny laughing at his American coming out.

“Did ya hear that pet? He said hot dog like Mickey Mouse…” Johnny holding back his laughter.

“Alright guys, enjoy the cookies. Baby I expect a call from you tomorrow night.”

“Aye pet! Thank you for this.”

“Thank you pet? I appreciate the new ideas you’ve given me!” Richard says in the background.

You hang up.

Johnny sits back against the counter looking at Richard.

“Ice cream scoop. Who would’ve thought?”

#john mactavish #john soap mactavish #john soap mctavish x reader #johnny mactavish x you #soap x you #soap x reader

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illicitlamb · 6 months

Text

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐗: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 | 𝟑𝟎-𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄

SUMMARY | Wednesday finally allows Xavier to draw a portrait of her for himself. In return, he makes her time worthwhile.

“Easy enough?” Xavier quizzed as he pushed himself up from the chair, staring at Wednesday for her approval. He only received a sigh, which was interpreted as a “yes” as she seated herself. “Good.”

Making his way back to his desk, he waited for his wife to get into position, already picking up his pencil. “Turn your head a little more,” he corrected.

“Just draw,” growled Addams in return, but carried through with his order.

Thorpe smirked. “Aye-aye, Captain.” He knew she had been dreading this for whatever reason, but he was more than appreciative of her for actually allowing him to draw a portrait of her – a pose of his choice and on both of their times rather than any quick moment he had while she was not looking.

Starting with the outline of his piece, his strokes were painted as soft lines before being filled in by more defined, darker scrapes against the sketch paper. Now having a reference rather than relying on his visions’ sole memories, he would glance up often, flicking his bangs from his view for his hazel eyes to admire the gothic beauty before him. In the midst of it all, he was doing two of his favorite things: draw and take in the view of his spouse.

The outfit he had chosen for her to wear was still in her taste of color palette but out of her comfort zone with style. A 2-in-1 mini dress complemented with a black tie – a white collared shirt overlayed with a strapped black corset stretching down into a relaxed slim-fit skirt. Instead of matching heels, he finished the selective look with black thigh-high stockings.

Of course, this whole thing was not something she would agree to easily, but it would all come with a favor in return. Just a little while longer.

Seated on the prop for 20 minutes now, Wednesday’s neck began to ache with a creeping cramp that threatened to strangle her into defeat. “How much longer?” she grumbled. A soft, amused scoff teased her hearing.

“Almost done.”

She expressed a nasal sigh and opted for playing the part of a model for several more minutes before being relieved of her statue-like role. Pacing over to her husband, she came up on his left to see his finished work. Of course, it was bold and striking, but his artistic ability seemed to dive into a deeper level of detail. His strokes, his shading, his effort – everything looked intensified with a sense of emotional influence. Maybe it was because this would be one of the only times that she would let him draw her by her will. Or maybe it was because she was finally his – his love, his mate, his wife… even if it was the other way around.

“What do you think?” questioned Xavier while looking from his drawing to her face, searching for a responsive look.

The other’s mocha orbs reviewed the page with an observing gleam. “It’s not bad.”

Thorpe smirked. “But it could be better, huh?” As she looked at him, he sat back. “Everything could be better when it comes to you.”

Giving him an unamused huff, she glanced back at the portrait and leaned forward to show her efforts of seeing his talent. This time she complimented him with phrasing containing a little more positivity. “It’s a very impressive drawing.”

“I think I’ve gotten better at drawing you.”

“You should have,” Wednesday pressed. “Considering your countless sketches of me, I assume you would have me memorized by now.” She glared at him. “It’s a wonder why you were so adamant to have me take time out of my day to do nothing but serve as a reference.”

“Well, I guess that just proves that I can’t get enough of you,” the artist played. Pushing himself up from his desk, he pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Did you ever assume that?”

But this did not phase her as her dark eyes locked to his light ones. “Actually, I did. I just thought you were a little more creative than that.”

Pearlized teeth were sided with raised eyebrows. “Creative?” He then leaned close to her ear with a beckoning voice saying, “I can do that,” prior to pecking her cheekbone and then magenta lips as she turned her head his way.

When they broke, the raven challenged him. “Show me.”

Joining once more in a mutual kiss, things escalated. With his wife moving in time with him, Xavier hoisted her up to have her legs secure around his hips and carried her over to the guest room’s bed. He felt her slender fingers get a feel around his neck and in his hair as he eased her onto the mattress, now granting his own hands more freedom to roam about her petite yet heavenly body.

They kept each other occupied with passionate kisses and occasional, soft moans for several more moments before the heat between them manifested into a burning flame. Thorpe’s shirt was stripped of him and thrown to the floor. Addams’ skirt had been pushed up to reveal black-lace undergarments. Her inner thighs were nudged apart by his knees in time with her handle on him traveling down to massage the contracting muscles of his bare back. Black nails pricked the smooth skin, tracing steady lines before she broke from his lips to catch her breath.

Meanwhile, the other psychic turned his head to plant sucking kisses along her jawline and down her neck. Her luring scent drove him wild, giving way for him to tease her with subtle nibbles here and there which had him smirking in between when he hit a sensitive spot every now and then. Rewarding her gentle cringes with a nuzzle, his roaming hands moved to undo her tie.

Another nip to her neck broke Wednesday’s barrier. “Xavier,” she moaned with a hitch in her voice thanks to her sensitivity.

He only spoke between pecks while freeing the cloth. “What?” Then, he met her gaze. She was calm, which he did not expect judging by her call out to him. “I didn’t think you were the needy type. Guess I assumed wrong.” Holding the tie in his mouth, he took her wrists up and above her head. He transferred his hold to one hand while the other pulled the accessory from his teeth. “You ready?”

Her tempting lips curled slightly at the corners, eyes flashing with an intrigued spark. “Now, this is getting interesting.” After her wrists became locked together by the bind, she was seduced by physical touches – with one hand gliding down her raised arm to hold her tricep, the other slipped down further to press against the side of her chest. Xavier lowered his face closer to hers once more and spoke with a husky whisper.

“We’re just getting started.” He then subtly nuzzled her nose with his, “Can you handle that, Mrs. Addams-Thorpe?”

25 notes · View notes