#like who the f taught Nightmare to read?? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mrsevans90 · 8 days

Text

Puppy Love-Epilogue

Captain Syverson x OFC Emma Miller Part 19

Summary: Austin Syverson has returned to Texas after retiring from the military and starts his own contracting business. Syverson is used to being alone and thinks he prefers it that way. While at work he stumbles upon an injured and abused puppy. When he meets the new veterinarian in town, Emma Miller, he is immediately smitten with her. It turns out Emma has some baggage of her own. Will they be able to make it work? Or is it just a case of fleeting puppy love?

Pairing: Henry Cavill as Captain Austin Syverson x OFC Emma Miller

Warnings: Flash forward, fluff, smut, handjob, fingering, squirting, P in V intercourse, oral (f), creampie, innuendos, language, pregnancy romantic love making.

MINORS DNI! Must be 18+

I do not authorize any copying/pasting, stealing of my work, or using my words as your own.

This story is not beta’d. All mistakes are my own.

A/N: I am an imperfect person who makes mistakes. All that I ask is to please be kind and if you enjoy it then please comment and REPOST! I appreciate any love, comments, and reposts more than you could know. Thank you for reading!

Part 18

Flash Forward in Time:

I wake up with a gentle bump against my side and hazily blink my eyes to allow them to adjust to the darkened room. Emma is still blissfully unconscious as her head rests against my chest and her nude body is draped against mine. I tend to get warm but this woman somehow always seems to be cold. I don’t mind one bit as I’ve spent the majority of my life sleeping alone and I sleep so much better with her body against my own. I smile at my perfect woman and gently move her disheveled hair from her face before I feel another gentle nudge against my side. Our baby boy seems to have woken up and it won’t be long until he wakes his mother up too. Luckily, she’s a heavy sleeper but I’d imagine having a human being rolling around in your abdomen could wake up most anyone. I reach down and caress her swollen belly to acknowledge my little boy and hopefully soothe him back to sleep by rubbing her tummy. Emma is almost eight months along now, and needs every bit of sleep she can get. As I touch her tummy, I think about what life will be like once our little guy finally makes his appearance. We haven’t nailed down a name for him yet, but Emma keeps admitting she likes the idea of naming him after me and calling him AJ, for Austin Junior. I’m pushing for him to have his own name and identity, certainly not wanting him to feel like he has to follow in my shadow. I like the names Luke, Hudson, Grant, and Bradley, but ultimately, I’m going to leave it up to Emma to choose her favorite. She’s doing all of the hard work after all. After a bit of gentle caressing on her belly, our son seemed to calm and Emma messily rolled over and wrapped herself around the giant pregnancy pillow that’s taking over her entire side of the bed. I won’t complain because I’ll give her anything to help her be more comfortable. I decide to ease out of the bed and get the day started because somehow in all my years I can’t shake the early wake up times that the military instilled in me. I quietly corral Mills and let him out in the backyard to use the bathroom. Aika passed away early last year and I’ll be honest, I took it hard. My nightmares started coming back more frequently and Emma convinced me to talk to my therapist at the VA about it. I still miss that sweet girl but know that she had such a fulfilling life here with us. She’s buried out in the backyard under a large oak tree so that we still feel her spirit close by. Mills also really struggled in the first month after her passing, constantly looking around the house for her. He always adored her and was used to following her lead but he’s doing well as he’s matured from the puppy stage. I spent some time training him after our wedding and now he knows all of the commands that I had taught Aika which is helpful, especially now with a growing family.

I start up the coffee pot and know I’ve only got a short window of time before responsibilities call, so I sip on a cup of coffee while I start making breakfast. As I’m plating the pancakes at the table, I hear movement upstairs and know I need to intercept quickly. I bound up the stairs and open the bedroom door to our three-and-a-half-year-old twin girl’s bedroom. Molly Grace and Maggie Kate are out of their toddler beds and already digging in their princess box regardless of the fact that it’s not even half past six on a Saturday morning. They squeal when I scoop them up and place kisses along each of their cheeks.

“Da Da! Ouch!” They giggle as my beard scratches against their cheeks.

“Sorry little darlins” I respond before tickling their tummies.

“Now what do we have here, already getting into the princess box?”

“I want to be Tiana!” MG says followed by MK who declares she is going to be Ariel. “Well, if I get you girls dressed in your princess gowns, y’all gotta promise to be quiet on the way downstairs so we can let Mama sleep in. Is that a deal?” I ask.

Both curly headed girls nod their heads fervently. I’m certain that won’t last long as my daughters tend to be a bit exuberant, but I’ll take what I can get.

“Alright then, bring me the dresses and then we have to brush your teeth before your dragon breath knocks me out.” I joke.

A somewhat endless feeling half hour later, I successfully have both girls dressed and with clean teeth. Their hair is still a disaster but I’m working on learning. God, if the old me could see myself now. Googling videos of how to braid hair or make a ponytail. Emma usually does their hair and tries to show me a thing or two when she has time. The girls have dirty blonde hair, not quite as light as Emma’s, but they both got my wild curls which Emma adores.

I’ve got them set up with chocolate chip pancakes, fruit and milk cups as they tell me about what movie they want to watch later and constantly interrupt each other as they ask for this and that.

“Nana and PawPaw want y’all to come over today to help Nana bake a cake. Does that sound good?” I ask knowing that the girls are over the moon anytime they get to go to my grandparents’ house. It’s hard to tell who loves it more, the girls or my grandparents. I’m grateful for a potentially quiet afternoon with Emma, since we won’t have too many of those in the future anytime soon.

“Oh yeah! I want to do that! Can we make cupcakes?”

“That’s all up to Nana. Y’all just remember that she’s old and y’all don’t want to wear her out.”

“Yeah, Nana’s real old but PawPaw is even older. He’s like 104.” Maggie says.

“No he’s not! He’s only like 23 I think.” Molly retorts.

“Y’all really have no idea about numbers yet and I find that adorable.” I chuckle to myself as I hear Emma making her way down the hall.

“Good morning, Sugar. Hope we didn’t wake you, I was trying to let you rest.” I kiss my girl sweetly while rubbing her swollen belly.

“Wasn’t you, your son decided to dance on my bladder.” She grumbles and I chuckle. Even all this time later, she still isn’t a morning person. She shuffles further into the kitchen and the girls jump up and give her what I’m sure are sticky syrup covered good morning hugs and kisses. I pour Em a cup of coffee, adding her creamer and she holds it with both hands with a grateful sleepy smile.

“So Ariel and Tiana, what are we talking about this morning?”

“How Nana’s old.” Molly announces and Emma almost chokes on her coffee.

“Who told you that?” Emma asks and both girls point directly to me. Little narcs.

“Well, she is! I was just telling the girls to take it easy on her today.” Emma rolls her eyes at me before walking to the table

“Don’t tell Nana that she’s old.” Emma tells the girls.

“But she is old, mama.” Maggie refutes.

“Yes, but it’s still not nice to say. We don’t want to hurt Nana’s feelings.”

“Does Nana not know that she’s old?” Molly asks inquisitively.

“I’m sure she does baby, but spending time with you girls helps her feel young. Now, how about you girls work on making Nana and PawPaw some more drawings for their refrigerator? You know how much they love those!” Emma directs.

“I want to draw Mills chasing chickens!” Molly shouts.

“I’m going to draw PawPaw riding a cow!” Maggie exclaims.

I chuckle as I watch them scurry over to the little kiddie table off of the kitchen that Emma has made as their art station and get to work.

Emma has shifted to working part time and it’s been great. She stayed home with the girls at first, taking an extended maternity leave after they were born but found that she missed the vet clinic and working with animals. We decided on sending the girls to a “Mother’s Day Out” program where they attend half days so that Emma and I can both work. Our jobs give us the flexibility to be able for one of us to pick them up at 1pm each day and have them home in time for an afternoon nap.

Emma relaxes back at her chair at the table and starts eating some breakfast.

“Little man let you get decent rest last night?” I ask her and she shrugs while chewing her food.

“I felt like I got up more times to pee or roll over than I actually got rest, but I suppose that’s just going to prepare me for the newborn stage of having him up every two hours.”

“Hell, just think about how much easier it’ll be with only one baby this time.” I think back to how exhausted Em and I both were in the first few months home with the girls. We struggled to get them on the same feeding and sleeping schedules. It felt like as soon as we got one to sleep, the other was screaming and waking everyone up. Em and I were so tired we basically just roamed about the house like zombies during the night. I feel like I coped a little bit better than Emma since I was used to insomnia, but she was determined to breastfeed and didn’t want to mess up her supply. After a few months, I finally convinced her to pump some milk for night feeds so I could help more with a bottle feed during the night and let her rest.

“Gosh, I hope so. They were worth it all, but damn I hope this baby sleeps.” Emma sighs.

“Given any more thoughts on what you’d like to name this handsome fella?” I ask.

“I still like AJ, but I’ve been thinking about it and I also really like the name Grant ever since you brought it up. Grant Syverson just sounds like a future star quarterback.” She says and I smirk as I munch on a few berries.

“I like that a lot, Sugar. It’s a very strong name. One he can be proud of. Perfect for our boy.”

“I was thinking the middle name could be Joseph after PawPaw?” She suggests and I have to take a moment to just awe at this woman. PawPaw was always a taciturn man with a steely exterior but when Emma became part of the family he opened up to her more than I ever imagined. Always imparting words of advice and stopping by to check on her when she was pregnant with the girls and I was working. Nothing could have prepared us for the absolute mush that man turned into when the girls were born. PawPaw seemed to get a new lease on life as he dropped everything to spend time with his “grandbabies”. He wanted to teach them all about the farm and loved showing them all the animals. He was wrapped around their fingers and we all joked about it.

“I don’t think anything could make him prouder. I love that idea, baby girl.”

“Let’s wait until he’s born before we tell him.” She suggests and I agree.

“Walt doing okay now that he’s back at work?” Emma asks.

“He’s having a hard time focusing, which is understandable. He’s itching to get home every night to Cassie and baby Carter.”

“Yeah, Cass mentioned he’s got terrible FOMO when I was over there last week. He’s afraid he’s going to miss something.” Emma responds.

Walt and Cassie really hit it off at the wedding and before long were in a serious relationship. She moved to Texas with him about eight months into dating. They got married a little over a year ago and just had a little boy, Carter, who made Walt light up in a way he hasn’t since Faye was little. Emma loved having Cassie close and it was nice having Walter so happy and working more reasonable hours. Faye came to visit as often as she could which was also good for Walt. They only lived about ten minutes from us and Emma had been over every day last week to help Cassie since Walt was on his first week back to work from paternity leave. I remember how hard it was to leave Emma and the girls to go back to work.

“It’s tough to leave your wife and new baby and go back to work but I’m sure he’ll adjust. I remember facetiming you like every hour that first week just to check in.” I reminisce.

“I remember.” Emma giggles. “My big strong army man was a nervous wreck about missing any moment with his girls. It took some time but I think we found a good family/work balance that keeps us fulfilled.”

“I keep you filled.” I mutter with a smirk.

“Austin!” Emma feigns shock. “Clearly you have.” She murmurs as she pats her round belly and I look at her with smug pride.

“Think Nana and PawPaw would keep the girls for a night?” She wonders aloud even though we both know that they jump at the chance to keep the kids.

“You know they would. Got something in mind?”

“An impromptu night alone with my handsome man sounds pretty perfect to me.” Emma bites her lip and I feel the surge run through my body as I quickly grab my phone to call Nana and confirm that the girls can sleepover with them tonight. Emma heads upstairs to pack the girls an overnight bag and before we know it, we’re loading them up in the truck and headed to Nana and PawPaw’s.

After a lively drop-off and quick visit with Nana and PawPaw, Emma and I were back in the truck and driving out of their long driveway.

“I feel like we’re teenagers who just got permission to go out for the night.” Emma joked.

“That mean I get to cop a feel? I ask as I pull Emma closer to me and run my big hand across her exposed thigh gently dragging her sundress higher.

“Thanks to these pregnancy hormones, you’ll be feeling more than that.” Emma smirks and I groan. Our sex life has always been incredible, but having two toddlers that seemingly always want something, and a very heavily pregnant wife who struggled with morning sickness longer than expected made us slow down a bit. Emma finally got to feeling better and the hormones lately had been keeping her extra needy which I was more than happy to accommodate.

“Lunch date at Gia’s?” I asked and she nodded enthusiastically. Baby boy had Emma craving pasta all the time so I knew she’d be excited.

After eating a nice meal, we made our way home and smiled at the rarity of quietness inside our home. Even Mill’s seemed excited about staying with my grandparents for a night of chicken chasing and homemade treats from Nana. The house was all to ourselves and I was ready to get Emma naked and spend the rest of the day in the bed.

I reached for Emma and pulled her into a kiss.

“I love you, beautiful darlin’.” I told her between kisses. Her swollen tummy had me leaning a little further than I usually do for these types of kisses, and I couldn’t help but lean down and place a soft kiss on her belly too.

“I love you too, baby.” She replied as she pawed at my abs in an attempt to take off my shirt.

I pulled my shirt over my head and Emma’s nails immediately sunk into my chest hair as she gently scratched up and down my torso.

“Let’s get to our bedroom so I can properly get you naked, Sugar.”

I led her upstairs to our bedroom and took my time undressing her slowly before laying her down on the bed. She has been feeling a bit self-conscious lately as her body stretches and swells to accommodate our growing son, but I do my best to reassure her.

“You’re so pretty, Darlin’. Every bit about you is perfect.”

“Sy, I’m huge. Be truthful.” She sasses.

“No, you’re pregnant and growing my kid. That I put into you. Something about that turns me on even more. Plus, your tits are huge and I can’t wait to sneak a taste of them when your milk comes in again.” I smirk at her devilishly.

“Austin, you are downright depraved.” She giggles as my hands paw all over her body.

“Only for you, Sugar. Now, let me finally make love to my bride without any interruptions.” I say as I plant kisses along her collar bone, sliding down to her belly and then the juncture of her thighs where her perfect pussy is already glistening in anticipation. I rub my calloused hands along her thighs and spread her open for me as I lick a long stripe up her folds. Emma is extra sensitive lately and jumps at the sensation with a loud moan before her hands find the short strands of my hair and grab on. I lick, kiss, and suck on her delicate pearl before sliding two fingers gently inside her and curling them. A few minutes after I began my ministrations, Emma screams her release as she squirts and her fluids coat my chin and forearm. I drink down everything she gives me so I don’t waste a single drop of her honey. I begin to place gentle kisses on her thighs as I work her through her high before I kiss up her body to check on her. I’m greedily tempted to work her to another orgasm, but know that she’s extra sensitive right now and it might be too much for her. I make my way up to her neck and place soft kisses under her ear as she reaches and grabs on to the scruff of my beard.

“Fuck, Austin. That was amazing.” She mewls with her eyes still closed as I place gentle kisses on her eyelids.

“Yeah? Feel good, Sugar?” I ask as she catches her breath.

“The best. Now I need your cock.” Emma almost whispers as her fingertips trail down my abs before wrapping around my raging erection. She squeezes just like I like before running her thumb across my slit to collect the bead of precum that’s already dribbling out in anticipation and I thrust myself further into her grasp with a groan. I watch as Emma removes her hand, spits into her palm before grabbing me again and jerking me. Between deep kisses, I glance down at her delicate little hand working my large member and can’t help but thrust against her. If she keeps going, I’m going to blow my load before I even get inside her warm cunt.

“Darlin’, I need to be inside you.”

“Fuck me, Austin. Please baby.” I grunt as I manhandle her onto her side, conscious that this may be the best position to keep any pressure off of her growing womb and slide up behind her before lifting her thigh around me. I gently ease the tip of my cock into her warm channel and Emma pushes down against me, sucking my cock inside her wet heat in the best way. When my pelvis is fully seated against her ass cheeks, I groan and Emma arches her back which gives me the perfect angle to her g-spot. I start thrusting slowly as I suck and lick against the spot under Emma’s ear and she wraps an arm around my neck thrusting her fingers into my hair and tugging.

“Fuck, you feel so good. So wet and tight. Just like the first time I ever fucked you, baby girl.” I grunt against her neck.

“Mmm, Austin! You feel so good inside me. So big and full.” She mumbles as I thrust into her.

“God, we fit together so good. You were made to be mine.” I murmur as I appreciate the tight, wet heat surrounding me.

“Harder, baby.” She moans and I’m so tempted to start jack hammering into her perfect cunt but am worried about hurting her more than my desire to fuck hard.

“I don’t want to hurt you or the baby, Sugar.” “You won’t, I promise. Fuck me please!” She moans and I can’t help but pound into her a bit harder as she claws down my arm that’s holding across her perfect tits. I have the perfect view to watch them bounce over her shoulder as I fuck her from behind and can’t help but start gently tugging at her nipples which earns me a louder moan from her.

I remove my arm from her breasts before I shove two of my fingers in her mouth. She sucks fervently before I reach down past her tummy and start rubbing them against her swollen clit. She’s so easily stimulated that I have her cumming in a matter of moments. Her tight pussy clenched me so hard that I couldn’t hold back my own orgasm and found myself releasing deep inside her before I had intended too. I stilled my hips and shoved my cock as deep as I possibly could as I finished before collapsing back down onto the sheets, not caring how sweaty we were. Emma and I laid perfectly still basking in the afterglow of our lovemaking as the ceiling fan whirled above us before I slid my softening cock from her body and she whined at the loss.

Emma clumsily rolled over to face me and laid her head against my chest, her fingers combing through my chest hair as my fingertips trailed up against her spine.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked her as we basked in the silence.

“I’m thinking that I want you to fuck me like that again before the night is over… and I want to take a bath with you… and I might also be thinking about the chocolate chip cookie dough in the refrigerator.” Emma replied as I croaked out a hearty laugh at how her thoughts were all over the place.

“Why, what are you thinking?” She asked.

“I was honestly just thinking about how grateful I am for you. I never thought I could have any of this. I was just this broken, shell of a person who went through the motions of everyday life. I swear, I never really thought I’d find love like my grandparents and then I met you. I’ve always been so independent and now, I swear to God, I can’t imagine being away from you for a single day. You completely changed me for the better and gave me so much love and passion. It’s like you woke me up and I started finally living life. Oh, and not to mention our babies. God, I love them so much even when they are being little brats. You and our kids just complete me. I can’t wait to see how our son joins in the mix with our baby girls. I’m just so glad I found you. I’ve never been this happy in my life.” I tell her honestly as I think about how my life has changed in just the past 5 years before I hear her sniffle.

“Sugar?”

“Now I feel like an ass for thinking about eating cookie dough when you were making this big declaration of love.” She sobs as the tears flow down her cheeks and I can’t help but laugh out loud.

“It’s not funny, Austin! That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard and you know I feel the same way.” She laugh/cries as I bite my lip to keep from chuckling at the absurdity of her pregnancy hormones. She looks up at me with tears still in her eyes and can’t help but start laughing herself. I finally allow my laughter out and we spend the next few minutes laughing so hard that Emma has to get up and waddle to the bathroom to pee which just makes me laugh even harder.

I head to the bathroom after her and start filling the bathtub and lighting candles before helping Emma step in. I make a quick run downstairs to the kitchen and get us some waters and the entire roll of cookie dough with a spoon before I head back up and present the princess with her snack.

Her eyes fill with tears of gratefulness that her beloved craving is about to be satisfied which has us laughing all over again as I join her in the tub to what we jokingly still call marinating in our ‘body juice soup.’

Emma rests her back against my chest as she feeds me bites of her dessert and I can’t help but feel more fulfilled than I ever have before. My future now is not some bleak possibility, but filled with excitement and joy. I owe it all to a bit of puppy love that became the love of my life.

Taglist: @shellyshellshell, @henryownsme, @caramariehurst, @beck07990, @mollymal, @kingliam2019, @syversonswife, @identity2212, @starfirewildheart, @hannah9921, @wa-ni, @kneelforloki, @cutedoxie, @enchantedbytomandhenry, @foxyjwls007, @geralts-yenn, @courtlynwriter, @corrie1013, @squeezyvalkyrie, @summersong69, @livisss, @mayloma, @uunotheangel, @warriormirkwood, @sofiebstar, @wetzilly, @ashbrat488

A/N: Y'all, it's finally here! I'm so so sorry that it took me so long to get this written and posted but #lifehappened and I'm a bit of a perfectionist so I wanted it to be right. Thank you all so much for following along on Sy and Emma's love story. Your support and encouragement has lifted me up more than you realize. I'm so grateful to everyone that's followed along! I'm super sad that it's over but there may be a one-shot or two in our future for them! Love you all!

#captain syverson #captain syverson fic #henry cavill characters #captain sy #captain syverson fanfiction #henry cavill fanfiction #captain syverson smut #henry cavill #captain syverson fluff #go read this

98 notes · View notes

christinaanime · 10 months

Note

Welcome to Tumblr! 😃

May I please request headcanons for Sky, Brandon, Riven, and Helia reacting to their female S/O showing on their doorstep badly beaten and battered?

Thank you for your resque. I was really exited to write for Helia and you gave me brilliant idea.

Before we start I just want to say that english is not my first language so when there will be some mistake or misspeling understand it please.

So let's get into it.

WINX club Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SKY:

I think that he would be absolutly freaking out.

His S/O is bleeding and injured, how can he no freak out

But after few minutes of panicing he would get his sh*t together and started to help his S/O.

he brings her to nursing office if he is at school, and if his S/O is afriad of being seen injured, because she sneeked out and got hurt, he will try to patch her up him self.

He may not be best at it ( cus he is mainly studying prince duties and not first aid) but he tries

When she is patched up he forces her to lay down and rest.

He wants to cuddle with her really bad, but is afriad he will hurt her more.

So will cuddle only when she ask for it, but will still be careful of not hurting her more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BRANDON:

He would be freaked out on the inside but would try to keep his cool.

If he can't get her to doctor to get treated he will do it himself.

And he is doing a really good job.

Knows exacly what to do, because he helps SKY a lot . Since he is his (servant) best friend.

So he is really gentle and quick.

After he is done, he will lay his S/O down and goes to cook something for her

I don't know why but I imagine BRANDON coming from big family, where his mother taught him how to cook for his lover, to treat his partner well and atc..It just somehow sits with his personality to me 😂

He cooks her either her favorite food or food his mother cooked for him when he was child.

And in the end he will lay with his sweetheart and falls asleep while he stroking her hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

RIVEN:

RIVEN would see red. How are someone lay finger on HIS S/O. He would be ready to beat someone a*s, but then he realized that his lover is still standing there injured.

He would patch her up him self Right away, cause he thinks he is only one who knows what is best for his S/O.

Is doing quite OK job, he have to patch him self after training from time to time so he knows what he is doing.

First quiestion he ask will be "WHO did this to you babe?!", if it's some particuler person, you can be sure as f*ck he will beat them up

He will try to cheer his S/O up (Spoiler : he is terrible with words)

Is touch starved but will not admit it

His S/O have to the first one to touch him

If his S/O wants to cuddle he lays down with her but is really stiff, but after sometime gets used to it and cuddle clloser.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

HELIA:

Is calm on the outside ,but plots revenge on person who did it.

Will sat her down and start to clean wounds

After he's dome will give a kiss to every single one of bruises , scraches and other wounds

Lays with her comfortably and starts to to stroke the hair while he reads to her

Gives forehead kisses

If she has nightmares will hug her closer and whispers sweet nothings to her,for her to fall asleep again

In the end the most the sweetest one

But when she's asleep Helia will make sure the one who hurted his sweetest flower will pay

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So here it is 😂 i hope you liked it. It took me LOT of time (mainly because od procrastination) .

But it's finaly finished.

So bye for now.

Read and Enjoy your Christinaanime 💙

#winx club x reader #sky x reader #brandonxreader #riven x reader #heliaxreader #x female reader #headcanon #winx club

378 notes · View notes

arabellasleopardcoat · 10 months

Text

Categorical (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Aemond needs to blow off some steam, so you offer to verbally spar with him.

Warnings: Smut. Oral sex (F receiving) Friends/ Academic rivals to lovers. Torturing of philosophers.

A/N: Man, translating modern texts into High Valyrian is a pain. I did my best. Also look! My first Aemond smut. For nerdy explanations, go beneath the dots.

“No.” You laugh, placing your cup down. “You will not convince me of Archmaester Rene's superiority to Septon Immanuel.”

It's very late on the library. You are sitting cross-legged on top of the table, Aemond properly sat on a chair. If a Maester were to see you, or god forbid, a Septa, you would be scolded until their face turned red.

You shouldn't be here. Not in the library or alone with him, either. A loud feast is going on outside, to celebrate Princess Rhaenyra and her sons. Neither of you wanted to stay for longer than was strictly required.

It had been your idea. Noticing how pent-up the Prince was becoming, you had offered to come here in the hopes of letting him blow off some steam in a constructive way. If you had been taught how to handle a sword, you would have invited him to the courtyard. But you had been born a woman near Oldtown. Words were your preferred weapons.

“Rene shaped his era!” Aemond protests, brandishing the Second Meditation in his hand. “Without him, Immanuel would be nothing.”

You scoff. Here he goes again. One would think, for such a devout man, he would be kinder to the Septon’s views on philosophy.

“That's a bit much. Did Prince Aegon spike your drink?”

Aemond and you… It was a weird thing. As the daughter of a member of the small council, you had been brought to King’s Landing to foster alongside Princess Helaena. But as a girl from The Reach, you had little interest in embroidery and chasing bugs. No, you were more interested in learning politics and new languages. It meant that you were closer to her brother than her.

At first, both of you had been hesitant to break out of your roles, but soon, having someone who was as passionate as you were about learning turned seductive. Sometimes, too seductive.

“Perhaps you are right.” The Prince laughs, and you let your expression turn hopeful for a second. Had you finally defeated Aemond in an argument? You could actually dance from happiness because the man was as stubborn as they came. "Only on being a bit much. Because while that might have been exaggerated, you know I am right about any Maester being superior to the Septons in terms of exploration of philosophical themes. Septons stray into ethics too much, and do not solve the truly important questions.”

“And what is exactly wrong with ethics?” You frown. You have dedicated yourself to the pursuits of understanding how a rational human being behaves in society. It's interesting, as an overthinker. Obsessing over the existence of a universal way of doing the right thing occupies most of your days.

How different would life be, if there was a universal guideline to follow and have things always turn right? How easier, if you knew how to get the best outcome, each time?

“Nothing, I guess. If you like ethics, I am willing to indulge you. But Immanuel?” Aemond shakes his head, sliding the book to a corner of the table. It’s opened in the middle of one of the passages, one you know well.

One you hate well, too. A thing that thinks. A thing that doubts. Cogito ergo sum. You were not sold on the idea of reality being the product of a particularly malicious demon, but it was on-brand for Aemond. To you, instead, it ended up reading more like the ramblings of a madman.

“What’s wrong with him? His work is revolutionary!” And it is true. You are not exaggerating. No one else has done such a thorough job of explaining how one should behave, and how society and laws play into our choices.

“Who likes him, anyway? He is a nightmare.” Aemond shakes his head.

“To your logic self, perhaps. I find him very inspiring.” You try to keep a straight face as you say it, but your lips are twitching into a smile.

You are morally obligated to defend Immanuel's honor. He is the basis of your whole studies. But you have to admit, he is not the easiest read. Or the most interesting. The Archmaester is much more compelling in that aspect, but you would rather die than prove Aemond right.

“You are lying through your teeth right now. What would the Septon think of that?”

“Oh, shut up, you. It still doesn't prove your point.” And honestly, it’s a tactic so low, it impresses you. Moral attacks? Really? You grin at Aemond and he grins back, knowing you caught him red-handed. He shrugs.

“Do you want me to prove my point?” His hand taps on your knee. The Prince is not meant to touch you like this, no matter how innocent. You are not supposed to be this close to a man who is not part of your family or your betrothed. Yet, he never seems to care.

You and Aemond touch often. Always innocent touches, of course. A hand that lingers too long when passing over a quill. Lips that drink from the same cup, from the exact place your lips have left a mark. You circle each other, you chase each other.

You marvel each time he does, at the wonderful reactions he manages to prompts from you. Heart skipping a beat, palms getting sweaty, pupils dilating. You are in love. So in love it hurts, and it tears at you, but also feels like floating and sitting on the softest clouds.

It’s exquisite, the pain of loving. Overwhelming. Like standing in the freezing rain. Makes you feel so alive but so utterly lonely, knowing the object of your affections will never see you as you want him too.

You are his friend. The one he can count on to discuss the latest book or the intricacies of a long forgotten society. Never a woman.

How you long for him to look your way, just once. For his eye to linger on your lips a little too long. His hands to stray away from proper touches, towards intimate caresses.

And it hurts, when it doesn’t happen. You clear your throat, vanish those thoughts, and plaster a smile on your face. It’s easy, pulling witty remarks out of the tip of your tongue. It always is, with him. The debate manages to be lively and profound, minds bouncing from topic to topic until you exhaust yourselves. You make each other better, sharper, smarter.

"Of course, Prince of Arguing.” You tease, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No rhetoric. Or fallacies. Tu quoque.”

“I don't need them. I can do it with pure empirical evidence.” Aemond taunts right back, leaning forward on his chair. It sounds strange. More charged than usual. The tension between the two of you building, rising. Suddenly, it’s not a conversation about Septon Immanuel and Archmaester Rene.

“Oh?”

It’s all the permission he requires. Aemond gets up, abruptly. The chair falls back with a loud clatter. Neither of you pay it any attention.

“Look me in the eye.” He says, stepping closer. Your breath hitches at the proximity, but you decide there is nothing wrong with indulging him. The library is empty and no one will look for either of you. “Iksā iā run bona iotāpagon.”

You arch an eyebrow. Of course, he picks the one language you have yet to be able to master.

“Valyrian. How fancy.”

Aemond ignores you. You have no choice but to look up at him, with the way he is looming over you. This close, you can see his pupils are blown, and he looks slightly nervous. Does he think you are a dragon, perhaps, that he is speaking High Valyrian in such a soothing tone? You are about to make that joke, but it dies in your throat when he gets even closer, nose nearly bumping against yours.

"Bona umbagon, bona vestras kessa, bona vestras daor.” He mutters, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. You tilt your head up, like a flower moving to follow her sun. Whatever he is saying, you don’t know, but you recognize the words for yes and no. You do not dare speak, afraid of breaking whatever is finally building up between the two of you.

So many months spent playing cat and mouse, so many months making him give chase. Queen Alicent gushing about how good you would look together, how much she wants another daughter. Nights spent in the library, arguing just for the sake of it.

It doesn’t feel like a game, anymore.

Aemond leans forward, pupil dilated and dark. “Bona gīmissiks byka.” His nose bumps against yours. Your pulse accelerates. To jump or not to jump? His eye goes from yours, to your lips. You watch the slight smug quirk of that smart mouth you love so. It’s then when you get a hold of yourself. You love him too much to lose him to this if it were to go wrong. That line you don’t dare cross. You try to get off the table you are sitting on.

Aemond grabs your arm, not forcefully, but enough to hold you in place. You could get out of it if you wanted to.

“Bona daor gīmissiks olvie.” He whispers, carefully cupping your cheek in his hand. Helpless against him, you nuzzle his hand. Fervently, as if promising something, anything, he keeps going. “Bona ēza jorrāelagon, vēdros, ebas, daoriot ebas.”

Jorrāelagon. Love. A confession. For your ears only, in a way that fits both of you. High Valyrian has always been the language of the arts, after all.

Unable to resist him any longer, you kiss him. Forgetting all about how you should behave, how the library is empty and that if you two get caught, your reputation would be ended. You just couldn’t wait anymore.

You would know his voice among a thousand voices. That's why you know, even when it is a whisper, that Aemond is still speaking into the kiss, smugly.

“Bona ēza ēdrugon, bona ēza dijāves.”

You kiss him harder. He is quoting something against your lips, against your skin, as he presses lush and desperate kisses to the skin of your jaw. As you suck a bruise in the hollow of his throat.

He pushes you gently to lay on the table, giving you a wicked look. When you nod, Aemond hikes up your skirts, exposing your legs and lower stomach.

“And to think we could have been doing this for so long.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your belly button, smiling as you squirm desperately.

“Quoting things in High Valyrian?” You ask, unable to not tease him.

“That, too.” He laughs. “If you knew it, you would have figured out it was Rene's Second Meditation.”

You laugh, soon melting into a moan when he starts nibbling at your thighs.

“I’m not sold on his superiority, yet.”

“Trust me, my Lady.” Aemond grins. “When I am finished, you will be singing his praises.”

“Aemond…” You say, suddenly apprehensive. Despite trusting him, you are a smart and educated woman. You know that even a hint of doubt could ruin your reputation. And while you would gladly give your maidenhead to him, you do not feel comfortable enough to enjoy it. “I… We are not married.”

“I know.” He says, taking your hand in his and squeezing it. “I’m not that kind of man.”

“What are you doing, then?” You push yourself up on your elbows, to be able to look at him. Aemond remains crouched between your legs, busy with sucking a bruise on the juncture between thigh and hip.

“Finally, a subject where I am more knowledgeable than you.” The Prince smirks, before licking over your hole. You bite your lower lip to keep quiet, trying to stay still on the table.

“My Prince…” You whine. It’s a strange feeling, but a pleasurable one. His mouth is scorching hot over your sex, and his tongue is doing things that you are pretty sure are considered a sin by the Faith of the Seven. A shame you were never very religious.

You cannot think straight, with the way his tongue is lazily playing with your pearl. You try to be polite about it, but the moans leave your mouth unabashedly. If it were not for the feast happening outside, the whole Red Keep would hear your moans. You hope the music is enough to drown it. For your sake and his.

“Ah, weren’t you the most eloquent Lady in The Reach? Finish your sentence.” Aemond mocks, pulling back. It doesn’t make any sense to you, your line of thought long-lost to the pleasure he is delivering you. Unashamedly, you try to grind your hips against his face, but Aemond just tuts. “Use your words.” His voice is filled with the same smugness as when he beats Ser Criston on the training yard, or manages to make you change your mind on a subject.

The respite lets you think. Without him assaulting your senses, you try to recall what it was that you two were discussing. Knowledge. Aemond had been saying he had more knowledge than you about something, and his phrasing had been ambiguous. You had been about to ask him what he meant.

“I meant to…” He swirls his tongue around your pearl, making you cut off your question, again. He keeps at it, making your voice turn shaky. You cannot think straight, or speak without moaning. Not with the way his tongue presses at your entrance, not with how he keeps torturing your poor pearl. The bud throbs and feels swollen, and you can tell he is taking advantage of it. “Ask. I was going to… Prince Aemond!”

“What?” Aemond sits back on his heels, perching his chin on your thigh. Caressly, he takes off the eye patch. You respectfully don’t look. You know it’s not because he trusts you, or because he wants you to see it. It’s because he is about to dive right in between your thighs and with how wet you are, the garment would get soaked. And it would show. You know your body well enough to know that your juices would stain the dark leather.

Eventually, the night will come to an end and you two would have to return to your separate chambers through hallways full of people. If the Prince were to walk back with a stained eye patch, tongues would talk. More so, when your absence was noted. Half the Red Keep knows already how much time you spend together. He would not risk the stain on your reputation or on his. If it were found out you two were partaken in such deviant acts, both of you would be shunned.

So, keeping your eyes firmly on the ceiling to not embarrass him or force him to share something he is not ready for yet, you speak.

“I can’t speak with your mouth doing… Doing… That!”

Your cheeks burn. You are unsure how to name the act, and if perhaps you got over your shyness, you would ask him.

Aemond's response is clipped. Irritated.

“You should have thought about it before denying us for so long. Keep arguing. Or I’ll stop.” And it’s not your fault, really. It’s not like you were doing it on purpose. On the contrary. So focused on your feelings of admiration towards the Prince, you had been blind to his. You had never thought your love was reciprocated, and so were set on stomping on it until nothing but friendship and camaraderie remained.

Never would you have thought him angry at your constant shying away. The thought makes butterflies surge in your stomach. The fact that Aemond wants you so much that he is angry at the thought of not having you sooner has you weak at the knees.

Aemond takes your pearl between his lips, once more. He is careful, so the pleasure only edges to uncomfortable. You whine. He pulls away. You scream out on betrayal, before remembering exactly what Aemond asked you to.

“I meant… Ask if you meant you knew…” And back at it, he goes, this time rewarding you by licking a path from your hole towards your pearl. “Ah! More than me in…”

Too lost in your pleasure, you grab a handful of his hair, bucking your hips on his face. At this angle, Aemond’s nose rubs you just right, and you find yourself chasing the friction.

“Go on. I quite enjoy where this is heading.” He snickers, the vibrations doing wonders to make you lose your line of thought even more. But the threat of him stopping the wonderful, wonderful things he is doing is enough for you to rack your brain for anything to say.

“Knew more about matters of the flesh or if you meant… Aemond, Aemond, stop it! I can’t think.” You beg, on the verge of tears. Just as you are speaking, he starts sucking hard on your pearl. You have never, in your life, been as frustrated. It’s impossible to do his bidding when he is torturing you. Aemond has set you up for an impossible task. You would rather have the feeling stop than have to endure it a bit longer. Your body trembles, shaking and writing on the table. “High Valyrian!”

“Both. A few times.” Aemond answers, and you mumble back something incoherent. You are near something, a cusp of pleasure so intense you fear you might shatter from the force of it. You scream, shrill and high, feeling your body absolutely gush at his ministrations.

As you pant down from your high, Aemond tenderly fixes your skirts. He smooths your dress down, making sure there are no creases or suspicious stains. Completely at ease, as if he was not making you reach a peak that had your legs shaking mere moments ago, Aemond puts back on his eye patch.

You remain laying on the table, flushed and sweaty from the exertion. He gives you a mischievous look, and leans down to kiss you.

“Will you teach me, my Prince?” You ask, when you two part. It comes out more eager than you would have wanted, but you don’t care. You are not afraid anymore of showing how head over heels you are for him. And in the typical fashion of Targaryen men, Aemond seems to delight in the attention.

“Trust me. I intend to.” He pulls you to a sitting position. Still shaky, you cling to him. Aemond keeps grooming you, fixing your hair and tugging at your sleeves. You rest your head against his breastbone.

“Long engagement?”

“Short. I would marry you tomorrow, were I able to.” He answers, as he fixes a button that had come undone in all your trashing. Then, he grabs the Second Meditation and presses it into your hand. “So?”

“Yes. You win. Archmaester Rene is superior to Septon Immanuel.”

Credits:

The ideas that Aemond and the reader are discussing belong, of course, to Kant and Descartes. The Second Meditation of Descartes as a prelude to sex was my sexual awakening, during a philosophy class at like… I don’t know. Sixteen? There is this show our philosophy teacher showed us, where a philosophy teacher is the main character. Merlí. In the first episode, the Philosophy teacher seduces the English teacher by reciting the Second Meditation in the original French. As the years passed, and I too entered my love and hate philosophy phase, I never lost that memory. I really wanted to write something with it, and my Aemond’s fics tend to be more artsy.

Also, forgive me for using philosophy from the 1500 - 1600 AC. I just can’t find it in myself to make the debate on how many angels can dance on a pinhead fascinating (That one would be period, although not Westeros, accurate) Hm. I should have gone for Aquino, maybe.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond smut #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #aemond x fem!reader #prince aemond #aemond fanfiction #aemond fic

390 notes · View notes

murmiss · 1 month

Text

Headcanons about Yandere Simulator!COD.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Warning: mention of suicide, mention of alcohol, drugs, mental problems, possibly traumatic moments, etc. My personal vision of the character. OOC?

I think he's perfect for the role of Yandere.

His childhood was disgustingly shitty, and you can't blame him for that.

Born into a dysfunctional family, Simon was doomed to a hard life from childhood. His father was a drunk, a bloody alcoholic who prided himself on being able to drink for weeks and stay on his feet. A dirty man, with filthy and sadistic tendencies taken out on those closest to him. A freak who broke everyone he knew, trampling on his own son, turning the poor child into an unwilling broken doll.

Simon remembered those lonely nights in the old shed next to the house, cluttered with trash and rusty tools, like it was yesterday. The cold wind blew through the cracks between the boards, leaving goosebumps on Simon's skin and forcing him to pull his legs tighter together, curling up in a ball to keep warm. A night in the old barn was Mr. Riley's favorite punishment, a man crashing home after another rave binge to find out his son had gotten an F in school? Late for first period? Or maybe spent his pocket money on some silly comic book? - no matter what, Simon will fly instantly to the Locked Shed. No matter what happened, Simon was always drawn to his older brother, who, unfortunately, wasn't as good as his younger brother would have liked. Tommy was a jerk, that bad boy in high school who publicly cursed the teacher, broke the toilet faucet, and did stupid things. But the dumbest thing in Tommy's life was drugs - this jerk decided to prove once again to everyone that he was cool, not realizing that very soon this addiction would consume him, like everyone else who once got addicted. And Simon hovered between two fires, like a child dreaming of a normal family, like a son who had never seen his father smile and never heard praise. And the mother? Mrs. Riley-a dandelion of God, withering rapidly in her husband's dirty hands. She was a beautiful woman, the only person in that family who cared about Simon, and he loved her immensely, and still does. Mrs. Riley died when Simon was 14. It was a cold Sunday morning when a loud gunshot rang out, waking Simon from his sleep. Feeling an animal fear, he rushed to the sound, recognizing a sight that forever shattered his poor mind. On September 6, Mrs. Riley shot herself in the temple.Haunted by her husband's nightmares and torture, she couldn't take any more of this abusive behavior, couldn't watch her firstborn wither under drugs, couldn't see Simon hurt.But her act didn't make it better, hell, that kind of thing never makes anything better. After that day, Simon withdrew more than ever. Hitting his father was nothing, hunger was nothing, being forced to kiss a poisonous snake was a challenge.

Simon grew up, and with it grew his hatred and repressed aggression towards his father.One day in a club Simon watched his father attack a poor girl. She simply refused to spend the night with him and the drunkard, not confused, began to beat her as if he were a wrestler in the ring Simon could not do anything, just as he could not save his mother, stop his father's beatings or convince Tommy that drugs are evil. And he didn't understand why his father wasn't in jail. They'd find the girl, but when they did, no one would really care what happened. The freak always gets away with it.

After the death of his mother, Simon was forced to work part-time at the local machine shop. Old man Carson was happy to help the neighbor boy, so he took him into his shop as an assistant without any questions or demands. Yes, and Simon was a handy and understanding guy.

Simon started out washing cars, and after working like that for half a year, he was promoted to Carson's apprentice: the old man explained and taught the boy mechanics, letting him stay up late reading books about cars.

The old man was able to replace Simon's father, teaching the teenager simple things necessary for basic survival. For example, Simon, at 16, learned how to fix some appliances and how to use tools. But Mrs. Carson had already taught Simon cooking, laundry, and household chores, and he, as a bright boy, grasped everything on the fly. Simon noticed Mr. and Mrs. Carson had a son, which they never had, for unfortunately Paula Carson was barren.

Simon lived as a two-family household, mostly spending his days at his mentor's house, but when his father began to rage and throw himself at the neighbor's door, Simon would return, falling asleep again in his little room.

The work in the workshop brought quite a good income and Simon, having entered the desired college, was even able to rent a small apartment on the outskirts of the city, and finally moved out of his home, so as not to see this den, and not to put, in Simon's opinion, the family of his mentor in danger.

The old man Carson told him fatherly: "Simon, you'll be happy when you find love. Simon thought so, but he couldn't imagine what that love looked like. He couldn't believe it would happen someday, not just pass him by like it always did.

But one day that day has come. First day of college, Simon is walking toward the auditorium when a stranger suddenly sweeps him off his feet like a small tornado. It was just a moment when he looked into your eyes-- He felt like he was going to drown in them. The way your eyelashes fluttered as you stood there, rubbing your forehead after the blow and babbling something, was in his head. From that day on, he couldn't imagine his life if you weren't there for him.

"Finally, I'll be happy."

But is this how it's going to be? Simon can't contain his anger at seeing you talking sweetly to some cocky kid in the back of the class. And the voice in Simon's head whispered sweetly: "eliminate."

#call of duty #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #tf 141 x reader #poly tf141 #fanfic #headcanon

71 notes · View notes

wrenreid · 1 year

Note

Do you take requests? I had a prompt to send in, but I wasn’t sure. I saw a fic for another fandom where the guy was having wet dreams in bed with y/n female reader and I thought it would be a great smut Spencer friends-to-lovers story. ❤️

Wildest Dreams

I haven’t before, but I’d love to take requests! Thank you:)

synopsis: Spencer Reid has a wet dream about his good friend and coworker. He’s highly embarrassed from where his unconscious mind wandered, so he avoids her. That is until she forces him to tell her what happened. When he does, her reaction is not what he expected. Had to add some angst because it’s who I am. Hope you like this! i hate my smut

content: 18+ MDNI, oral (m and f receiving), penetration

The team piles onto the jet after a long case. All of your faces read tired, especially Spencer’s. He plops down on the couch, something he has practically claimed as his own.

“Mind if I join you?” You ask him. “Can’t sleep on the seats.”

He scoots over, allowing space for you. Gratefully you sit down next to him, leaning your body the opposite way of his onto the arm of the couch.

Both of you are dead asleep within twenty minutes, which is highly unusual given your records of mild insomnia.

The two of you sleeping in such close proximity isn’t strange at all like one might think. You’ve been friends since you joined the BAU two years ago.

You started out as an assistant of sorts. You were still in the academy, but you were given the opportunity to work on real cases, just not in the field.

Spencer and you clicked that week since he was the only agent, other than the talented Penny Garcia, that you spent the most time with. He was off the field due to his injury from getting shot in the leg.

Watching his mind work was fascinating. It seemed like he knew everything, and honestly he kind of does. He taught you a lot that week, showing you how to apply all of the psychology and people-reading you’d learned in the academy. Being in the BAU with him was more beneficial than your classes at the academy.

You’re woken up to the sound of your own name. It’s coming from Spencer’s lips. He’s still asleep. You wake him up, worried he’s having another nightmare.

“Reid,” you say softly to not wake up the others. “Spencer. Hey, I’m right here.”

He stirs awake from your gentle shaking, his face beat red. “Y/n?” He sounds like he’s still partially asleep.

“Are you okay?” You ask him, voice still in a whisper. “Did you have another bad dream?”

Spencer shakes his head. Then he nods. He seems confused. Embarrassed.

“It’s okay. It wasn’t real,” you comfort him, patting his knee gently.

He pulls the blanket over his lap more, causing you to move your hand. “I know,” he sighs, nodding.

“We should be landing soon,” you say. “Maybe you’ll get better rest at home.”

Spencer shrugs slightly and turns his face away from you. You don’t take it to heart. You know how these dreams can be for him. Real. Terrifying. You know because you have them too.

When the plane touches ground and comes to a stop, all of you get off the plane gratefully. It’s late. Nearly 2 in the morning. Hotch tells everyone to get home safely.

“Do you want a ride?” You ask Spencer once both of you have your bags situated.

“I’ll just get a cab,” he tells you quickly.

“Really, it’s no problem,” you say, “It’s late.”

“It’s fine, Y/n.”

His voice has been clipped and distant for the last half hour. Why is he acting this way? It couldn’t have been something you did because you don’t remember doing anything.

Instead of fighting him on whatever it is that’s up his ass right now, you nod and walk to your car.

The two of you take turns driving sometimes. It saves gas money and allows you company on the 40ish minute drive from your neighborhood in D.C. to Quantico. You don’t live too far away from each other, only an 11 minute drive. It would’ve been no problem to take him home. But he opted for alone time. You guess you can’t blame him.

“Are you going out with us tonight?” You question your friend, rolling your chair to his desk.

“I don’t think so,” Spencer answers quickly.

“Why not? We haven’t had a team outing in ages. Let loose, Reid.”

“Y/n,” he warns.

“Fine,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “Movie night then?”

“Movie night?”

“Yeah. Just you and me. That new horror movie is on HBO now,” you wiggle your eyebrows, knowing his love for horror can persuade him.

“I don’t know,” Spencer says, pressing his lips together. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You don’t think what’s a good idea?” Your eyebrows raise.

The two of you have had movie nights multiple times in your two year friendship friendship.

“Just leave it alone, okay?” Spencer says, shrugging you off.

You don’t want to make a scene at work, so you roll your way back to your own desk and continue the paperwork from the last case.

Spencer has never acted this way toward you. Sure, he’s been secluded and reserved, but he’s never been one to shrug you off, to push you away.

Something is up. Something has made him close himself off. He can’t keep shutting you out like this, not without telling you why.

So after work, you try to catch him before he leaves. Unfortunately, Morgan decides to tell you and Emily a story, and Spencer slips out of the bullpen while you listen.

You’re a confrontational person. And your closest friend is avoiding you. This means one thing. You force him to tell you what’s up.

You knock on his door, not too loudly. He opens it after a few seconds.

“Y/n, what are you-?” He starts.

“What did I do?”

“What?” He huffs softly.

You fold your arms, standing in front of him with a serious face. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. I don’t know why, so tell me. What did I do to make you mad at me?”

Spencer’s face softens. “I’m not mad you.”

“Then why are you being so short with me? Why are you avoiding me? You’ve been a little bit of a dick.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” he says then pauses. “Okay, I’ve been avoiding you. But I’m done now. You’re right, it’s dickish.”

It’s always a little funny when Spencer curses. It never sounds natural.

“Why though?” You stay stern, needing to know what’s up with him.

“Come in,” he motions his head toward his living room.

You oblige, making your way to his couch. He sits beside you. You’ve been on this couch a thousand times together.

“So?” You question.

“You’re really going to make me say it?”

“Yes, I am,” you tell him.

Spencer sighs. “When we were on the couch the other night on the jet, I had a dream…”

“Yeah, I know that,” you say.

“It was about you.”

“Did something bad happen?”

He shakes his head. “Well, it depends on what you think is bad. We were in bed together.”

A laugh bursts through you. “Wait, you’ve been avoiding me because you had a wet dream about me?”

“Don’t call it that,” he groans.

“That’s what it is!” You chuckle, a big grin on your face. “That’s no big deal, Spence. It happens to people all the time. You have no control over what your unconscious mind conjures up.”

“So you’ve had one?” He asks.

“No.”

The blood has rushed to his cheeks deeply. He’s embarrassed.

“I haven’t thought about you like that in my sleep,” you tell him. “But perhaps I have while awake.”

Spencer lifts his head off the back of the couch. His eyebrows are furrowed. “What?”

It’s your turn to blush. “Yeah. I mean, the thought has occurred a few times.”

“I don’t quite know how to respond to that,” he presses his lips together.

It’s cute when he does that. It’s nerdy and shy.

“You don’t have to,” you say softly. “I just wanted you to know you’re not in the wrong for having a dream about me.”

The two of you have absentmindedly inched closer to each other. Your hand rests on his leg.

“Are you about to kiss me?” You ask, looking into his brown eyes.

“Only if you want me to,” he says.

“Show me what we did in your dream,” you whisper in his ear.

What happens next is not something you ever thought you and Spencer would do. You weren’t lying when you said you’ve thought about it, but you never thought he would’ve felt the same.

Your lips make contact softly at first, but his neediness takes over and his mouth dominates yours.

You always thought Spencer would be more of a gentle lover, but it turns out he’s an all consuming powerhouse.

He pulls you onto his lap, his hands squeezing your thighs and ass. He’s grown into himself well in the past year, and he’s definitely gotten more confident. You like this side of Spencer. A lot.

He tells you to lift your arms up, and you obey the order, eager for him to do more. Your shirt comes off quickly and his hands leave your ass and grab your tits. He’s not too rough, but he’s definitely not gentle.

You smile down at him before connecting your lips to his neck, careful to leave your marks in places he could easily hide under his clothes.

“Was I on top or bottom in your dream?” You ask, voice low and raspy.

“Both,” he answers, fingers working on the buttons of your pants.

You slide off of him and shimmy out of your work pants. You stand before him in mix matched underwear. He doesn’t care that they’re different colors. He wants them gone.

He lifts his shirt above his head and tosses it to the ground. “We should take this to my room. There’s not much space on the couch.”

“Yes sir. Or should I say doctor?” You wiggle your eyebrows.

“Yes, yes you should,” he grins, obviously liking the use of his title on your lips.

He follows you into his bedroom. You’ve laid in his bed on late nights multiple times. But he never shared it with you. He must’ve been too scared his true feelings would come out at night like they did on the jet.

“Lay down,” he says softly.

“I thought I would do something for you first,” you say, pulling him in by the belt loop.

“No need, sweetheart.”

“But I want to,” you tell him.

He nods. “As you wish.”

After slipping down his pants, you position yourself on your knees. He hands you a pillow so you don’t get sore. That makes you smile.

You take just the tip at first after running your thumb along it. After getting use to the feeling of him in your mouth, your head bobs up and down on him. Spencer’s hands tug on your hair as he finishes in your mouth.

“Your turn,” he says with a smile, looking down at you.

“If you please, doctor.”

His mouth is on your clit in no time. His tongue and lips work magic, causing you to call out his name.

“God, Spencer,” you whine, your hands tangled in his hair. It’s much shorter than it was when you met him, it makes him look older. In a good way.

With a combination of his fingers inside you and mouth working on your bundle of nerves, your legs are shaking and you’re finishing.

Spencer hardly gives you time to catch your breath before his lips are on yours and he’s hovering above you. You don’t mind. You need him.

“Are you ready, darling?” He asks.

When you say yes, he slowly slips himself inside you. He gentle at first, giving you both time to adjust.

His thrusts gradually speed up, and the slow and gentle turns into fast and rough. The sounds of your heavy breaths and moans fill his bedroom.

“Fuck, Y/n,” he groans, hand on your neck.

“Don’t stop,” you breathe out, wrapping your legs around his torso.

It doesn’t take much longer for you both to be moaning loud and shaking once again. You clench around him as you come, causing his own finish to release from him.

You bask in the high of the adrenaline coursing through your body. The two of you breathe heavily, your hearts pounding.

“Wow,” you sigh, moving your hair out of your face. “So, was that as good as your dream?”

“Much better,” Spencer says, rubbing your cheekbone with his thumb gently.

tags: @shakespear-picaso-lovechild @kylakins88 @jazzerbelle14 @cynbx @yazzyu @regulus-black-223048 @virginmusicloverr36 @sebs-oxygen @jolotta @booktvmoviefangirl @nevielei @pauline5525mgg @necromaniackat @r3idsp3ncer @impossiblynoisywasteland @jazzerbelle14

873 notes · View notes

blububblgum · 3 months

Text

Ok first of all. Its my dnd au and i make the rules and i think it would be cool if rhaenyra is a trans woman. Obviously this does not work at all with the actual world asoiaf/f&b, but i do what i want. This would create different issues of inheritance (i think??) but ultimately she would be the heir, and she and alicent could get married <3 . Now her actual dnd lore; i think that she would be far more of a warrior if given the opportunity (i also think this about the canon world, but idk if that's due to hotd or what), so i decided on drakewarden ranger.

I definitely knew i wanted to do something with dragons for rhaenyra, (moreso than i have for other targs) so i spent a while thinking about which classes are closest to dragons in the f&b sense. Draconic ancestry sorcerer was a possibility, but i've already done sorcerer for dany, and i want variety. Fizban's treasury of dragons is really cool, and i considered making rhae a dragonborn (since i feel like i've been playing it really safe in terms of the fantasy races i've used so far) but i think that the dragon differences between dnd and asoiaf make it weird to have someone in your family who fucked their dragon. Also drakewarden is cool. Ranger is a fun class if its played right, and its combined options for ranged/martial/ and a little spellcasting makes it great for the role that the heir to the throne would play on the battlefield. I think her favoured enemy is also dragons, since both her enemies and allies having dragons means that she would have had to learn about them. Since i am designing her at about 10th level, she gets another faovured enemy, which could be either beasts (if we lean more into asoiaf's low fantasy worldbuilding) or aberrations (lets get weird). Im leaning toward aberrations due to how i am as a person

For her race i did do half-elf (boring i know, bite me) but with the gift of the chromatic dragon feat, she would be able to take give herself resistance to elemental damage, and drakewarden gives her the ability to do a breath weapon attack (like how dragons breathe fire or acid or whatever). I thought about elemental adept as her other feat, but i also gave that to dany, and im avoiding repetition. The aberrant dragonmark feat gives access to a sorcerer cantrip and 1-level spell, i chose booming blade and chaos bolt, as well as a flaw associated with the dragon mark, i think she gets horrific nightmares after using the mark.

Now for the usual last details, i think her stats go (highest to lowest) dexterity > charisma > strength > intelligence > constitution > wisdom. A healthy balance between mental and physical stats i think! Though i may have nerfed her spellcasting by putting wisdom as low as i did. Oops. For her fighting style, dueling makes sense for how an heir would be taught to fight.

Ok as per usual , if u read all this im in love with you and you can summon me in one (1) online argument to back you up.

#digital art #my art #illustration #fanart #asoif fanart #asoiaf girls #dnd art #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenicent kinda #dnd au #drakewarden #dnd ranger #rhaenyra fanart #digital fanart #fire and blood #valyrianscrolls #syrax

23 notes · View notes

ghost-party · 2 years

Text

CHAPTER 3

Previous || Masterlist || Next

Pairing: All Might x F!Reader

Rating: Mature — IF YOU ARE A MINOR, DO NOT INTERACT!

Word Count: 5.4K

Warnings: canon divergent, anxiety, difficult childhood, jokes about frat hazing, frat party, alcohol, partial nudity, horny thoughts, swearing, drunk reader, oblivious mutual pining

A/N: Thank you, @whats-her-quirk, for letting me steal one of your hilarious comments for this chapter. 😁

You didn’t grow up wanting to be a hero.

An only child born to quirkless parents, it was expected that you would be just as ordinary — until your fourth birthday party, when you smashed your tiny fist into the store-bought sheet cake and shot a bolt of scorching light straight through the picnic table and nearly six feet underground.

After that, you spent your formative years in a near-constant state of anxiety. Your classmates had it easy. One could change the texture of their skin at will. Another had the ability to speak to fish, and he spent many afternoons playing amateur interpreter for your classroom goldfish, Gus. And one of your best friends, Jessica, could cry bubbles.

You, on the other hand, had to be careful. Everyone told you so, from your well-meaning but worried parents to unnerved teachers and gossipy neighborhood mothers. It was a reminder you heard day in and day out, to the point where you became terrified of your own power.

One of your greatest fears was that you would hurt someone. Even at ten years old, you had heard of incidents — accidental injuries caused by untamed quirks. Your imagination would run wild with possibilities, each more devastating than the last.

When you were ten, you began seeing your elementary school counselor, a kind old woman with a rare calming quirk. She let you hide in her office during lunchtime and read books well above your grade level, and she never chastised you for shying away from your abilities, even as your fellow students grew more adept with theirs every day.

“Whenever it feels like it’s too much, I want you to remember this,” she said one afternoon, on a day where you felt your whole body aching, your power begging to be freed. “Worry is like a rocking chair. It never gets you anywhere.”

She taught you breathing exercises and basic yoga poses, all in an attempt to help you find your own inner calm. Because, as she explained on several occasions, fear would only make things worse.

It was only later that you recognized it as a self-fulfilling prophecy: The more frightened you were of losing control, the more likely it was to happen. Fear was your ultimate enemy, one you needed to master in order to move forward.

When you were accepted into the National Hero Academy, you still had your doubts about becoming a pro hero. But year after year, you grew closer to your classmates, especially the ones who had similarly struggled with powerful emitter quirks. You weren’t the only student who grew up wary of their own potential.

By the time you made it to your senior year, you had decided to embrace your abilities rather than suppress them. Use them for good instead of pretend they didn’t exist. Be a hero people could look up to and rely on rather than a PR nightmare or a shameful footnote in American hero history textbooks — or at least the ones that deigned to tell the real truth.

Some called you naïve when you talked about wanting to make the world a better place. Idealistic. Pretentious. Delusional. But you preferred to think of yourself as optimistic.

It may have started as a coping mechanism for your chronic anxiety, forcing yourself to think of the best possible outcome rather than the worst. Now, however, it’s part of who you are.

Or at least the version of you that you want people to believe you are — someone who’s fully overcome their anxiety and depression to become a high achiever with glowing recommendations and unshakeable confidence.

It’s enough to convince your CIHS roommates, Priya and Sloane. On the first Friday of the first week, the latter dashes into the kitchen, excited to find you already awake, sipping a mug of coffee while hunched over your laptop.

“Pleeease tell me you’re coming out with us tonight,” she begs, grabbing a cup of yogurt from the fridge, along with a plastic spoon since you’ve all slacked on running your apartment’s dishwasher. It’s not something you’re proud of, but between classes and several restless nights of sleep, you haven’t had the energy.

“Huh?” You’re purposely playing dumb, the tiniest smile tugging at your lips. It’s not your fault Priya is both adorable and easy to tease.

With a dramatic huff, the petite girl collapses into an overstuffed armchair that makes her look even smaller. “The party. For Welcome Week. That I’ve told you about five times.”

Unable to maintain your clueless façade, you let out a snort of laughter, and Priya kicks a pillow in your direction. “I’m sorry!” you exclaim.

“No, she’s not.” Sloane’s deadpan drawl precedes her. When she walks into the room, she’s still wearing heart-patterned shorts and a basic crop top, her pajamas of choice.

You stick your tongue out at her, but she just rolls her eyes in response, using the scrunchie on her wrist to pull back her long, red hair.

“Oh, look, you’re wearing clothes today.” Priya is referring to an incident earlier in the week when the Forger Hall maintenance worker stopped by to fix the TV, and Sloane, fresh out of the shower, walked to the kitchen naked to get a hard seltzer from the fridge.

“Har-har,” Sloane mutters, showing Priya her middle finger despite not seeming all that bothered by the reminder.

“Okay, so, the party,” you say, trying to get the conversation back on track. Checking the time on your laptop, you’re reassured to see you still have another hour until your Applied Thermal Energy lecture.

Priya attempts to look threatening — it’s still much too adorable — and very seriously says, “I’ll drag you there if I have to.”

You sincerely doubt that will happen. But considering her persuasion quirk, if you keep making excuses like you have this whole week, she might finally crack and attempt to sweet talk you into going out.

“Your threat has been duly noted.” Closing your laptop, you stand up with a sigh, but also a placating smile. “Alright. I’m in.”

Priya lets out a squeal of joy. “Our first college party! I need to figure out what I’m going to wear.”

You excuse yourself to get ready for class, but your roommate doesn’t seem to hear you, her bubbly voice following you down the hallway of your apartment. After you’ve showered, you find yourself standing in front of your closet, trying to figure out the same thing: What are you going to wear?

Not only do you need to consider your outfit for the party. But you need to think about what you want to wear to class. It’s not quite as sweltering today, and it might even storm this afternoon. More than dressing for the weather, however, you’re thinking about the fact that, in just a few hours, you’ll be sitting in your American Hero History lecture hall.

Right next to him.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t start crushing on someone right away. Your priority is staying on top of your classwork and giving your all in Performance Lab. After all, you’ll need several compelling recommendations if you want to land an internship at one of the best local hero agencies. College has plenty of opportunities for fun. But you need to keep in mind the real reason why you’re here.

That being said, you don’t know if what you feel for Toshinori Yagi is actually a crush. Maybe it’s because you’re still relative strangers, or because you haven’t dated anyone in over a year. (Definitely not because no one measures up to Christopher, who ghosted you at junior prom, the jerk. You just haven’t found the right person.) Either way, it has you second-guessing yourself. Until you figure it out, you’re content with getting to know him better as just a friend.

Or at least you’re trying to be. The fact that you end up changing into and out of three separate outfits before finally settling on a fourth seems to contradict your very rational, mature approach to… whatever this is.

As you double-check that you have everything you need for your back-to-back classes, you multitask, making a mental list. You’re very good at making lists, and they usually help organize your thoughts and temper some of your anxiety.

1. He’s thoughtful and kind. This was clear from the very first day you met him, but since then, having sat through another of Mastermind’s dry lectures and spent two grueling hours surviving Grimoire’s conditioning obstacle course, it’s only become more obvious. When you nearly slipped off the climbing wall, he grabbed your hand with ease and helped you find your footing, even though it meant that he had to make up for lost time later.

2. He’s very attractive. Admitting this to yourself, albeit privately, feels embarrassing, and your face grows hot as you look at yourself in the mirror, fidgeting with the buttons on your flannel shirt. But there’s no point in denying that he’s objectively handsome in a way that you can’t help but appreciate. Every time he smiles — the smile you’ve determined is his secret smile, his truest smile, the one that gives you a little thrill whenever you glimpse it — your heart seems to climb into your throat, your stomach feeling oddly ticklish.

3. There’s something more to him.

This last realization is harder to work your brain around, but you try, even as you say goodbye to your roommates and grab a protein bar on your way out the door. He has layers, which isn’t unusual by any means. Everyone does. But you have an uncanny talent for reading people. And unlike Alex or Marcus, who are like open books, you feel as if you only see glimpses of the real Toshinori — ones that have been selectively curated.

In a way, he reminds you of you.

You don’t want to think of him as a puzzle, something to be figured out or accomplished. But it’s hard not to feel curious. As you swing your backpack over your shoulder and tear open the protein bar wrapper with your teeth, you remind yourself that friendships take time, and that maybe — if you get to know one another more — he’ll eventually feel comfortable enough to reveal more of himself.

Your mind continues to occupy two separate realms of thought all the way through Applied Thermal Energy, one attentive enough to answer questions and copy down the homework, while the other is a tight ball of nerves, keeping an eye on the clock as it ticks closer and closer to the end of class.

But as with most things you spend your time worrying about, once you sit down next to Toshinori, five minutes ahead of Mastermind’s lecture, you realize you had no real reason to be anxious.

“Good morning,�� he says, offering you a small smile.

“Hi.” You hope he doesn’t secretly have super hearing, considering your heart is doing an impressive tango in your chest.

Before you can choose a safe topic of conversation, like his classes, or his current ranking of the on-campus dining options, or even the weather, he asks, “Are you going to the Tau Kappa party tonight?”

It takes you a moment to answer, trying to remember everything Priya had mentioned about tonight’s festivities. The fraternity name rings a bell, and you remember Marcus mentioning it a few days ago, after your first Performance Lab.

“Yeah, I am.” While part of you is tempted to play the role of the Cool Party Girl, you’re positive you could never fully pull it off. Instead, you tell him, “My roommates threatened bodily harm if I tried to bail, so…”

Toshinori laughs. “So did Dave.” He leans back in his seat and runs a hand through his hair. There’s a hint of nervousness in his smile, and his right leg is bouncing just a little. “He said it’s part of my official pledge duties.”

Your eyes dart down to the collar of his shirt, and there it is: a tiny golden pin displaying the Greek letters of Phi Delta. “You’ll be lucky if all you have to do is go to a party,” you tell him, unable to hide your grin. “They might make you run around campus naked, or prank call the college president, or scrub all the urinals in the frat house — with a toothbrush.”

Toshinori blanches, looking alarmed. “But Dave said it’s not like the movies. No hazing, they just —” Finally noticing the mischief in your gaze, he gives you an exasperated look before laughing, loud enough to make even the students in the first two rows turn around.

“You’re terrible,” he says, shaking his head as he pulls his laptop out of his bag. “But I suppose I’m an easy target.”

You move without thinking, patting him on the shoulder as you console him. “I’ll try to go easy on you.” It’s possible that you imagine the slight widening of his eyes as your hand lingers for just a moment, or the faint glimpse of pink in his cheeks right before you turn away, distracted by your instructor’s flat voice.

Of course you imagined it. You can only hope he didn’t notice the slight tingle in your palm. As Mastermind launches into today’s topic, early American quirk legislation, you force yourself to take several deep, slow breaths.

It’s rare for your emotions to trigger your quirk, even just the tiniest bit — a fraction of a fraction of anything close to full power. But now it’s happened twice, both while touching Toshinori.

Get it together, you tell yourself, staring so hard at the projector screen, you nearly give yourself a headache. Remember why you’re here.

The class concludes with a reminder about this week’s online quiz, due by Sunday evening. As you quickly pack up, you make a mental note to review the modules beforehand, look back at your notes, maybe review some of the recorded lectures —

You don’t realize Toshinori’s speaking to you until a large hand waves in front of your face. When you blink up at him, he smiles but looks a little concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah! Definitely.” You swing your backpack over your shoulder and hug your oversized flannel a little tighter around you. “Sometimes my brain just… slips into autopilot, if that makes sense?” You’re not sure what compels you to say it, but you quietly admit, “I knew college would be a lot of work. But I guess I’m still adjusting.”

He nods as the two of you exit your row and walk out into the hall. “So am I.” The way he heaves a big sigh, as if you’ve shouldered a weight that’s been sitting heavily on his shoulders, makes you feel reassured about opening up to him.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one feeling like that,” he says, smiling as you both step out into the late morning sun. It’s a little dimmer than usual, partly hidden by the cloud cover rolling in. But even now, Toshinori almost seems to glow. Maybe it’s the hair, you reason.

“Me, too.” You hesitate mid-step, your body halfway turned in the direction of your next class. “I’ll probably see you tonight. At the party.” Your words feel awkward and slow, and you bite the corner of your lip, beginning to hope that the sidewalk splits open and swallows you whole.

But then Toshinori’s smile widens, and oh… You don’t need the sun at all. He’s bright enough all on his own.

“I can’t wait.”

And unlike when some people say it with disingenuous enthusiasm — not unlike the classics “Have a great summer!” and, “We should get coffee sometime!” — you know, without a doubt, that he truly means it.

The Tau Kappa frat house is bigger than you expected, a sprawling two-story building tucked in between their sister sorority, Xi Omega, and one of the dorms. If you dropped it into a suburban neighborhood, no one would even notice. White siding, black trim, tasteful curtains in the windows, a well-manicured lawn. There’s nothing special about its conventional exterior.

Except for the fact that tonight, it looks like an isolated blizzard hit their tiny plot of land.

The closer you get to the house, the deeper the snow gets. Priya squeals as she leaps through what’s drifted onto the sidewalk, her strappy sandals proving to be a questionable choice of footwear. A few partygoers are engaged in a very intense snowball fight, lobbing with one hand and holding — or really, sloshing — their drink in the other.

The front porch is trimmed with tiny, sparkling icicles, which Sloane mutters is “an emergency room visit waiting to happen.” There’s a group of boys doing shotskis in the corner, wearing ridiculous winter hats with ear flaps, paired with pastel polos and jeans.

It’s all more than a little jarring. But the most ridiculous addition to the house is a large slide made entirely of ice, winding down from one of the upstairs windows and emptying out into an enormous pile of fluffy snow. Just before you step up onto the porch, you watch a girl fly down it, shrieking the whole way.

“This is… not what I was expecting,” you admit, treading carefully so as not to slip and fall flat on your ass.

Priya, wet feet seemingly forgotten, is practically vibrating with excitement. “So cool.”

“Literally,” Sloane dryly comments, earning herself a sharp elbow in her side. “C’mon, I had to say it.” She spreads her hands wide. “You know I love a bad joke.”

“Whatever…” Priya rolls her eyes. She hesitates at the door, fussing with her short pink skirt before smoothing her hands over her hair. “Okay. Ready. Let’s do this.”

You’re fairly certain you’re the only one who hears Sloan snicker. But it’s an affectionate sound, paired with a half-smile. What do you know? She’s actually enjoying herself.

You’re not surprised to see more icy accents inside, from a frost-gilded chandelier hanging over the dining room table to another ice slide covering the entirety of the basement stairs. Fellow students drift by in clusters, holding plastic cups full of beer and condensating shot glasses made of ice.

“I will admit, I’m impressed by their dedication to the theme.” Sloane stands on her tiptoes, peering through the back windows. “They have a pool?”

“Let me guess.” You glance around, surveying the room for any familiar faces. Nevermind that the person you most want to see would be ridiculously easy to spot. “An ice rink?”

Sloane squints and then groans. “Yep.” She digs a hair tie out of the pocket of her jeans and yanks her red curls back into a messy bun. “God forbid we have an actual pool party while it’s still summer.”

The two of you trail behind Priya, the music getting progressively louder the deeper you venture into the house. The students in the dining room are playing flip cup, while a group is assembled on the oversized sectional in the living room, absorbed in a VR video game.

Someone spills a fruity-smelling drink on the arm of your jacket, prompting you to shrug it off and tie it around your waist. The house has a slight chill to it, as if someone turned the thermostat down, but it’s thankfully not too cold for the tank top you’re wearing.

When you finally make it to the kitchen, you find a messy, makeshift bar sprawled across the countertops. Various cans of beer sit in a cooler near the patio door, and bottles of all kinds of liquor are lined up in between forgotten cups, sticky spills, and crumpled drink umbrellas.

“I can make us rum runners!” Priya grabs several half-empty bottles, loading them into her arms before depositing them on the island. The smell of weed wafts into the room as the patio door slides open, and Sloane is briefly distracted by a girl with neon pink hair chopped into a pixie cut.

After a few mad dashes to the fridge and refilling an emptied ice cube tray — “It’s only polite.” — Priya hands the two of you plastic cups and beams proudly. “Enjoy.”

It’s hard not to. You wander around the house, losing your roommates at some point between the dining room and a spare bedroom currently being used to play drunk Jenga with a jumbo set of blocks made of ice, of course.

And you are definitely feeling every generous pour of rum and fruit-flavored liqueur Priya loaded into your cup, along with orange and pineapple juice.

When finished, you pluck the maraschino cherries from your cup and pop them between your lips while dodging a skinny, dark-haired boy who hiccups while trying to ask you to join a game of Spin the Bottle upstairs.

That depends. Is there a large blond man up there, taking up half the room and looking adorably awkward? As soon as the thought appears, you give it a full-body tackle straight to the back of your mind.

Vaguely remembering what Priya used, you make yourself another drink, shimmying a little as the song changes to an older one you love but haven’t heard in a while.

It’s as you’re starting to hum along, hips sashaying back and forth to the beat, that someone behind you clears their throat.

You grab your cup and quickly turn around, eyes wide as if you’ve been caught doing something bad. Two boys have joined you in the otherwise empty kitchen. One is dressed in a navy blue hoodie and jeans, his brown hair pushed back and brushing against the nape of his neck. His smile is amused but friendly.

Standing beside him is Toshinori. There’s a definite flush to his cheeks as he stares at you. But it’s probably from whatever drinks he’s had — or because he’s wearing a too-small t-shirt that, for him, is essentially a crop top.

You take a too-large gulp of your drink and then another, wondering if you might actually combust on the spot. It’s nearly impossible to keep your gaze fixed on appropriate places when his abs are right there.

And you can just make out a hint of blond hair dipping down under the waistband of his shorts —

“What are you drinking?”

The stranger’s voice snaps you back into the present moment, and you manage to stammer, “Uh, it’s a, um, rum runner.”

“Ooh, careful.” The man grins, reaching for a bottle of whiskey. “Those do not fuck around, especially if you eyeball your pours.”

You nod, and Toshinori clears his throat again. “This is my roommate, David Shield — Dave,” he amends. After he introduces you, Dave offers his hand that’s not pouring a drink.

“I was hoping I’d get to meet you. He hasn’t shut up about —”

Whatever he was about to say is lost in the noisy chaos of a group of girls drifting through the kitchen, grabbing premixed cocktails before teetering out the patio door.

“What’s with the… outfit?” You ask, gesturing up and down Toshinori’s broad frame, but particularly at the t-shirt.

“It’s pledge tradition!” Dave leans against the counter as he takes a sip of his whiskey on the rocks. “But we, uh, didn’t have a larger size than that, so…” His grin turns teasing. “Toshi gets the short end of the stick tonight.”

On the front of the white t-shirt, in bold black letters, are the words PHI DELTA PLEDGE. And when Toshinori turns around, huffing at the way Dave circles his finger to coax him, you see a multitude of signatures scrawled on the back in permanent marker.

“We have a prize for whoever gets the most,” Dave explains with a shrug. “No penalty if they lose. It’s just dumb fun. But for him,” he raises his glass in Toshinori’s direction, “I’m hoping it helps him make some friends.”

“It’s definitely a memorable ice breaker,” you say, smiling encouragingly when you notice Toshinori frowning. After taking another big sip of your drink, draining it down to the half-melted ice cubes, you step forward. “Alright, we’ve got this. You’re gonna win for sure.”

It’s only when you touch his arm, something you would absolutely overthink while sober, that he seems to relax, smiling down at you.

From that point on, he loosens up more and more, not just because of the tallboy Dave swings by and presses into his hand, or the second one that comes way too quickly to be a coincidence.

As he talks to more and more people, with you hovering at his side, it’s as if you can see his walls coming down. He’s quick to laugh, and the awkwardness you glimpsed earlier gradually melts away, leaving an endearing earnestness, along with a surprisingly sharp sense of humor.

After the two of you are roped into a round of Kings Cup, you’re feeling pleasantly buzzed and grateful for Dave’s plan, which might just be the most wholesome form of pledge hazing you’ve ever seen.

When the two of you venture outside, you find the backyard less crowded, with only a few brave souls trying to skate across the frozen pool. You’re not sure if it helps that they’re all clearly drunk, especially when one girl wipes out and immediately bursts into laughter.

“Did you come to watch the show?”

Marcus’s voice is delightedly sarcastic as you turn to find him sitting in a beach chair, nursing a hard cider. To his left, Alex is deep in conversation with none other than Priya, who looks so smitten, her eyes may as well be giant cartoon hearts.

Dave has claimed the other beach chair, and he grins when Toshinori turns around and shows him all the signatures he’s collected. “Nice. You’ve got Eddie and Juan beat for sure.”

You’ve only caught brief glimpses of the other two pledges. One had passed out in a recliner near the TV, apparently lulled to sleep by booze and the dulcet tones of frat boys singing karaoke. The other had given Toshinori an ecstatic high five before ducking into an upstairs bathroom to puke.

“He’s doing great,” you tell Dave, carefully enunciating your words. No one will know you’re drunk if you don’t sound drunk, right? Nevermind that you’re a little wobbly on your feet and now leaning on Toshinori for balance. You have been for a while now.

Dave narrowly conceals a laugh as he lifts his glass to take a sip, but Marcus isn’t so subtle. You’re too distracted to really notice, though.

Toshinori is so big and warm. As you rest your head against his arm, you feel content and happy — even more so when his hand settles on your shoulder and he bends down to look at you. He’s smiling, but there’s a hint of concern in his expression.

“Hey… It might be time to call it a night.”

Your first instinct is to protest. It’s your first college party, and you’re having fun. But then, as if to counter your temptation to stay, your head throbs, and your stomach does a disconcerting little somersault.

“Don’t worry about us,” Priya says, having finally dragged her gaze away from Alex. “Sloane left with that pink-haired girl she’s been eye-fucking all night.”

“And I’ll get this one home safe. I promise.” Alex bends down, resting his chin on Priya’s head as he offers a mischievous grin, and you’re worried she just might faint.

Maybe she doesn’t want to come home, you muse before letting out a small, stubborn huff and staring up at Toshinori. “Okay. Take me home, big guy.”

Marcus actually chokes on his cider, and you watch as Toshinori’s eyes widen before he quickly looks away. “Uh — yeah, we’ll — Let’s go.”

As you stumble beside him, his hand hovering over your back so that he can steady you if needed, you swear you hear a wolf whistle and Priya’s excited babbling echoing behind you. But it all fades away as the two of you take the brick path along the side of the house, crossing the front yard.

At the sidewalk, you point in the direction of your apartment building, and you both keep walking. “So…” you say, after several minutes of comfortable silence. You draw the word out into something much longer before continuing, “What did you think of your first American college party?”

“It was loud. And crowded. In a lot of ways, it was what I expected.” As you look up at him, careful not to stumble over your own feet, his lips curl into a wide smile. “But it was exciting — and really fun.”

Not even thinking twice about it, you loop your arm through his. “Good! I’m glad.”

You’re certain it’s only his guidance that’s keeping you walking in a remotely straight line, especially as you crane your head back to stare up at the night sky. “We fucking killed at that pledge game. You’re now the pledgiest pledge in all of Phi Delta.”

Toshinori laughs, and with your arm pressed against the side of his broad chest, you can feel it vibrate through him. “Is that so?”

“Indeed,” you insist, grabbing his hand as you swing your arms back and forth again and again. “You’re gonna be Mr. Popular before you know it. Will you still remember me when you’re all famous and stuff?”

By now, you’ve reached the complex, and the two of you stand just outside the front doors. Through the glass, you can see the night attendant on duty, watching something on their laptop while eating instant ramen.

When you look up at Toshinori this time, you’re startled, even through the haze of your inebriation, to find that his expression has softened into something you’ve never seen before.

If you had thought his walls were down earlier, this is something else entirely — a rare, unguarded glimpse of something tender and heartfelt.

“Only if you promise to do the same,” he murmurs, and oh boy, there’s that strange feeling again, like your heart is skipping rope while your stomach does a backflip.

Please don’t let me throw up on the boy I like.

“It’s a deal,” you tell him, sounding a little breathless. When you look away, your gaze snags on the permanent marker still sticking out of his pocket. “Oh, hey. I never actually signed your shirt. Gimme.”

When he hands you the marker and turns around, you examine his back, trying to find a good spot to leave your mark. Chewing on your bottom lip, you tap him, silently asking him to bend down so you can reach.

Tucked in between a few other messy scrawls, you sign your name. And then, after hesitating for the briefest moment, you add something else beneath it.

“All done!” Handing the marker back, you smile up at him, trying to plant your feet and not fall over. “Thanks for walking me back. A gentleman hero is hard to find.”

His smile looks a little shy as he glances inside. “Are you okay to get to your room?” Seeming to realize the possible implications of that question, he stammers, “I m-mean, you have your key? You’re not feeling like you’re going to pass out, or —”

Reaching into the pocket of your jacket, still tied around your waist, you pull out your wallet and wave it around like a prize. “Key card’s in here! And I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

As you walk to the door, you call out, “I’ll drink water, too. I swear.” You know that came out more slurred than you intended, especially when Toshinori stifles a laugh.

“Goodnight,” he says, and you glance back one more time before the door closes.

“Goodnight.”

You keep your promise and manage to drink one glass of water before flopping onto your bed, watching as the ceiling slowly rotates, even though you’re no longer moving. Definitely not a good sign.

But all you can manage is throwing your jacket on the floor, shimmying out of your pants, and dry swallowing two ibuprofen before you crawl under the covers.

The last thing you see before you fall asleep, so clear in your mind, it may as well be a photograph, is the way Toshinori looked at you before you signed his shirt.

There’s no question anymore. You absolutely have a crush on him. Quite possibly the biggest crush you’ve ever had. And as you bury your face in your pillow, cheeks hot at the realization, you can’t help but hope he might feel the same way.

#my hero academia #mha #bnha #all might x reader #yagi toshinori x reader #toshinori yagi x reader #toshinori x reader #mybigbangacademia

151 notes · View notes

ruminate88 · 10 days

Text

Processing School Trauma:

School for me was torture. Everyday that I had to be there, I was absolutely miserable. After I was homeschooled, I would have dreams my mom made me go back to school and I would cry and feel like my mom abandoned me… School wasn’t just about being “labeled stupid.” It was about being misunderstood, judged, laughed at and neglected. It was a lonely place and I was daily rejected.

In the 7th grade: I had this computer teacher who was married to a “military man”. She was not only strict, she yelled daily and belittled everyone. The only thing I knew back then about computers was how to play solitaire LOL (it was 2002 btw) my parents never had the internet yet… I never learned how to type. The computer teacher was far from empathetic or understanding. She yelled at me daily. I would ask the guy next to me for help and because I was talking, she stuck me in the far corner by myself against a window where I could hear band practice across the way and I would get sooooo distracted 🤪 I was not typing or keeping up in her class at all…

After computer class, I would go to “reading lab” and I wasn’t a book lover by any means but you better believe I couldn’t wait to get to that class becuase literally, no one talked!!! 😅 not even the reading lab teacher. She would whisper and tell us to read quietly… oh boy, I loved her so much haha However, on occasion she would give us a book we all read together and out loud. I remember one day the computer teacher (I purposely forgot her name) she really shook me up one day just yelling at me and I was a nervous wreck! I get to reading lab and it was “my turn to read” 😳😳😳 ahhhh the reading lab teacher was like, “okay it’s your turn to read out loud to everyone.” And oh gosh I hadn’t stopped shaking yet and all I could think of was “plzzzzz hold it together and don’t cry!!!!” I was shaking the book so hard on my hands trying to remain calm and just get through it all.

Gym was also a nightmare. I purposely wore high heels to school so I could take an F and have to sit out. I can’t tell you how many times a ball of some sort would smack me in the face 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 I nicknamed myself “The Human Ball Target” LOL Also had a bus driver that yelled and carried a whistle. He blew that stupid thing daily. I would leave off his bus with the biggest headaches… This is all just part of the things I remember about school that I detested!!!

Not all my teachers were mean or cold. 3rd grade was probably my best teacher ever. Well and 4th grade Mrs. Washington wasn’t too terrible either I suppose… I just remember school being the one place I felt the smallest, dumbest, weakest and the most misunderstood/misjudged. I got tired of kids acting like they knew who I was when they barely knew my name 🤪 “Popular” girls were so stuck up in middle school. They always talked down to me like I wasn’t a person and sadly, whenever they wanted a “piece of gum” or to “barrow a pencil”, they had to ask me….

Also in 6th grade, this guy named Robbie Williams punched me in my arm becuase I put his chair down for him off his desk 😝😳 I mean… how stupid is that???? He couldn’t stand that I was nice to him and he couldn’t stand me period. Punching me was satisfying to his ego and my reaction was to walk away and go sit at my desk… My mom asked why I didn’t tell the teacher and it’s like “uhhh cuz that’s only something a wimp would do.” I never told on Robbie or wanted to get him in trouble. I just realized in that moment he’s a bully, to leave him alone and I found out years later in high school, that he was physically abusive to his girlfriend and I believed it 😔🥴😳 That’s terrible!!

Sure, being homeschooled was obviously scary quiet. Only me there. Everyone at work and left me to my own devices. I taught myself everything at that point. It felt like the ultimate neglect. HOWEVER, you couldn’t have paid me a million dollars to go back to hell, I mean, school…..

#school trauma #school #my story #emotional abuse #unpacking #healingjourney #healing from trauma #self awareness #self reflection #neglect #labels #learning disability #learning difficulties #healing journal #real life #life lessons #teachers #Abusive #toxic people

3 notes · View notes

sharksnshakes · 2 years

Text

Updated Masterlist

Started; 8/4/22

Last Updated; 5/19/24

Total Works; 25

Here’s my current masterlist in all of its glory. Reader is gn unless stated otherwise. If there’s an idea you think I’d like, feel free to send it my way via asks! Happy reading >:)

(Key: * = content warnings, listed in more detail in links)

!!more under the cut!!

Attack On Titan

Zeke Yeager - Flirting HCs

Winning over reader might take a while, but Zeke’s no quitter.

Call Of Duty: Modern Warfare II

Alejandro Vargas - Just A Scratch*

You pull your stitches when getting a late night glass of water. Alejandro's up, too, and insists on giving you a hand.

John “Soap” MacTavish - Open Arms

Soap might be the tiniest bit jealous of the throw pillows you nap with. You might just have to do something about that.

Multi - Where They Kiss You

Because sometimes a kiss on the lips isn't enough.

Dead By Daylight

Ghostface Tormenting A New Survivor! HCs*

As the newest survivor to come through the fog, it’s only a matter of time until the Ghostface puts you through hell.

Killers’ Favorite Color On Survivor! Reader HCs

Even bloodthirsty killers have their favorites. Favorite victims, favorite weapons, favorite... colors?

Killer’s Love Languages - Danny Johnson, Evan Macmillan*

Hard to believe that the killers have love languages. But, y’know, weirder things have happened.

Killers’ Big Spoon vs. Little Spoon! HCs

Everyone has a soft spot. Even killers in the fog... right?

Survivor! Reader Being Used As A Shield! HCs - Pyramid Head*

Pyramid Head isn’t in Silent Hill anymore, but it won’t stop him from exacting justice where he sees fit.

Survivor! Reader Attempting To Flirt With The Killers HCs

When running and hiding from the killers becomes too much work, it’s time to change strategies.

The Doctor Tormenting A New Survivor! HCs*

You’re new to the Entity’s realm and need someone to show you the ropes. It’s a good thing the Doctor is in...

Wesker Tormenting A New Survivor! HCs*

It’s too bad that nobody taught you not to make a fool of Albert Wesker. Looks like he’ll be teaching you himself.

Gotham

Jervis Tetch - Please*

Jervis Tetch has a habit of wanting what he can’t have.

Jervis Tetch - Foggy Mirrors

You can never have too much of a good thing.

Random Traits Gotham Villains Find Attractive! HCs

Love’s hard to come by in Gotham City, but that doesn’t mean people stop looking--even villains.

Marvel

Stephen Strange/Sinister Strange - Wrong One

F! reader has feelings for Stephen and visits the Sanctum Sanctorum, only to discover he’s not the person she thought...

Stephen Strange - Bad Dream?

Reader wakes up from a nightmare when taking a midday nap. Good think a certain sorcerer (and a certain cloak) are around to ground them.

Resident Evil

Albert Wesker - Dinner?

Wesker keeps calling you into his office to run point. It’s definitely not anything deeper than that, right?

Karl Heisenberg - Reader Asking For Affection! HCs

So what if the most dangerous Lord in the village could use a nap every once in a while? (request)

Leon Kennedy - I Knew You Would

Leon Kennedy, your coworker and friend, does not want to just be friends. Too bad he hasn't told you that. (valentine's day adjacent)

Leon Kennedy - New Perspective

After losing a bet with friend and fellow DSO agent Leon Kennedy, he takes you for a ride on his motorcycle. Unforeseen consequences include windburn, watery eyes, and maybe developing a crush on him. Maybe.

The Dark Knight Trilogy

Bane (Nolanverse), Jonathan Crane (Nolanverse) - Confrontation*

Reader is sick of Bane’s threats and Crane’s jurisdiction. In a moment of bravery (or stupidity!), reader tells the villains exactly what they think. (done separately).

Jonathan Crane (Nolanverse) - Everything You’ve Got*

Jonathan Crane is infatuated with reader, who’s forgotten about him entirely. That just won’t do.

Jonathan Crane (Nolanverse) - For Better Or For Worse

Why is your boyfriend, Jonathan Crane, wearing the Scarecrow’s mask?

#jonathan crane x reader #dead by daylight #dbd x reader #ghostface x reader #gotham x reader #gotham fox #resident evil x reader #jervis tetch x reader #cod mw2 #resident evil #cod mw2 x reader #john soap mactavish #alejandro vargas #danny johnson #ghostface #pyramid head #leon kennedy x reader #marvel x reader

74 notes · View notes

existentialbogwitch · 2 months

Text

What is wrong with me:

1. I’m autistic. Not officially diagnosed or anything. But it is something I am pursuing. It is very likely. There are many reasons why.

a. I had sensory issues as a child that were very disruptive and insistent.

I. I refused to wear jeans until like 3rd grade probably, only because I didn’t want to just wear dresses all the time. My preferred item of clothing will always be sweatpants and sweatpants adjacent materials. Also things that look like you could wear them to dance class. Cozy, soft, non-restrictive (unless its extremely stretchy/compression fabric - and sometimes I can’t do that, it varies widely)

II. Sound sensitivity. I have better hearing than most people, but I struggle with human voices and too many of them in the same space talking at the same time is extremely overwhelming for me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to listen to or focus on and I become extremely anxious about missing out on something important. I have a very low tolerance for loud noises and I prefer to constantly have background white/brown noise because silence aggravates my tinnitus and I find the white noise soothing. I feel instantly more safe when I am wearing headphones and listening to dark grey (spaceship) white noise specifically. I’ve started wearing earplugs again as an adult. My mom would put cotton balls in my ears when I was a kid because I always complained about everything being too loud (she didn’t believe me). I don’t know why it never occurred to her to take me to a doctor.

b. I had frequent night terrors and anxiety from a young age. Vivid nightmares I can still remember.

c. I struggled with balance and could not dance as well as my peers because I was somewhat lacking in coordination.

d. I struggled socially and was very shy and reserved, unless I was performing and had a specific script to follow with words to say. I could read really well and was good at projecting my voice because I was taught how to sing at an early age, so people assumed I was capable of communicating normally. I still spoke very softly and people asked me to repeat myself all the time. I have trouble modulating the volume of my voice sometimes when I get too excited.

e. I could memorize information and recite it back, but it did not mean I understood it and people really don’t bother to look into this too much.

f. I am one of those people who are naturally very good at music in a way that is frequently very annoying to other people and I absolutely get it.

g. I have a tendency to get obsessed with things in not good ways.

h. Family history of drug use and addiction

I. I am frequently referred to as annoying or “a lot”

2. I have experienced a LOT of trauma. I am realizing that most people experience a good amount of traumatic things happening to them throughout their lives, and to an extent this is “normal.”

Simply because many people have experienced pain though, does not in any way detract from your experience of your personal pain. Sometimes we are led to believe that we are not allowed to feel our feelings. My feelings matter, and I have a lot of very big feelings. I have had debilitating anxiety since I was a child.

Being autistic and not being diagnosed earlier in my life has led me down a really frustrating mental health “journey” that I’m sure I am not alone in experiencing.

I have heard that CPTSD is a common occurrence among autistic individuals. I need to find some sources to back this up, I haven’t been keeping track of sources for this stuff, and I need to start doing that.

I have severe social anxiety and I have for as long as I can remember and I have to actively fight a battle that everyday looms closer to full blown agoraphobia and it is something I feel (not surprisingly) a lot of anxiety about. I have anxiety about my anxiety? I believe these are just panic attacks. Thus the cptsd.

My family has never really accepted me and I am working up the strength to start seeking my own chosen family and I’m terrified.

I want so badly to be able to express myself as I genuinely want to be, not as a reflection of societies expectations of me.

I want to be able to say that I’m non-binary and not feel weird about it.

I want to be able to tell people that just because I don’t have kids doesn’t mean that I don’t care about children.

I don’t have kids because it would be irresponsible of me to have children.

I’m trying to get back on birth control so I can feel better about being sexually active in a state with terrifyingly backwards opinions on abortion.

I am afraid to be myself in most places in real life because I do not know who might be judging me.

I wish I had a place I could just be myself.

(Affordable housing is mental health care. Thank you)

I need to go back and finish my design degree so that I can make slightly more money and move out of my parents house. If I live here for the rest of my life I will lose my mind.

I am trying my best to make positive changes in my life, but it is very slow progress because I seem to routinely make terrible impulsive choices due to poorly managed adhd probably.

My therapist is very good and I’m so glad I have that resource at least. I need to find group therapy as well though and I’ve had less luck on that front because of my “unique” work schedule. Also the fact that none of the groups I’ve tried contacting so far have responded yet, but it’s only been a few days. I still need to do more research. I’m scared of any groups that meet in a church because I have a history with religious trauma and a lot of my depression is existential and I don’t want to go into a group setting and upset more people with my worries and questions.

I really want to make sure I find a good, safe place I can share - so I feel less inclined to pour my soul out to the void maybe.

I feel really narcissistic making posts like this because I know no one else “really” cares, but there’s always that little light in the back of my head that goes “remember how much it meant to you to read the things that other people post about their lives” and that encourages me a bit.

I plan to do some historical research on human development because I’m having a lot of weird existential questions about the nature of ego and reality and what “I” really means and who “I” am. And when I’m setting something like a goal, what are the most important factors to consider? When I’m making a decision, who is the most important factor in the equation? Is it my own personal happiness? (Which is of itself an incredibly complicated question, because happiness is extremely subjective).

Needs of the many vs. needs of the few becomes complicated when the many is comprised of an oppressive group. suddenly needs become bullets. Needs are used to subjugate and control.

I really, really wish more people would watch Star Trek.

And talk about their feelings openly.

But that’s a big ask.

I will be adding to this post as I feel like it with no discernible goal. Vaguely I am eventually trying to get an autism diagnosis, but I’m in no particular hurry as I’m self employed and would get no real benefit from it unless I lose my teaching job and have to seek unemployment.

#late night rant #delete later #what is wrong with me #things to tell my therapist when she gets back in town next week #sorry for all the rants I’m on my period and I have pms #I’m also sick #on spring break #I have watched 2 seasons of Star Trek discovery so it is not all terrible #this post is sponsored by Vicks vapor rub #screaming into the void

2 notes · View notes

darkdevasofdestruction · 1 year

Text

Chapter 4 ~ Kinslayer

"Katrina. You are here." Kratos's rough voice noted, as soon as he entered his large chambers, on Mount Olympus. Upon his bed, he saw a cascade of crimson velvet and petals sprawled all over the silk sheets, and her green tunic was twisted around her slender body, proof that she must have shifted and rolled around the bed for a while, in his absence, restless as she was reading some kind of manuscript. As soon as she heard his voice, she turned her head to the side lazily, only to put the book aside, and crawl to the edge of the bed, waiting expectantly, yet with a cute, kitten smile on her face. "Welcome back, my love. I pray your day went well." as soon as he heard her honeyed voice, Kratos could feel all his worries disappear, so he sat next to her, pulling her on his lap, so she could work her magic on him. "It was fine." he muttered, closing his eyes and feeling those soft hands cupping his face - Though she was unable to erase the visions or the nightmares plaguing him, her magic was allowing her to create a sense of serenity to those she was touching - And for Kratos, that was the difference between losing himself in his madness, and carrying on. "What were you reading?" "I found an old manuscript of Sappho's, filled with poems that she had not the time to publish, for she was taken away from this world. Must I say, I have always been a great lover of her art, yet this one, is truly touching." the red haired woman explained, reaching out for the book, playfully hiding herself from the man with it. "It was truly lovely, being able to contribute to her academy, where she taught young women all sorts of things, especially when it came to art... Though, I must say, I was a little jealous - She truly loved Aphrodite and Eros. A lot." she giggled softly, hearing the man grunt. "What is it, Kratos? Do not tell me you are... Envious, of a woman who loves another? Or is it because it is Aphrodite, she loved?" she continued teasing him, only to feel herself being rolled on her back, on the bed, with the man towering over her. Once again, the Goddess used the book to hide her face and her smile. "What are you playing at, you vixen?" gently, he grabbed her wrists and pulled them away, revealing that light blush and the enchanting timid grin she was wearing. "I am doing nothing of the sort, my darling. I just felt you were feeling unusually stressed and hoped I might be able to take your mind off your problems, for a little while." she explained, reaching out her arms around his body and pulling him down on the bed, next to her. "What is it that ails you so, my love?"

Kratos, the Ghost of Sparta, had taken his place amongst the Olympians as the God of War. The bloodshed, the relentless battles - They had finally brought him here. With Ares dead, and Olympus beckoned, yet the visions of his mortal existence still haunted him, even with aid from the Goddess with whom he was sharing a bed with for so long. Visions, nightmares of his old life, of himself and Deimos sparring together, of his mother calling out his name - They hit him like a whip - And he knew that this time, they were not just mere visions, results of his failures... For with the Gods, nothing was ever as it seemed, and though he still had much to learn in dealing with their riddles and twisted meanings, he had genuine help.

"I... I had visions... Of my mother. She asked me to help her." the man explained, evidently troubled. "Then let us me on our way and aid her." the woman immediately said, getting in a sitting position. "Why are you not questioning the validity of this vision?" the man frowned, confused at her eagerness. "For you have never had this vision before. One thing is to have visions of the past, and another, to have one calling out for you so directly." she explained with ease. "Not to mention... I have a... Feeling... That whatever reason she called you for, it must be related to your brother." for the first time in ages, Kratos was reminded of the first tragedy and failure that he had to witness. "Deimos? What about him? He is dead." agitated, Kratos jumped to his feet in a flash and started pacing around. "I am not entirely sure, actually. In theory, he should be. It would make sense. He was taken for a reason, after all. With all that considered, however... Ever since the night he was taken away, I could not help but have this feeling of... Hope? Something that kept my mind thinking that there was still a ray of chance that he may be saved, one way or another." the woman speaking for the first time of this event truly surprised the Spartan, who turned and fixated his gaze upon her. "You have never spoken of this before. Is it related to the prophecies you kept mentioning before?" by the way she hung her head, he could see the guilt and shame overflowing from her heart. "Kratos... Do you remember that night? Do you know why Ares took Deimos, in the first place?" the woman asked, and for the first time in a while, the Spartan took some time to voluntarily recall the awful memories from his past. "I... Remember how Ares took him... And how he destroyed the village. And I remember you, saving me from underneath that house, and how you stood up to him. I still cannot tell why he was taken." it was obvious how he was struggling to remember, and failing, for he was just a child. "Are you emotionally and mentally ready to find out the reason behind that night?" from the look of remorse in her gleaming eyes, he realised the gravity of the situation - O, how a good day begins, with laughter and joy, and ends with mourning and weeping. "No. But I have to know. I have been left in the dark and wronged by the Gods for far too long. I have a right to know." without meaning to, he raised his voice, and only then realised how uncomfortable he made the woman before him - He knows she cannot stand any type of aggressiveness, but he could not yet control the anger within. "Very well. I shall tell you - But you must act with caution, do you understand?" once the warning was heeded with yet another one of his grunts, the Goddess sighed and stood tall, stepping around the room with her feet bare, and flowers and grass blooming wherever she stepped. "When you were a child... There was an Oracle, who foretold the demise of Olympus. Since the beginning, Zeus always feared a Titan rebellion, and thought that would be the end of us - But no. The destruction of Olympus, and with it, the death of Zeus and the Gods that reside here... It was to be brought upon by a mortal... That we know as The Marked Warrior." the Goddess told him the prophecy, and in a low voice, she could hear him ushering the nickname given to the prophesised one. "As you recall... Deimos was born with a distinctive birthmark on his face... Hence why, you also, have dorned one, in his honour. Zeus was afraid, so he sent Ares and Athena down to Sparta, to get rid of that child before it is too late." she continued on briefly. "Athena... Was there too?" his eyes widened with shock - It seemed that he truly recalled so little of that interaction. "Oh, yes, my love - She was there. Zeus only ever truly loved two of his children - Ares, and Athena. All the other ones were cast aside to be cherished by others... Such as myself. You were made to kill Ares because of Zeus picking favourites again, and that made the once favoured Ares to feel... Jealous and undermined... Ha. Imagine all of Zeus's children, trying to go against Olympus for being left in the dark. How foolish." she muttered to herself, out of spite, before regaining her composure. "And how do you know that Deimos is alive, then? Surely, if Zeus was afraid of him, he would have killed him in that instant." Kratos marched in front of the woman and grabbed her shoulders, so as to look her in the eyes and search for the truth. "You see, Kratos... The Marked Warrior had another prophecy told about him... And it is... Rather contradictory, at least for now. Long before you and Deimos were born, the Sisters of Fate spoke of the Marked Warrior as such - That he would become the greatest General that Sparta ever had, and that he will have a beautiful family made out of love. As of now... Neither of these have happened." the truth was clear in her voice, yet somehow, Kratos could feel, she was letting out some details. "And why were you there, then?" his voice was lower and questioning, yet he still held her face dearly in his hands. "I tried to save him." she spoke in such a pitiful, heartbreaking way, that it shocked the man. "Before he was born, the Marked Warrior was fated to be soulbound to me. The Marked Warrior was my soulmate. My heart felt the moment he was brought into this word... And somehow, in the back of my mind, I can still feel that he is alive. I want to believe that. It is the only thing that keeps me going." he couldn't help but wipe away the stray tears streaming down her cheeks - He could never understand how could one weep over a love that has never taken place, yet the way it looked, she was as distraught as he was, after the loss of Lysandra. "If he is alive, then... Will you help me save him?" the man asked, touching his forehead over hers, and through all the storm brewing in his heart and mind, he could feel peace clearing the fog. "I would do anything for you, Kratos."

With that answer given, the mysterious vision of his past set the two Gods in search of answers - Answers that lay in the temple of Poseidon, deep within the city of Atlantis. Though, as always, Athena's statue was quick to warn the Spartan of the foolish errand on which he was embarking. "This is not a wise course of action, Kratos. It was a dream, nothing more." she claimed, as the two stood in the pouring rain, on the boat sailing away. "The visions still haunt me, Athena. The visions YOU promised to take away... But THIS vision... I can change." the man spoke with strong conviction. "Perhaps it is a vision best left unchanged. There is more to this than either of you know... Please..." but in her anger, Katrina yelled - Or at least, she attempted to - Yell at her sister's statue to quiet down, and thankfully, the statue spoke no more.

Though the journey was, as expected, filled with enemies from under the sea, not even the great Scylla could get in the way of Kratos and his ambition of finding his mother, answers, and ultimately, saving his brother, should he truly be alive still. Climbing up various structures, the two travelers found themselves by the Temple of Thanatos, the God of Death, a vestige of a long forgotten time, erected before the rule of the Olympians, this temple was not placed here by mortal hands. Within its walls lay a passage to the domain of death - The entrance to a world that no mortal dared enter thus far.

Walking past, although the Goddess had enough thoughts in her head about this temple, they carried on, going up the elevator to the upper floors of the City of Atlantis, doing far too much swimming of which Katrina was not fond of, especially with the uncomfortable feeling of the rich linen sticking to your skin - Alas, Poseidon's love for water was incomprehensible to a fault.

Seeing the many statues, she remembered stories from after the Great Titan War, when Poseidon took dominion over the Seas and erected a monument fit to his glory - Hence, the birth of the great City of Atlantis -... Though grand, Katrina always thought that the Gods were much too greedy and narcissistic for their own good. Even so, with the Lord as their guardian, the Atlanteans thrived beyond all other societies, and thus, these devout and peaceful citizens stand as a testament to mankind's future. If one could look past all the ego-centrical power movements, you could see the prosperity of this developed city.

As they ran up a slippery slide, they could see the Temple of Poseidon, in the distance - A monument built by the Atlanteans, to the greatness of their protector and benefactor - The God of the Seas. Once they arrived in front of the door, it spoketh. "Know thyself, and the path shall be revealed." with this in mind, Kratos grabbed the woman's wrist and brought her with him - With such a tricky riddle, he feared that, should they enter separately, they will lose their way, not only from each other, but from their own selves as well.

Once inside this dream-like state, Kratos walked down a familiar path - It was his home, in Sparta, from back when he was still a child. It was the dead of night, and he could see two children sparring. "Come, brave Spartans, the battle is done." the sound of a familiar feminine voice called out vividly, and a silhouette appeared before the two little ones. "Kratos, bring Deimos inside." his mother called out to him, and the two followed inside - Following the dissipating vision inside, they stumbled upon an elderly woman, laying down - She looked gravely ill, and coughing.

"How I have missed you, Kratos." the woman's tired voice called out to him dearly. "What treachery is this? ... Another trick of the Gods?" he asked, his voice harsh and angry - How much could one's heart take? "No, Kratos, it is no treachery. This is... A real person. Is this... Your mother?" the Goddess kelt before the sickly human, trying to heal her into getting better... But she was cursed, and there was nothing that she could do about it. She might be a healer, but she was definitely no curse-breaker. "Yes, my son... It is me..." upon hearing the confirmation, Kratos fell besides his mother's body and held her in his arms, so carefully that he might have been afraid she would disintegrate before his very eyes. "Your father brought me here. I have waited so long..." she caressed the face of his child dearly, yet her skin was deathly pale, and her hand was skeletal from how she thinned because of the sickness. "We do not have much time, Kratos - Your brother does not have much time." "Deimos...?" talks of his brother, him being brought here - It dawned on him that the reality of his brother being alive was now, more than ever, exactly that - A reality. "He lives... Trapped in torment, deep in Death's Domain." the mother explained, pained and in misery. "But... He's gone. You told me that he was!" Kratos could not believe the words that he was hearing. He could not accept that he was living in a lie, after so long. "I'm sorry - I had no choice but to lie. You must listen now! The Temple of Ares in Sparta... Holds the secret that will lead to your brother. The road will not be easy... But you must help him! He... Needs you." through coughs and exhaustion, she managed to warn her son, who hung his head in disbelief. "This... This cannot be..." though his voice was soft at first, rage took over him quickly. "Why?! Why would you do this?!" his own mother, lying to him about his own brother's fate. "Your father forbid me to tell you..." there was fear in her eyes, whenever she mentioned the father. "My father? Who IS my father?!" the man demanded an answer, only for the Goddess to put her hand on his mother's. "You are cursed. Are you... Sure... You are ready?" she could feel that, once she broke her vow, she would die, one way or another. "I have lived a long and pitiful life, under fear and a curse that I dared not break... But my children have suffered for far too long... They deserve to know the truth... They deserve to live their life however they want... And Deimos... Deimos... He must be rescued, at once." the mother squeezed Katrina's hand, and offered a small yet grateful smile. "Please, continue looking after them... I know you always had. I am grateful for everything you have done for them, and will continue to think that-a-way." "Very well. I vow to you, this is an oath that I shalt never break, be it that I lay my life down for them. Of that, you can rest assured." with a kiss on the mother's hand, Katrina stood up and offered the mother and son a few moments alone.

With one last dear look at her beloved child, Callisto rose enough to whisper into Kratos's ear, before falling back down and squirming from extreme pain. Realising what was going on, the Goddess quickly grabbed the man and pulled him behind her. "Look away, Kratos. A child should never have to see his mother dying." she spoke, creating a spear and watching with a closed heart how the once lovely mother transformed into some kind of horrendously malformed monster - Though, as soon as the weapon found its way impaled into her heart, she fell back on the ground, in her human form. "Why... Why did this happen...?" the stupefied man was somehow able to find the strength to speak. "The person who cursed your mother wanted to keep the identity of your father a great secret. If she were to tell you any sooner, the same fate would have befallen her. But now, you are stronger, and you can avenge her, and rescue your brother." it wasn't something easy to tell a child, but it had to be told. Kratos stepped from behind the woman and picked his fallen mother in his arms, for the last time. "Finally... I am free." though dead, he could see the liberation she felt with it. "Find your brother... Kratos... Go to... Sparta... Find Deimos... He... Needs you." she managed to utter with her dying breath, but with it, she took another piece of Kratos's heart. "Mother!" he exclaimed, unable to comprehend the shock of seeing his mother dead in his own arms. "What have I done..." "Do not blame yourself, Kratos. It is the fault of the one who cursed you." Katrina hoped her words would set him on the path of revenge and forget the foolish idea of blaming his own guiltless self. After all, with her last breath, she released the weight of her burden, and finally found the peace she had long sought.

But for Kratos, the rage was almost palpable, watching his mother's body being transformed into a bed of flowers did nothing to erase the anger he felt, having the last of his family being taken away from him by the Gods. Fate had, once again, pushed him to the brink of madness. Picking up the golden bracelet from the ground, she held onto the man's hand and placed it on his palm, only to see him grunting and looking away, unable to gaze at the last reminder he had of his mother. Though, after careful thinking, he gingerly took the accessory in his hand and held onto the woman's arm, putting it next to her other vine-like golden bracelets. He said nothing, but at least he seemed more content, knowing that a woman he cherished would hold and treasure the last keepsake he had of his mother.

With a squeeze of his hand, Katrina was the first to brave the unknown and guided the man further into the temple, where they found the Eye of Atlantis relic, which gave Kratos the ability to channel the storm in a beam. It perfect for his quest... But, just before they were to leave, the Scylla had other plans, and it dragged the God of War somewhere under the water after he pushed her away from its destructive path, to some active volcano. Things just couldn't get any better, the Goddess thought sarcastically as she thought of say way to get down there effectively. She didn't thrive in the ocean like Poseidon, or near magma, for her flowers would easily melt - But by the time she was done overthinking her strategic move, she saw the Spartan emerging from underneath the water, thrown away into some far away balcony, whilst the volcano itself seemed to have erupted as it started to destroy the great city.

Unable to wrap her mind around whatever it was that was going on, she used her liana to reach the place where Kratos was waiting - Though, upon her last swing, a magma stone melted through one of her vines and she could feel herself free-falling. Thankfully, the man had seen the act, and with his fantastically refined reflexes, he had managed to grab her rope and pulled her up, before engulfing her into his arms and watching briefly the end of Atlantis. The battle with the Scylla had shaken the very foundation of Poseidon's Kingdom. Atlantis was sinking - But that mattered little to the Ghost of Sparta.

The two made their way through the ruined island of Crete until they found the Temple of Athena, and Kratos could not help himself, and went to yell at the statue of the Goddess that claimed to help him, but lied. "Athena! You lied to me! The Gods lied to me!" he yelled, but the statue was not responding. "My brother lives! HE LIVES!" once again, she completely ignored the Spartan. "ATHENA!!!" nothing. Sighing, and annoyed beyond measure, Katrina took out her weapon, and with a look of approval from the God of War, she destroyed the statue of the lying Goddess. "Forgive me, Kratos, but I have never had much patience for the lies veiled in fake wisdom, as my sister so calls it. If it is manipulation she wants to do, let her hone her skills on others." though, just as magically, the fallen head of the statue started speaking. "Though I do not appreciate my statues being desecrated - Kratos, you must not let your rage blind you. There is much you do not know. be warned, they will all try to stop you." but he did not allow her to finish speaking, as he crushed the stone head with his foot from the rage she was instilling in him. "Let us continue our journey, Kratos. Do not let her words plague your judgement. I know she angered you so, but she is gone now, and we have much to do." once again, mimicking the way he had touched their foreheads together, she did just that, and succeeded in calming down the storm inside his heart, so that they could continue venturing on.

Once they reached the gates of Crete, they realised the full extent of the destruction that had befallen the ones living there. There, they heard a voice - It was broken, as if it had cried for three days and three nights without end - But upon realising where it came from, they saw a soldier, holding one of his fellow brothers in arms... Though it was only the top half, for the bottom one, it was sprawled across the ground with viscera spilling everywhere. Such a gruesome sight... Whoever could have committed such a disgusting crime?

They had angered the Gods, the live one said, as he tried to give the warning to the Ghost of Sparta. They have been spared by 'The Daughter', and that... Death awaits the Ghost. He will never get the Skull... What Skull, though? He died before he could speak any further, but this sight only determined Kratos to continue further in his search for his brother. Traversing through Heraklion until they found the Grave Digger again, making a mockery of Kratos and his hate for the Gods, whilst taunting him about his brother, but Katrina only put her hand on the man's shoulder and pushed him away, not wanting to hear any more foolery about the path they were walking on.

Walking past the statue of two warriors crossing spears, he remembers the good times when he was little and sparring with his brother - Though he always defeated him, he always told him good advice. A Spartan warrior never lets his back hit the ground, he remembers telling his brother. Even in death, a Spartan stands tall for battle. You are a Spartan, are you not?! his voice resounds in his mind, and the look of defeat in his brother's eyes, as he held the point of the spear to his neck, came haunting him once more. Yes, Kratos, he had said, before Kratos helped him up on his feet... And then, their village was burnt to the ground, and Deimos was taken away.

They ventured to the Mounts of Aroania, where they saw a winged woman, inquiring a man about the whereabouts of the Ghost of Sparta, only to kill him upon realising his lack of knowledge... But as they reached the dying man, Kratos realised, he was a Spartan warrior, and he granted his blessings before death. This treacherous pass, Kratos pointed out, is one of the very few routes into Sparta. These mountains are also the proving grounds where young warriors are sent alone to face their deepest fears, before being given the honour to join the ranks of the Great Spartan Army.

This place was called, and it felt lifeless... The Chasm of Solace, they called it, though it was the Chasm of Death, Katrina thought. She never agreed to the cruelty that the Spartan faced - Though, she admitted it was effective, in its own way. Even so, she continued to be against war and conflict, and should she be able to avoid meaningless death, she would. Still, she wanted dearly to believe that children did not have to encounter such horrors, as the minions and monsters brought before them, as it would be less than unfair.

Once they reached the Aroania pass, however, they finally got a better look at the winged woman - It was Erinys, the daughter of Thanatos, the God of Death. Pain, given form... Evil, given life. Katrina shuddered looking at her, knowing very well how the woman before her was her exact opposite, especially when it came to her convictions, but the uncomfortable feeling of dread only amplified once the daughter spoke, in a whispery, eerie voice that sent shivers down your spine. "Ghost of Sparta. The God Slayer. Your brother belongs to Thanatos. So does your blood." she ushered softly, glaring at the man on the other side of the broken bridge. "You cannot stop me. Nothing can." Kratos interjected, only to have the woman fly before him, looking for a death fight, which she couldn't win. In spite of her magic and various allies, Kratos was able to rip away her wings and even defeated her giant bird-form whilst he was being flown around, for free falling to reach the animal form. The two plunged to the ground, deep into the forest, where Kratos could deliver the killing blow, cutting off her arm, impaling her torso and picking up the Scourge of Erinys, an artifact that unleashes a power which no mortal nor God should wield, as it created eternal voids.

In her flurry, Katrina managed to follow the path of destruction, transforming into a cloud of butterflies and searching for the man that was taken away, only to find him somewhere deeper into the woods - At the very entrance of Sparta. Granted, she had never walked the bridge of Sparta, so it felt overwhelming, especially hearing the claims, hails and cheers for the Spartan, the God of War, all adoring and loving. It was a great change of pace, and she had to admit, she found herself smiling, despite all the horrors they had encountered. He, also, felt calmer. Nostalgic, even.

As they stopped at some point, she could see him zoning out, looking into the horizon - He must have remembered a fond memory, from long ago... Or, at least, it must have been, until Ares and Athena came by to destroy this place... All because of that Oracle's prophecy... Whoever controlled the Marked Warrior, controlled the Fate of Olympus... They were at his home. "Deimos... I will find you..." he found himself uttering out loud, only to feel a small pair of arms wrapping around his form, from behind. "Be strong, my love. We will find him. We will bring him back home. I promised your mother, and I promise you, all the same." her grip on him tightened, though he could feel nothing - Her strength, despite it being that of a God, it was nothing compared to his - Even so, it felt good. He always felt good in her arms. It was the only time he felt all his visions staying away from his mind. The only moment of peace he could get. "That, we will." with a grunt and a certain nod of his head, the two went on ahead, descending to the Jails of Sparta, fighting a Piraeus Lion set loose by a deserter who easily found himself being slain by the Lord Commander, and his body used as weight for a mechanism to work, so they can climb up the ladder and reach the Mountains of Laconia. Though short, their journey home was bittersweet, and Kratos would have loved to indulge, at least a single night in his old home which he missed dearly. Alas, Deimos had been waiting for a long time, and he was his only priority at that moment.

Perhaps, some day soon, together, they may return to their old home, and have a drink, in honour of the good old times when they were children. That is... If Deimos ever forgives him for abandoning him... He must have felt as though Kratos, his own brother, who promised to protect him - Had abandoned him. All this time... Alone, tortured, in the Domain of the Death... Kratos could not even begin to imagine the extent to which he had suffered. All because of the whim of the Gods.

Once arrived at the Temple of Ares, the two were met with some Spartans, working hard to bring down the statue of the old God of War, claiming that they wanted to build a statue in his honour - Hail Lord Kratos, the real God of War! Again, just like in Atlantis, they stood before the door that spoketh to them, yet the riddle was just slightly altered. "Face thyself, and your fate shall be sealed." the engraving of Ares warned,

Kratos and Katrina stood in the Temple of Ares. It was a somber reminder of who and what he had become. The Ghost of Sparta, the God Slayer... And now, the very person the very person he had once despised - the God of War. Ares was once often called upon before the Spartans went into battle. Sacrifices were made in his name to solicit his blessing, and the Spartans chose their prisoners of war for this purpose. Once Kratos took his place, as the new God of War, Sparta's devotion turned towards the one they saw as their own, save for a few staunch supporters of Ares. Why they chose a dead God, Katrina could never understand. If a God was weak enough to be killed by a mortal, then he deserves his fate.

Seeing the angry look on his face, as he stared up at the awful statue, the Goddess dragged Kratos away, to find the clues they were sent on this journey for. Once they reached the end of the temple, they were met with a sort of blank mirror... Yet somehow, Kratos seemed to be... Attracted to it. "No matter what you see, Kratos, forget not, it is not real. Nothing good ever came out of Ares and his chaotic mind." she warned, squeezing his hand for support - Though she was not sure whether she was heard or not, for he let go of her hand and looked down at his hands... Or rather, forearms - Where the chains were still very attached to the material bandaged over her flesh.

As soon as he looked deeply into the mirror, he had lost himself. Though he did not see Katrina's reflection next to him, he could see himself... But it a weird self he was seeing, black, white and ashen, and far more hateful, he thought. A version that was able to reach out of the mirror and grab him. He wanted to reach out for the Goddess and cling onto her, to get himself out of that powerful grip, but that was nonsense - What could a delicate flower accomplish in terms of strength, compared to him? Thinking that, he was able to release his arm from his other self, only to see that the adult version of himself turned into his child one, and it leapt out of the other side, bringing him down in the process. The child would yell the same quotes he would tell his brother, and would try to punch his face, but it was to no avail for the little one, and in the end, Kratos grabbed the young one and smashed it into the mirror - Which smashed, revealing the Skull of Keres - An ancient relic of the Domain of Death, which has dark power within.

"I am so glad you succeeded - And very fast, might I note." the woman skipped playful next to him, mock-admiring the artifact in his hand. "Where were you?" he asked, almost accusatory, making the woman perk up and look at him in confusion. "What do you mean? I was by your side all this time. You zoned out for a moment, and I saw you fighting something before you destroyed the mirror. I have no idea what you were presented before you, but it must not have been a great time." she exclaimed with sincerity. "You... Did not see what I saw, then?" he was met with a shake of her head. "Last time, I could see your vision, because you held onto me. This time, you let go. Whatever you saw, it was in your mind, but the actions you took... Well, you can see the result before your eyes." the Goddess explained, hearing the familiar grunt of the man. "Then... What did you see?" he did not receive an answer - Only a smile, and the look of her beautiful hair, as she turned around - And him, with her. He should have known she would not tell him - When it came to her own fears and vulnerabilities, she was not as quick to speak, as when she was encouraging him to open his heart and accept the comfort. Not only that... But he did not tell her what he encountered, either. Gods truly are a pain to deal with, sometimes. "Where are you going now?" the woman asked, jumping on the edge on the rail and leaning back, as to look up at the beautiful sunset that painted the sky. She had always loved the sunset and how colourful it looked. She would often drag him out of bed so they could watch it together - And then, they would count the stars and name various constellations. He was much better than he thought he was... And the girl was a disaster at coordinates and basic orientation. One would think Gods were All-Knowing and above such things as... Getting lost. "Atlantis." though he did not think, Kratos just knew he had to return to that sunken city. Only there would he find the entrance to Death's Domain - And the brother he left behind. "Death's Domain." she heard her breathless usher - She was terrified, and he could understand exactly why. "Kratos... If Deimos is held there... My powers will be of no use to you, save for my fighting skills... Which, although honed for a long time... They do not compare to yours." she explained with reticence. "What do you mean - Your powers will be of no use? I do not understand." do Gods just lose all their power in that realm? "That realm is something... Peculiar, for even us, Gods. It is older than Olympus, and it is nestled somewhere between the Realm of the Dead and the Realm of the Living. It is feared even by most of us. With that being said... In Death's Domain... There is only that - Death. My powers center around life and nature... If I create life in there, it will just wilt away the next second. It does not hold. There are no liana, no shields, no healing... No nothing. If you get injured there... There is nothing I can do. I am afraid for you, Kratos. Thanatos is a monster is all senses." the woman was biting her lip and worrying excessively - It was just like her to pace around, trying to think of a plan. "And what would you have me do, Katrina? Leave Deimos behind?" he may have been to harsh, result of how she jumped in her skin, startled by the roughness of his voice. "By the Gods - Never imply such a thing! I am going to follow you there, even if it costs me my life. I would much rather have the two of you live and be safe, than me getting out of there - But please, Kratos - I beg of you, NEVER lose focus, be very alert, and fight better than even against Ares. That... That child is nothing compared to Thanatos. Do you hear me?" for a frightened crybaby that oftentimes reminded him of a fawn or a bunny, running away to hide from danger, she always showed a surprising amount of courage, especially in face of mortal danger. Be it back then, when he protected him against Ares... Or, once again, against Ares too... She was capable of protecting him emotionally the best, but her trying to fight for him, was something almost comedic, yet entirely appreciated. "The three of us will leave Death's Domain - Alive AND well - Do you understand? Deimos will not be abandoned again!" he was never one to know how to truly speak to a woman - Spartan women understood very well the harshness of the men and easily found ways to mellow their hearts, as did Lysandra, yet even so, Kratos knew his words could easily be misinterpreted, used to leading armies for so many years. Thankfully, the reassured smile that dorned her face made it obvious that she trusted him. "Very well. Let us be on our way... Lord Kratos." turning around, the man could hear her teasing giggle and only scoffed at her childishness - He did not dare complain, however, for it was a welcomed relief, after such tense moments. Going down the stairs, exiting the temple of the ex-God of War, he saw his dear friend and brother in arms, kneeling before him with his shield and spear.

"I have looked after them as if they were my own, Lord Kratos." he bowed, as the commander too the weapons. "You have served me well." the God praised, and it was evident that the man was very happy. "You have a great friend, Kratos." she smiled, admiring his Spartan weapons. "Atreus." he revealed his name. "When I was general, he was my second in command. Now that I am the God of War, I let him take care of most of the army and the leading of Sparta." "Atreus. What a beautiful name. I can see you feel much more at ease with your own weapons. I am glad to see that." the woman confessed, nodding her head to the side, so he would follow along. "To Atlantis it is, then." "To Atlantis it is."

The way back was just as perilous as before, as the mountains are seldom gentle, yet with the aid of the shield, saving them from the wind caused by the Horn of Boreas, and now, it being Kratos's new additional item he could use against enemies, the fights were getting easier. Arriving at the Shrine of Boreas, the God of the North Wind, known as the Devouring One, as he sweeps away from the Northern Mountains, they can feel the chilling cold whipping at their bare flesh. Cooling the air with his icy breath, Boreas is known to carry a giant conch, and artifact that is said to channel the might of the North Wind.

Exiting the Temple, they arrive at the Canyon of Sorrows, where a fallen body starts floating - No doubt, possessed by the God Thanatos, as it warns them. "Be ware, Ghost of Sparta. Do not pursue this path - The Gods forbid it." "I do not forbid it!" Katrina spoke back to Death itself. "Ah... You. The one who turned her back on her kin. How... Pathetic. And you, Spartan - A mortal, playing God, being a flower girl's lapdog. Ares was a fool to think you would serve him. I have warned you once - If you do not heed my warning, however, not even the Fates will prevent me from ending your path!" Thanatos laughed, taunting the two. "Where is Deimos?!" the girl stepped forward, screaming at him, but he did not even stop laughing. "Get out of my way, Thanatos - Or Ares's blood will not be the only one I'll shed." with that, the corpse was sent flying into a body, made a mockery of what he once was, while alive.

Annoyed, the two continued their journey inside the volcano, where they encountered foe they easily slew - And, on the ground, a golden statue - It was once the beautiful daughter of King Midas, who turned into gold, by his touch. The King of Macedonia was granted a wish by Silenus the Satyr, but his wish soon became his curse. He slowly began to lose his sanity at the sight of everything in his world turning into gold by his mere touch. Be careful what you wish for, they say, especially when it comes to asking the Gods or the Satyrs. Nothing good ever comes out of that... And, unfortunately for him, Kratos had learnt that lesson the hard way.

Somewhere further, standing pitifully, like a broken ragdoll, they encountered the shell of the person who once was King Midas. "Stay away... Stay away!!" he warned the two. "I'm cursed! Stay away!" he was fearing for every living being around him. "Don't you see? Everything I touch... Gold." the man started crying. "Midas." Kratos realised, uttering the name of the fallen King. "I didn't mean to... I thought... How... How could I know that she would..." the rock that he held turn to solid gold. Out of sheer disgust, his hands weakened, and fell to the ground. "Oh, my daughter... My beautiful little girl..." he was crying so pitifully. "I wonder... If I could break his curse..." the Goddess found herself muttering to herself, but a hand on her shoulder and the shake of Kratos's head made her realise it would not be a wise idea. From down below, the once miserable voice turned to an agitated one - Wonderous, even. "The River Styx? ... Am I in Hades? I must be! Finally! I know what I must do!" whatever he was seeing could not have been the River of Lament, for he reached out his hand inside the magma, then cried out from pain... Though, the magma turned to solid gold, as expected. "Poor Midas... What he had become. From a once glorious King, to... This. I wish I could have helped the poor man and his daughter. Alas..." but the saddened girl was lead towards the end of this area, so they could continue their path. "There is nothing you could have done. Men must live with the consequences of their own actions." he must have felt that saying very deeply. "We must follow him and use that ability of his, if we want to safely cross this area. I saw what fire does to your vines. I would rather not risk our lives meaninglessly." he explained their next strategy. "Alright... I will try to hold his hands away from you, then. Let us follow him." nodding her head, she fell in path with his running, until they reached a dead end, where Midas was cowering in a corner. He tried to warn Kratos, and with their plan in action, the Spartan was able to knock the King unconscious and carry him, while Katrina found the enemies on the way, to make things easier for the God of War. Arriving next to the cascade of lava, Kratos threw the King at it, and it had fortified into gold. "Well... I was not expecting this view. It is almost... Artistic. In a very strange way. Kratos, you can be the tenth muse." the woman chuckled, though uneasy, remembering the suffering the man had to endure, though rather relieved, knowing he had to be in pain no further. "Are you done speaking foolish nonsense?" he scowled at the joking woman, dragging her up the cascade, and further on, up the cliff, until they reached the Port of Atlantis.

It looked completely different than what it was just a little before - The Harbour of Atlantis, home to the greatest Armada in the Lands of Greece. It was renowned as a center for trade, knowledge and progress throughout the world of man... And now, it was nothing more than ruins underneath the sea. How upsetting. On the edge, Kratos saw the Goddess, hugging herself as to protect herself from the cold rain that was soaking her to the bone - But her brows were furrowed, and her sight was fixed on the intimidating maelstrom raging in the middle of the sea. Somehow, she knew, they would have to sail in that abominable place.

"Be strong. I will protect you." cupping her face and touching her forehead to his, he reassured the woman that they would make it out alive. It was almost silly, reassuring a God that they would not die - Yet considering the uneventful and boring life of peace she led in the forests, every bit of excitement and death must be overwhelming for her. Self-preservation was not his strongest skill, though he held onto it naturally. Embarking on the ship, Kratos held onto the woman as they sailed deep within the raging abyss - It lay the answer to a question he was not yet prepared to ask - Was Deimos truly still alive?

The road was not only difficult because of the weather conditions, but of the enemies as well - Yet half-way through, Kratos was thrown out of the boat. Crying out his name, Katrina jumped as well and swam after him, though her eyes were stinging and it was getting darker and darker. It was scary and she genuinely felt she might somehow drown there - Or worse, lose her strength and find not the power to sail to the surface, always to be forgotten like a grain of sand, at the bottom of the sea. Thankfully, she was able to reach Kratos's unconscious body, and she dragged him all the way to a cave - Though luck made it so that the annoying head of Poseidon's head was there to mock them still.

Waiting for the man to wake up, Katrina held him in her arms, laid over her lap, and performed various healing spells to keep him warm and in perfect shape, the only comfort being his steadily beating heart. O, how afraid she was - If she lost even him, she would be truly alone in this awfully cruel world. Her red hair hung to her skin like disgusting algae and her flowers were long dead - She looked absolutely dreadful, and felt even more disgusting. She wished she would get home already, and be dry, and with flowers and trees all around her, not... A humid cave at the bottom of the sea.

"It is time to wake up, my love. Return back to me." she whispered sweetly in his ear, caressing his furrowed forehead - And he did just so, jolting up and coughing the remaining water he had in his lungs. "Katrina? What happened?" he asked, still disoriented. "I remembered my swimming lessons. Please, next time you want to go on vacation, let us stray away from the sea. I found my most beautiful iteration to be near the woods." she sighed, a weak joke escaping her lips. "Were you harmed?" he asked, his hands immediately finding her own, as she helped her stand. "Thankfully, no. You were pretty unharmed too. Shall we continue?" she asked, trying to squeeze out the annoying sea water out of her hair. "You have desecrated my Kingdom! I shall not forget this, Ghost of Sparta! You will answer for this affront! And you, flower girl - You will not be welcomed in Olympus anymore! How dare you turn your back on your family?!" the statue head started speaking out of nowhere. "Quiet down, will you?! I am NOT in the mood for your preaching! Besides - Look at what YOUR kingdom did you my hair and clothes! I should hold YOU accountable for this madness!" with that, she destroyed the last remaining bit of him. Kratos looked at her and could barely hold the amused smirk forming on his face, yet his brow was raised, questioning. "...Over an outfit?" "It was my favourite! I always thought green looks very good on me. Am I wrong?" she asked, yet she already knew the answer. "No."

Still, if she had a problem with the water before, now, they had to swim throughout the sunken city. Lord Poseidon, the God of the Seas, took dominion over the oceans when the Olympians ascended to power. The Kingdom of Atlantis was erected in his honour by his followers, and many statues that were built in his image around the city were constructed as integral parts of the structure and mechanism of Atlantis itself. The technology of this city was other-wordly. Too bad it had to end this-a-way. Though Kratos found this city akin to a maze, none of the machinery, nor traps or mechanisms were anywhere near as difficult to figure out as those he faced in Pandora's Temple. After a while, they managed to reach the upper part of Ancient Atlantis, which was still above the sea - Here, they found a codex which explained that the power of the God of the Seas flows inside the Kingdom of Atlantis and is channeled at the Nexus points spread throughout the city. When imbued with this power, the effigies of Poseidon can focus this energy to activate the structures and mechanisms around Atlantis.

Not a lot to go on, but possibly, the only clue needed to understand how this city worked. Going back inside the city, they discovered a lost statue of Athena, which spoke to the Spartan once more. Would she never give up from discouraging him? "It is not too late to turn back, Kratos. No good will come of this journey. The Gods..." the same excuse with the pantheon continued on. "I am done with the Gods! Return to Olympus and leave me be!" he reproached her once and for all, ready to turn back, until she spoke again. "Your brother was a threat to Olympus, Kratos. What was done... Had to be done. Forgive me." false apologies, as always. "No! He was just a child! To hell with your silly prophecies and your arrogance! To hell with your narcissism and your selfishness! You think you can play with mortals' lives, just because that is what they are - Mortals, with no power, and are forced to submit to the Gods who play around with they as if they are the toys of a child! Instead of using your gifts for the betterment of the realm, you destroy it - You are just as guilty as Ares was back then, when you burnt Sparta to the ground, in search of a single child who had no fault!" he had never heard Katrina cursing, nor yelling with such anger at anyone, especially her sister, yet he was no stranger to her complaining about how much of a two-faced liar the Goddess of Wisdom was. Now, however, he remembers the ring of her empty apology, from when he was a child as well. "You are no different from us, sister - Waiting for the man of a prophecy as an excuse to find a husband, as if a mortal could ever hold love for a God." Athena's sharp tongue cut deep into her sister's heart. "What would you know of love, Athena? Do not preach to me about that which you cannot understand. You may be the Goddess of Wisdom, but sometimes, even you should have the intelligence to understand that which is beyond you." the red haired woman shot back just as harshly. "YOU were there? Why? Why didn't you help him?" thought conflicted of the two's argument, he was starting to remember even more of that dreaded night. "I was there for you, Kratos. You had to be saved." Athena spoke those sweet words, but they were as shallow as her. "Katrina saved me. You should have saved him." he blamed the Goddess, but deep inside, he knew - He should have been the one to save his brother. Though he tried, he should have tried even harder. "I... Should have saved him." "You were just a child, Kratos. What could you have done against Ares?" Katrina tried reaching out to him, yet his face turned aside, unable to look at her. She made a great effort to be there for him throughout his whole journey - Be that out of guilt or free will, it mattered little. In the end, he only had her. "There is more to this than you could possibly know, Kratos." her words were giving Kratos no comfort. Only pain and anger. "Lies and riddles - That's all you give me, Athena. Katrina was right all along about all your kin." Athena remained silent. "I WILL save my brother. And you WILL stay out of my way." his order was resolute and strong, and the Goddess ended her possession of the statue, knowing there was nothing more she could possibly say to sway the set mind of the Spartan. "Always a delight, speaking to my intelligent and highly empathetic sister. I dearly hope we will not encounter her again on out journey. The only reason I am not destroy this statue, is because I would gladly see it sink, forever to be forgotten." the red head stomped away from the room, filled with spite at the interaction.

Neither of them could console themselves, nor each other, after such a conversation, yet their minds were far too occupied with untwisting the mysteries of the sinking city, so they could reach Deimos, that they spoke not another word of any other God. Deimos was their only priority, and so it shall remain, until finally, all of the nexus points align, and in turn, the statues - A bridge is formed, which they pass, and after climbing a tree, they reach the Death Gate. With the aid of the skull, they are able to reach the gate that leads them to the Domain of Death.

"There it is. Once we step inside... There is no turning back." the Goddess looked at the open door before them, before turning abruptly to the man, and holding his hands together in her own. "I do not know if this will work! Maybe - Maybe if I focus well enough on it alone, it will!" she exclaimed, and looking down, he could see not a red azalea, but a bigger flower - It was of a light, pale pink, soft and delicate like her sweet lips, and the petals were velvety like her skin. "Just as before, hold it in your fist, and it was heal you. It... Cannot bring back a person from death, of course... I had to remind you of that... But... Though I hope you will not need it... I will channel every bit of my power of this flower alone. Just in case." she was breathless, and her body was trembling lightly - He was not sure whether it was from sheer fear, or from the wetness and cold that was harsh on her bare skin, but this flower - This small bundle of life - It might just serve as the only ray of sunshine and hope they have, in a barren land. "You will be alright. Do not fear. I will protect you and Deimos." Kratos put the flower safely and well within his reach, so he could free his hands and caress her face, leaning down to steal another loving kiss from her. "My body may fear for itself, but my heart fears for you and Deimos. If given the chance, I will make sure the two of you leave this place, before I do." she explained her emotions, to which the man could only snort. "That is not how a Spartan thinks." though he spoke like a Spartan general training a new child recruit, he new very well it would not apply - But at least it earned an amused breathe out of her. "Good thing I am a Greek, and we thrive in a myriad of chaotic emotions." she retorted, stepping back, a grateful and much braver smile playing on her lips. "Let us proceed. We are close to our goal. This is not the time to falter." "Speak more, and I may have to replace Atreus as a second in command."

Though their breath was hitched in their throat and knees weak, they stepped inside the forbidden domain - A Dark Netherworld nestled between the Land of the Living, and the Realm of the Dead. A Purgatory, ruled by the God of Death - Thanatos. Everything seemed like a wasteland, everything was dry and dead - Just like the God of Death himself. Walking through the eerie realm was truly the most anxiety-inducing sentiment, and the graveyard silent that only broke from the wind's howl was far more terrifying than it had to be.

Or so the Goddess thought. Kratos had none of these worthless feelings in his mind, nor at heart - His only objective was rescuing Deimos. Since birth, they are trained to renounce even the idea of fear, let alone know the notion of it - Some wind or silence are nothing compared to all the trials he had faced thus far.

Further on, they reached the doors to the Domain of Death. A place neither mortal nor God had dared enter. Worshipped long before the Olympians - Thanatos, the God of Death, dwelled within. And upon stepping before the very door that had the God's face engraved into it, like the other two, it had spoken. "Free thyself, and your past shall be forgiven." his voice was far more menacing and creepy, just like death itself spoke to you. As Kratos opened the doors, they immediately closed behind them. Walking up the stairs to the Temple of Thanatos, a slithery voice shook the ground. "Who dares defile my domain?!" but it had been lost in the silence. Few have ever ventured here... Yet none have left alive to tell the tale.

Though the traps were plenty, and so were the foes, nothing stopped Kratos from reaching his brother, wherever in this vast realm he may be. There is no force of nature, or out of this world - Not death itself - That can hold him from rescuing his long-awaiting brother.

On the large balcony, hanging by the branches of a wilted tree, there he was - A grown up Deimos. Katrina could only stare up at the strung up man, thankful that Kratos was doing what she should have done, in hitting the roots as to liberate the brother. With his arm alone clinging onto the last remaining coiled branch, Kratos threw his spear, rupturing the dead tree, whilst the woman caught the falling man in her arms, holding onto him dearly.

"Deimos... Deimos, you may awaken. You are safe now." Katrina spoke in her soothing voice, whilst Kratos, although very much afraid of even approaching his brother, knelt next to the Goddess and slowly reached out for his brother's shoulder, reassuring him of the very same thing - He was safe now. Great was their confusion, however, once - Instead of a scared man, of sobbing, or of joy of reunion - They heard a laughter, almost deranged and crazy. The laugh of a broken man on the verge of madness, slipping down the slide of never being able to recover. "Safe?!" the man growled at the two, pushing himself away from the woman's arms and glaring at his own brother. Why, O, why, if he was able to save him, did he not attempt so any sooner? "You! Let this happen to me! You were supposed to protect me!" he clinged tightly onto his brother's shoulders, before reaching out to pull on his face painfully. "Did you think I would forget?" he asked, gripping himself closer to his brother's ear. "Did you think - I would forgive?" his whisper was low and threatening. Deimos was wishing Kratos death. "I will NEVER forgive you, brother." "Deimos, please - I beg of you, see reason. What could Kratos do to save you? A mere child, just like you, against the God of War? Against the man who brunt your Sparta to the ground? He tried, remember? He leapt to attack Ares, but he was swatted away like a pesky fly. Had he known you were alive, he would have come save you sooner - Alas, everyone lied to him, including your own mother. All because of the Gods. Blame them - I beg of you - But do not hate your brother. He truly loves you and there was no day of his being that he did not live with guilt over what happened that night." Katrina tried to reason with the man, but it was in vain - As she tried reaching out to his face to sooth him, he slapped her away. All the years he suffered destroyed his reasoning - But neither of the two were going to give up on him. "What about you, then - Goddess? I remember you. You just stood there, while I was taken away. Pretended to stand up to Ares, but you hold no power of your own. Instead of fighting him, you allowed a child to be sacrificed for the whim of the Gods. Is that what you're saying? Blame the Gods - Including you?" the awful look he was giving her hurt her heart, but she could never be upset with his words. He had all the rights to be angry and wish them a most painful death. "I govern flowers, animals and kindness, Deimos. I can heal and create life, but I cannot win a fight against a war-born warrior. Even in this state of yours, you would easily be able to kill me, should that be your wish. And if it is, then I shall allow you to kill me in any way you see fit - But, please, Deimos. Let us do that outside of this awful Domain. See the world of the Living again, touch grass, let the Sun's warm rays kiss your skin, and breath in the fresh air in your chest. Have you not stayed imprisoned in this cage for far too long?" her honeyed words only seemed to apply fuel to the fire when it came to the rage within his heart, and he leapt on the woman, his hands tightly wrapped around her supple neck - But she did not seem to struggle. Instead, she reached out in an attempt to touch his face - Serenity was all she had to offer him, but even that might not work, in the realm of the dead. "What would you know about my pain? What would you know about the woes of a mere mortal? You are just a God! Selfish, immortal, surrounded by everything you could even think of! You had naught to suffer, nor struggle for anything! You try to sell me empty words and shallow promises, but I can see right through your poison! You are trying to trick me!" which each accusation, Deimos applied more pressure to her windpipe, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe - Until Kratos pushed him away from her, and dragged her behind him, to shield her. "Brother, see reason! Neither of us is trying to deceive you!" Kratos yelled as his brother, but his words fell on deaf ears, as they continued leaping at each other, throwing punches and kicks. "LIARS!" Deimos cried out, jumping at his brother, and breaking the balcony rail, the two fell down on the ground, many feet below, with Kratos being the one to break the fall. Katrina could not even imagine the pain his body must have felt, followed by himself unable to allow himself to block any of the hits sent his way. Deimos was angry with his, thus, he deserved everything he was getting. He hurt his brother, thus, he deserved to get his revenge on him by hurting him back, the only way he could - With his fists.

Without another thought in mind, Katrina ran all the way down to where the two were wrestling, cursing herself for being unable to use her magic when the two people she cared for most were in need, but the sight before her was excruciating to watch. "Get up! Fight me!" Deimos growled at his brother, shaking his head as to pay attention to him, despite his hazy disposition from all the punches he received to his head. "I hate you, Kratos!" the man was so absorbed by his anger for his brother that he did not see the great shadow looming over him. "DEIMOS, BEHIND YOU!" the Goddess cried out, and with a great sprint, she vaulted on Thanatos's back, getting him on a choke hold, her legs tightly gripped around his torso. It was the only way she knew was going to keep him busy enough so that the brothers would have enough time to get out of there. As expected, the God of Death was not impressed by the woman's attempt at stopping him, so she threw her off his back - Yet she was relentless. Seeing his claw-like hand trying to reach for Deimos, she threw herself into the God's side, making him completely miss his trajectory. "Are you so eager to die, flower girl? I have never killed a God before. I shall be starting with you, then." taking out her polearm, she adopted a defensive stance before the two brothers and parried the awful scratches that the God of Death was attempting to harm them with, but a God's weapon is indestructible. Thanatos's attacks could not get past Katrina's spear. "I AM DONE PLAYING GAMES WITH YOU, LITTLE GIRL! DEATH AWAITS YOU!" the towering Black Dread latched his hands onto the spear and despite the struggle, easily overpowered the woman, whom he rose up along with her weapon, before throwing her to the ground. She did not stop. She went to tackle him, just to keep him away from Deimos and Kratos - But Thanatos had lost his patience, and with one hand, he grabbed the Goddess's whole body and squeezed it tight enough for her to lose her breath, yet the grip on her spear did not falter. "Deimos - Forgive... Kratos...!" were her last words before she was swept away into a flurry, to the edge of the cliff. "You killed my daughter, Olympian! And now - You WILL suffer for it! A life for a life!" the God stepped off the road, and with his great wings spreading, flew to place far off, where he threw Katrina on the ground, and proceeded to toy with her by 'sparring' with his sword. "KATRINA!" Kratos extended his arm out for the woman, but his vision was blurred and his body felt weak. "Brother - Do you not see how you were lied to? We were never meant to fight each other, but to fight together, side by side." Kratos felt the weight of his brother lighten, and Deimos seemed to have a revelation. He got up and helped his brother stand with him. "Why did she go through all that pain? Why had she not used her magic? She could not have been such a fool as to believe she stood a chance with a single stick, against that monster?" the brother frowned, only to see Kratos take out the glowing pink flower. "All her magic was cast into this - Should we need it, to heal our wounds, we just had to grip onto it. The realm of the dead kills the life she creates instantly. That woman vowed to bring you back home by any means necessary - As did I. Are you with me, brother?" it was the right moment to use the flower - Together, with his brother - So that their injuries might heal, and they could bring down the God of Death together. Though reticent at first, Deimos reached out his hand and held onto his brother's tightly, with the flower in the middle being trampled - Yet their bodies felt invigorated and renewed. They felt as if they were floating, light as feathers, and healthy as never before. "Let's get out of here, brother." the flower offered Deimos the clarity his mind needed after decades of never-ending torture. He could see his brother for who he truly was, and his revenge-driven self was now enlightened. Together, the brothers leapt from the edge of the cliff, right onto the Suicide Bluffs, where they saw the woman struggling to grip onto the edge of the ridge, yet unable to drag herself up. It was thanks to the spear impaled onto the ground that she was still standing there, to begin with. Blast that Thanatos! But the edge of the bludd was quickly eroding under her grip, and bit by bit, the earth was falling down next to her. In the distance, she was able to see the two brother climbing down the wall of the mountain, trying to reach her in time. "Do not come closer! The round will break! Get out of here, save yourselves before Thanatos returns!" she cried out to them worriedly, despite feeling her fingers lose their strength spiraled around the weapon. Seeing how close to falling she was, Kratos leapt across the ground and slid on the dust, grabbing her wrists just as she fell. "Hold onto me, Katrina! I will pull you up!" though she was slender, it was not easy, pulling up someone when you are flat on your belly. The grip on one of her hands was slipping swiftly, and though he tried reaching back to get her - It was Deimos who grabbed her hand and helped his brother pull up the woman - Before he pulled her to his chest. Though her mind was still in a frenzy and her heart was racing with exhilarating emotions, the Goddess grabbed the two's faces in a hurry. "Fools! You should have run away! Your lives are more important than mine own!" but for a split second, seeing the way the brother cooperated, and how their skin was gleaming softly, no doubt, from her magic, she realised the two made up. What a relief. "O, you two are just a handful. Are all Spartans this hard-headed? No mind. Let us find a way out of here, and you can catch up when we get back home. I am sure there are enough stories you must share." despite her worries and fears, the red haired woman with the sweet smile was genuinely happy for the two - And finally, Deimos could see that she was genuine. "I will NOT lose you again, Deimos." Kratos vowed to his brother. "Come! The fight is not over!" and thus, Kratos handed his brother his own Arms of Sparta. They knew, unfortunately, that should they want to leave the Domain of Death, they had to defeat its guardian.

Retrieving the spear, the Goddess ran after the two Spartans to a higher plateau, where they were met with exactly the Black Dread himself, cackling wickedly at the three. "The Oracle may have yet spoken truth. The Marked Warrior shall bring about the destruction of Olympus." Death spoke. "Ares chose poorly that day - Do you not agree, flower girl? I am sure, you, of all people, would have noticed. You, whose fate is intertwined with the Marked Warrior's, bound together for as long as he may live." that impish, sinful smirk of his made the hair rise on the back of her hair - But Katrina could not deny, his words held truth, and it is long since she had theorised about the true identity of the prophesised child. "He took your brother, when it should have been you! It is YOUR life that the Goddess ruined, not his! Ha! All that work, for naught. None of that matters now. You were foolish and heeded not my warnings. Nothing you do is of your own choosing! The Sisters of Fate have made their choice, and your lives are nothing but their characters in a play they wrote." Death ridiculed the three fools before him. It pained the woman greatly, and she did not want to admit, that all this time, she had lied to herself and put a veil over her own eyes. "The Gods do not decide my fate, Thanatos!" Kratos snarled at the God, yet he only continued deriding him. "The Gods decide... And the Sisters of Fate make it so! Just ask that little half-wit next to you. She, the laughingstock of Olympus, is a first-hand witness of how easily bored the Sisters get. You are NOTHING but a pawn in a game you don't even know is being played!" his words did not anger the Goddess - She knew the truth that has been hammered into her brain for the past century, so she accepted the belittling from anyone who saw it fit - But Kratos had none of it. Who was Thanatos, to decide his fate? His life? His end? He was just a God, and nothing more - And just like Ares, he could be killed. He did not care how Katrina supposedly ruined his life, nor of the truth she knew of the Sisters of Fate. It did not matter at the moment. It was not the time for doubt - It was time to act, and fight. Fearlessly, like the true Spartan that he and his brother were. "Now is the time, Kratos. The beginning of the end." "You were supposed to bring serenity and peace to the dead, Thanatos. You have changed. You have become as awful and corrupt as your sisters. You are the one who brings shame to our kin, not me. You may call me what you will - Your words have long since stopped bothering me - Yet know this, Thanatos - Today is the day that ends your existence on any realm there is." Katrina threatened, and getting ready, she went to attack, in tandem with the two Spartans who worked so well together and synchronised so perfectly that one would never know they were torn apart since childhood. With the God of Death impaled with Deimos's spear, he was thrown off the edge of the cliff, but the Kind One called them back to her side, on safer ground. "Be ready for anything! That one is not so easy to defeat!" and truth she spoke, as Thanatos returned, in the shape of a great dragon, spitting voids at them, the same as his daughter once did.

Once more, the three used their attacks one by one, covering for one another, protecting, yet also inflicting damage onto their common enemy, to the point that Thanatos was forced to resume his human form and fight them - He was backed into a corner and evidently overwhelmed. But the dragon aspect had soon returned, and he seemed much more enraged than before, and aiming straight at Deimos. As Katrina's only objective was to protect the two, her body moved as if possessed and she pushed the rescued one out of the claw's path, yet it turn, the dragon grabbed her and slammed her into the mountain wall repeatedly, before throwing her body away, as if she was some kind of discarded ragdoll.

Having landed onto one of the Temple's pillars and breaking them, she had not realised the whole building was falling onto her, until it was too late - And her consciousness abandoned her, knowing not the fate of the two struggling brothers. Enraged by that act, Deimos attempted to throw his spear at the monster while Kratos had it chained in a steady hold - but its strength was beyond even the God of War, and he was picked up, dragged across the mountain and rammed onto the hard ground repeatedly, while he could only hear his brother calling out his name with sheer worry. During this time, Deimos found an opening in the monster's defense, as he rampaged on Kratos, and so he vaulted up, jamming his spear into the dragon's eye - Yet in its rage, it had caught the Spartan and swatted him painfully onto the wall - With a cry of agony, Deimos fell onto the ground, never to regain his consciousness again.

Seeing his beloved brother fallen, Kratos's rage took over his whole being, and alone, he defeated the corrupt abomination that was once the God of Death, forcing it back into his human form, which he wrecked. "You are insignificant, Kratos!" Thanatos's mocking was dismissed like the breeze, as the Spartan kicked and punched him away. "Your brother suffered because of you!" he impaled him with both of his blades, before throwing him into the boulders, breaking them with ease. "Your fate lies in the hands of Olympus, Ghost of Sparta! That woman is lying to you! She is a traitor!" the end of the God of Death was brought upon by the Blades Kratos wielded... But the victory was bittersweet, as soon as he turned around and saw his brother's lifeless body.

Up on the cliff, he saw the red head stumbling, her outfit as soaked with her own blood, the same colour of her hair. Sometimes, she hated the colour red more than she hated anything in this life. Kratos had naught the power to tell her not to climb down the abrupt stair, even as he saw her tripping over her own two feet and falling. He had not the strength to admit to himself that he had failed his brother once more... Nor could he tell the woman that the man who was bound by soul to her was dead.

"Deimos...?" Kratos could feel her weak voice, calling out to his brother - Upon seeing the body laying on the ground, she fell to her knees and dragged herself pitifully by his side, holding him in her decrepit arms. "Deimos... Wake up. Wake up. Come on. Let us return home." the more she spoke, the more it hurt Kratos. He was not one for words, but what he felt, Katrina verbalised. "Come on... Thanatos may be dead, but my powers still do not work in this realm... The flower...! The flower! Kratos, give me the flower! I can still save him!" but the forlorn look on his face was enough of an answer. The man went on one knee, putting one hand on her head, as if to stop her. "You cannot heal the dead, Katrina. It is over." the hurt in his voice was immeasurable, but it did not stop the woman from trying - But every flower she created, every vine she erected - They would wilt away the next second. "He cannot - He cannot be! That is impossible! I can -... I can still feel he is alive! My - My soul, it -... I-I do not know how to explain, but I -- My heart knew when he was born - It would know if he was dead! So-- So why? How? It just-- It makes no sense!" but her fingers found her arteries, and found no pulse, and from his nose she could feel no breathing, and his heart was ever still. "By the Gods..." "He is dead. Whatever fantasy it is that you dream of, it is no reality. Erase it from your mind." Kratos spoke, as he picked up his brother's dead body. First, his mother, and now, his own brother, the one he was supposed to protect... To rescue, now... He was dead. All because of him. "But then... Whose heart am I... Feeling...?" but realisation has long since befallen her, and a sense of vertigo made her almost slip into another realm of the senses. She could never admit the truth to herself, but her body - Her heart - They always knew.

The Marked Warrior.

Her Soulmate.

They were the same person.

It has always been Kratos.

From the moment he first held him into her arms, the time she looked him in his eyes - Their hearts were interconnected. It was Kratos who became the greatest general the Spartan Army ever had. It was Kratos who had a beautiful family, made out of love, at which she could only look at with heartbreak and envy, though also love and protectiveness. It was Kratos whose life she ruined all along. It was Kratos's family that she killed.

The man who trusted her more than anyone - Kratos - It was him that she had betrayed all along, and played the part of the hypocrite, treacherous fool. It was no wonder she always longed for his touch - Her body knew better than her mind. Whenever her heart would leap in glee, hearing his sandals slap across the light marble of the room they shared, knowing he would come see her. Her lungs would forget to breathe whenever he leaned in to kiss her, and her mind would blank whenever he would linger his fingertips on her bare skin.

O, how she hated when the Gods were right, without realising. She truly was the laughingstock of Olympus, though for all the wrong reasons. None knew the truth about the Marked Warrior's existence, otherwise, the pantheon would not have humoured him with silly tasks, but would have killed him, the same as they did with Deimos.

She was in deep trouble - That, she knew - But more than anything, she knew that, at some point, and that being preferably, very soon - She would have to confess the truth about the ruination of his life and how it had occurred.

But she was ready. She could take all his hate. In fact, he could kill her - It did not matter. If it made him feel better, it was a small price to pay, for the selfishness she displayed in her moment of weakness and desperation.

Fate truly was just a sick joke, and life, as well, nothing less but cruel.

Dragging herself up the stairs, following close behind the Spartan, up the Path of Sorrow, she watched him lower his brother's body into the ground, into the hole dug by the nasty Grave Digger. With one last solemn look of sorrow at his brother, Kratos found the last bit of strength, to utter his farewell words of departure to his last beloved family member. "You... Are free now... Brother." his pain was infinite, as he looked down, at the edge of the death's realm. Looking down, at the breaking waves across the rocks at the bottom, he was reminded of the time he tried to end this agony, casting himself down into the merciless sea... And his foot found itself instinctively leaving the ground, inching forwards into emptiness...

But he stopped himself. The same small arms were latched feebly around his torso. The last bit of his sanity was keeping him from ending it all. "Please... Do not... Leave me... Alone." her fragile voice was enough to make him sigh in defeat. He knew loneliness and guilt all to well. "By the Gods... What have I become...?" his question, although thrown into the wind, was answered by the pestering elderly man. "Death. The Destroyer... Of Worlds." though, before he could answer to the Grave Digger, he was already gone. "Listen naught to his non-sense, Kratos." her grip on him was attempting to get tighter, but it was in vain. The damage sustained in the battle was too great for the frail Goddess who could not heal herself in the Netherworld Purgatory. Perhaps the two will always end up licking each other's wounds, one way or another. What a pitiful fate.

As the woman took a step back away from the cliff, taking the man's body with her, a foreign voice was heard. A voice which, although familiar, was unwelcomed. "It is done, Kratos." Athena stepped down the few stairs that led down from the portal between realms. “You have let go of that which made you mortal. Your ties to this world are severed. You are ready... To be a God." though the Goddess of Wisdom reached out her hands to his face, Katrina pushed her away with the remaining power she held. "NO!" she cried out, aggressive as Kratos never heard her before. "He did NOT let go of his brother! Deimos was taken away - By YOU! By ALL of you!" the red head looked desperate and angry, not befitting of a peaceful Goddess. "It was the Gods who brought him onto the brink of madness! It was the Gods who took away EVERYTHING that his heart held dear! His wife! His child! His mother - Now, his own brother whom he thought long dead - How DARE you even imply that Godhood is a -- A REWARD for losing EVERYTHING that you ever cherished?!" Kratos always admitted that he valued wisdom and intelligence, along with prowess and tactics - After all, to be a war strategist, you needed all the possible skills one could get, and Athena held them all, along with her deceased brother, Ares. However, the more the Gods wronged him - The more he heard Katrina's spiteful words that blamed the pantheon for their evil-doing, the more his conviction was set in stone. He could never trust the Gods - And more, he could never trust Athena. Everything she promised was in vain. All her rewards were shallow, and her words were empty. Everything that she deemed wise, was poison, and the wound was festering to the point of no return. Unless you cut down the infection, the flesh may never heal. "Do not interfere, sister. Such matters are beyond your limited understanding - Have you not advised me so, a little earlier? You would do well to heed your own piece of unwanted advice." Athena's jab only worsened Kratos's anger - It was clear to him that Katrina's words hit the nail so bad, that Athena was backed into a corner, and gaslighting her, along with manipulating him with her well-picked words, were all she had left in her attempt at using the new God of War as a puppet for Olympus. "Is this all a game for you, Athena?!" the Spartan roared at the Goddess of Wisdom, startling her - She was quickly realising that she was losing her grip on him, in detriment of the red head. Watching him reach out to grab her sister's hand, guiding her towards the portal, Athena realised there was no turning back. She had lost Kratos, and his revenge-driven heart was set on the destruction of Olympus. "It is not over, Athena. The Gods will pay for this." thus, the God of War guided his red haired lover back to their unfortunate home.

He did not need to rest. He needed to think. He needed to accept the truth of what happened. He could not return to his room - Instead, he dorned his armor and sat on the large throne of the God of War. Kratos has fueled all of his regrets and pain, into anger, and though he held no hatred for only one Goddess, even she, he would not listen to, until she told him the truth that she knew. The whole pantheon made a mockery out of her secret, taunting him for not knowing - If it was something so important, he had to know. "You would hate me forever, Kratos. I am not ready to lose you." she would say - And though he could see sincerity in her eyes, sheer fright at the notion of losing him - He could not stand to be lied to any longer, despite the best intentions. He had lost everything he ever loved. For once, he wanted to know the truth.

For her, he would wait forever - Only if she reveals the truth to him.

Though perhaps, somehow, in some way, maybe he held an inkling of what it was that she was hiding - But how could he even begin to speculate something as outlandish as her supposed selfishness and self-inflicted guilt?

That was an enigma that not even the most skilled riddlers, nor the wisest philosophers, could decipher.

It was a question with no answer.

It was fate.

< Previous Chapter Next Chapter >

#god of war x reader #god of war imagine #god of war #kratos x reader #kratos imagine #kratos #deicide #deicide chapter 4

31 notes · View notes

thefireflyreader · 2 years

Text

An Anakin Deep Dive

So this is going to be mostly things that are from canon/legends. I will mention headcanons that I have, but I'll admit they are headcanons. Might have spoilers for the Kenobi show. I'll see if after I finish typing this up that still applies. Reason for this post. Well, I feel like people talk very negatively about Anakin, which has only been made a bit worse by the Kenobi show. And I think people forget some things about him. Anakin's timeline:

Birth to 2: He was a slave with an abusive master. Now most people assume he doesn't remember this. However, there is a novel about Vader (I believe it's just called Vader) that actually implies he does remember some of this.

2-9: He was given to Watto. Or well won by Watto. Now Watto was not a horrible master by any means. However, Anakin was still a slave. He was not free. This next part is more speculation than canon/legends, but what are the chances Anakin knew how to read or write? He may have known basic math since Watto was a shop owner and he may have handled customers.

(Also I don't believe him when he says he's not afraid of the chip blowing him up. You're nine.)

9-18/19: He's a Padawan with Obi-wan. We don't know much about this time period. Because even the extend universe novels about him as a padawan happen shortly after he gets to the temple and right before he's knighted during the clone wars. However, expanding on the reading/writing thing mentioned earlier, if he knew to read/write, it was because Shmi taught him, but she was an slave from being a young girl (Age not specified), so there's a good chance she didn't know either. Either way, Anakin would have been miles behind his fellow peers within the Jedi Order. He was immediately accepted as a Padawan, which people may have been jealous of. Although, considering Obi-wan had just been knighted, this may not be as bad as if someone like Master Windu had taken him.

There are three things we know Anakin is good at: flying, mechanics, and sparring. However, sparring is the only one of those things Obi-wan trained him in.

19: He marries Padme and is immediately thrown into the Clone Wars.

19-22/23: Clone Wars, where some events were made to directly affects Anakin's relationship with his friends.

Umbara: Rex was either supposed to die or lose trust in Anakin. Anakin was pulled away by the Chancellor for reasons we don't know and nothing seemed to happen that would warrant him leaving the 501st.

Wrong Jedi: Ahsoka leaves the Order, because they kicked her out because she was accused of something she didn't do. There really wasn't much of an apology from the Jedi in terms of that, so double whammy. Ahsoka leaves, so Anakin loses some of his support and he is mad at the Jedi.

Hardeen: Name one reason it had to be Obi-wan that went undercover. The bounty hunter needed to have esteem by killing someone well known? Okay, and? It's literally Vos's job to do this kind of undercover work. Also, there was no reason Anakin couldn't have been informed after the mission started, because he would need the raw emotions. Also why was he allowed to go after "Hardeen?"

22/23: Anakin fell to the Dark side, partially due to manipulation from Palpatine, the Jedi mishandling him at times, and his own struggles with his emotions.

My main point is that people seem to forget about the trauma Anakin went through and also that he was only 22 maybe 23 when he fell to the dark side. He wasn't an adult who had his life together. He was at war while still a teenage. Yes, 19 while considered an adult is still a teenager. His brain wasn't even fully developed when he fell. My dad likes to tell me all the time that the frontal cortex, where processing consequences happens, doesn't fully develop until you're 26.

He was mishandled a bit by the Jedi. It felt, at times, that the Jedi were treating him as if he had been in the temple his whole life, especially in ROTS, where he speaks to Yoda about his nightmares of losing Padme. He goes to ask for help and is basically told to let it go. Also, in the few novels about Anakin's time as Obi-wan's padawan, he continuously struggles with Obi-wan's teaching style. And to me, it boils down to a difference in love language. Anakin seems to thrive off words of affirmation, and maybe a little bit of touch, while Obi-wan seems to use and react better to acts of service. Obi-wan tends to show Anakin he is proud of him or that he loves him, when Anakin needs him to tell him. (And I can go on another long rant about why Obi-wan is the way he is. Specifically how Qui-Gon screwed him up.)

20 notes · View notes

silkscream · 3 years

Text

wipe your blood off the concrete

pairing: peter parker x reader

synopsis: you are peter’s best friend in the whole world. the two of you can barely hold back your feelings for each other after peter is beaten badly after a night on patrol. he takes you by surprise when he insists the two of you go to a party afterwards and things get very confusing.

warnings: smut (18+ only), mentions of blood, mentions of mental illness/anxiety/panic attacks, alcohol use, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, protected sex

genres: best friends to lovers, uni!peter, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, fluff and angst and smut all in one

wc: 8k+

a/n: GOD this is a big bertha. i was listening i think you’re alright by jay som and then my brain spiraled entirely into... this. i recommend you listen to this song while you read. i could probably make a playlist based on this fic but i don’t want to self-indulge more than i already have. i’m a sucker for bffs to lovers, obviously. i’m also very wine drunk. do what this info what you will.

when i wake up in the morning

i’ll make you some coffee

we’ll lay about and let the day pass

College had taken a toll on Peter. He was an anxious boy, you knew this already. What you hadn’t seen in your years of knowing him was how hollow he could be, how he wouldn’t want to get up in the morning, how tight-lipped he could be in conversations when normally he’s always beaming. He doesn’t sleep at your place that much anymore because he hates to be a burden, even though you swear on your heart that you don’t mind helping him through his nightmares.

It often goes like this:

There are nights where Peter does unforgivable things. He watches Tony Stark die, he watches Aunt May look upon him in tears, he reaches out for your hand but you’re falling ten stories below him. It’s these nights where he shakes himself awake, suffocated by his own panicked breaths, but you’re usually right there to soothe him with hushed nothings in his ear. It’s an unspoken arrangement between the two of you that you don’t dare to discuss by morning. Besides, you’d had a few panic attacks of your own as you grew into your girlish flesh-suit, knobby limbs and scraped knees. Peter always liked you for how alive you always looked, even if you felt awkward roaming the earth in a body you were taught to dislike. You’re headstrong in your beliefs, however, and at your current age you’d been through enough bullshit to not fixate on the little problems you faced as a teenager. Peter considers you his rock, his other half. He often thinks it’s you who ought to bear the weight of a superhero. You’d do a better job than him, maybe.

It’s 10 am on a Friday and Peter is doing an awfully good job at zoning out the sound of you knocking on his door.

“Pierre,” you whine, holding a bag of donuts and a tray of coffees. “Let me in you son of a bitch.”

The lock on the door slides open. You’re met with a sleepy Peter, who’s traded his gangly figure to impressive biceps over the past five years. You try not to stare at how good his arms look in his fitted Led Zeppelin tee. You chuckle at the fact that he’s still wearing his boxers. Spiderman-patterned boxers, nonetheless. He groans. “Fuck, sorry. Real out of it today.”

“Oat milk, no sugar,” you smile at him, holding out your tray. You can see dark circles around his eyes. He must’ve been up late doing schoolwork or more technological advancements to his suit.

“You’re a godsend,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as he takes the paper cup.

“Whatcha been up to?”

“Physics,” he yawns. “Waiting for you.”

“Peter, did you sleep at all last night?” you pester, poking his under-eye circles.

He shoots you a look of slight annoyance and shrugs.

You roll your eyes, gracelessly hopping onto his couch. Without a word, he topples onto you, settling his head on your lap as he flips through the front page of Netflix. You stroke your fingers through his curls. “You finish your work?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Peter gripes.

“Is the Peter Parker slacking on his schoolwork?”

He grumbles and buries his face closer into your body, which makes your stomach flutter. “I finished everything, swear. Could probably spew out formulas in my sleep.”

“Get Tony to build you another EDITH but in reading glasses form. I’ll tap the answers to you. Or the formulas could probably just float across the lenses.” You steal the remote from him, much to his dismay and futile attempts to block you, and settle on a random episode of New Girl.

“Wow. We need more women in STEM like you.” You playfully smack the side of his face and it makes his nose scrunch up. Your fingers trace the freckles on his nose that aren’t very visible unless it’s the summer time, but you’re able to see them just from how close you are. The trance is broken at the vibration of your phone in your pocket, much to your relief.

He notices immediately how you chuckle at your screen, a smile lighting up your features. “Who’s that?”

“Um, Tinder message.”

“Can I see?” Peter asks, lifting his body to glance at your phone, though you swat him away. “Y/N, c’mon, I wanna see what goons are hitting on my best friend.”

“I don’t need your approval, Parker,” you giggle, holding your phone above your head. He intercepts it anyways, nearly falling into your lap and grabbing the phone. He blocks your squirming frame by laying his body on top of your sprawled out legs while his broad shoulders block your view.

“Tyler, 22, born and raised in Manhattan. Oh, please, business major? At NYU?” He swipes through the man’s pictures and squints. “‘You’ll probably see me hanging out with the dog at the party.’ Huh, how quirky and relatable of him.”

“Peter, give me my phone!” you half-laugh half-shriek, breathless from the fact that Peter’s weight is holding you down and preventing you from moving at all.

“Is he even your type? Seems like a dick honestly. You’re waaaay out of his league,” Peter muses mindlessly.

“And what exactly is my type, Parker?” Peter looks at you and opens his mouth, though nothing comes out. You smirk at him, able to flip him off of the couch and onto his carpet, snatching your phone from his hand as you sit on his chest. The two of you half-heartedly wrestle until you’re pinning him to the ground. “Tap out, motherfucker!”

“Ugh,” Peter huffs, sitting up slightly. “I’m serious, he looks like the president of a frat that’s on probation for some Title IX violations.”

“You’re an asshole,” you croon, shaking your head. “Let me get laid.”

Neither of you ever liked to address the pang of jealousy that came with seeing your best friend get attention from the opposite sex (okay, there were some girls enamored with you during your first semester of college, but you were too in your shell to actually follow through with anything). Secretly, Peter’s heart is dripping down to his shoes, but only slightly, of course. He’s laughing and teasing you the whole time, poking you in the ribs as you finally let him swipe through your Tinder. He sneaks a peek at your own profile, too, admiring how big and bright your eyes are in each photo — mostly which are photos he’s taken.

You’ve been on a few dates, give or take, but the end of the night is almost always instantly uncomfortable once things get physical. Peter Parker is like the devil on your shoulder, the New Moon-era Edward apparition to your Bella. You’ve been getting better at accepting that it’s him and always will be him. Even if you never have the guts to tell him.

___

i’ll wipe your blood off the concrete

take you to the party

we’ll drink until our brains black out

It’s past 8 pm when your texts to Peter quadruple. He’s usually very prompt and mindful in texting you back, especially when the two of you have plans to get Chinese takeout. The clock turns to ten when he finally answers.

peter: fuck

peter: can you cpme get m

peter: please

The bastard.

You swallow down your disappointment once you unlock your phone and the pit in your stomach is replaced with panic. Immediately, you tug on your shoes and grab your car keys.

___

“Peter!” you screech, seeing your battered friend on the concrete a few feet away from you. He’s struggling to breathe so he takes his mask off, exhaling heavily as he spits out a mixture of saliva and blood onto the pavement. Your eyes widen at the state of him — a bruise under his eye the shape of a crescent moon, a cut lip that’s still bleeding.

“Come here.” He’s able to get up, just barely, but he’s able to use you as a crutch as you usher him into your car. Luckily, this was a quiet neighborhood and your car was shielded by the dark alley. You wince at the sound of his groans in the backseat.

By the time you get to your apartment, his suit is completely off. You don’t expect to glance over to your backseat to see your best friend half-naked, though it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. It just makes something ache inside of you when you realize the damage of his wounds.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“It’s okay! Just some attempted assault on some woman. It’s okay, NYPD came just in time.”

“Fuck NYPD,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m serious, Peter.”

“Shit,” Peter groans, clutching his side. The thought that enters your mind when you hear him is ungodly. “Fumbled the web-shooters so they were able to get the upper hand. Not to mention one of their buddies fucking… hit me with their car.”

“Jesus, Peter!” you exclaim. You can’t really berate him for getting hurt, though situations like this have you worried sick. You pull into your driveway and get out of the car to assist him.

“‘m sorry, y/n,” Peter huffs, grabbing your hand to support himself as he gets out of the car.

“Don’t apologize. This isn’t the first time you scared the shit out of me. I’m just glad you’re not dead.”

Peter darkly chuckles. Under the streetlight, his eyes look a bit amber, and the gaze he fixes on you isn’t something you can really fathom. It’s a look of tenderness. Your eyes dart to the other side of the street and back at him. “Stop staring, creep. Mrs. Wilkins will threaten to call my landlord if she sees me parading around a dude in his boxers at the dead of night.”

Peter shakes his head at you, laughing, but follows you into your home nonetheless. He follows you around like a stray cat as you rummage your bathroom for the first-aid kit. The glow of your bathroom light shows off your cheekbones, and he knows he can’t hide his affinity for you especially when you’re like this, tongue in your cheek focusing on the materials you have. He sits on the edge of your bathtub and watches you.

“Hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, gauze…” you muse to yourself. Picking up the dark red bottle, you wiggle it towards him. “This is gonna sting.”

Pouring a bit onto a cotton round, you wipe it across his wounds gently. Peter braces himself but the stinging you warned him about is much worse than what he’s actually prepared for. “Fuck!” he cries out, his jaw clenching. He nearly hits you by accident but misses. He manages to stay still by holding your shoulder with his large hand, squeezing and cursing expletives. Your breath hitches at his strong grip. You could probably hear his heartbeat if he wasn’t breathing so hard. Your faces are inches apart as you rub his cheek, sliding a thumb down to his split lip.

“Um, here,” you stammer awkwardly, spreading Neosporin on his cheek and bandaging him up. You wrap gauze around his wrist and around his left knuckle which blooms red and purple hues. “Hmm. Boxer vibes.”

“I’m already healing,” he shrugs, looking down at the budding bruise on his chest. It’ss entering its stage of pale green already, which still freaks you out despite the fact you’d known about Spiderman for years. “Y’didn’t have to do all that. Thank you, though.”

“Anything for you,” comes out of your mouth without thinking. You try to stay casual with a tight smile but Peter’s eyes seem to flicker the slightest bit at your statement. You turn your heels to your bedroom to dig out some spare clothes of Peter’s that he tends to accidentally leave after he stays over. The habit has turned into him having his own drawer at your place. How domestic.

“You still going to that party?” Peter asks as he pulls on a pair of pants. Your back is turned, which is amusing for him considering how close you are. There was quite literally a picture of the two of you naked at the age of five on May’s mantle downstairs. However, he couldn’t help but notice how your eyes would mindlessly wander to his arms and stomach when he would talk to you lately. Maybe it was a fluke, but he liked — loved — holding your attention.

“What party?”

“The one at that senior’s house? I heard you talking about it with MJ.”

“Um, maybe, but I was too busy worrying about you, and I was under the impression that we were spending the night eating Chinese and watching horror movies. Why?”

“We should go.” You turn around and raise an eyebrow. Peter Parker liked socializing, you could say. He was enigmatic and adorable and easy to be around, but you know that he’d rather stay at home with his documentaries or Star Wars movies than getting shitfaced at a rando’s house.

“Peter, you just got the shit kicked out of you,” you mutter in disbelief.

“All the more reason,” he shrugs, walking past you to flop onto your bed. “You worry about me too much. Gotta let loose, babe.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. You always imagine yourself as a shadow compared to Peter, like a friendly apparition. Casper the ghost. It’s not that you’re an outcast — hell, Peter goes on and on about you to classmates and friends alike if they haven’t met you yet. You’ve never been friendless. But the thought of going to a party with Peter makes your stomach churn a bit. The few times you had, the two of you would be attached to the hip because of your shared shyness, but Peter’s evolved into someone who probably knew more people at university than you did. You didn’t want to be left alone. Slight anxiety settles over you. You look at him and his smile is pushing daisies up from the earth. You sigh. When you had said “anything for you”, you truly meant it.

___

You didn’t dislike parties, but any house party in the suburbs of New York felt like the setting of a bad rom-com, not to mention the good amount of losers you could attract by accidentally blinking their way.

“You look really pretty,” Peter whispers into your ear assuringly. You feel validated, yes, but also you’d be lying the feeling of Peter’s breath under your earlobe didn’t make your organs flip around in your body like primordial soup.

You frown at a mirror in the foyer. You had opted for a green printed mesh top that hugged your features, black jeans, and Peter’s old denim jacket. Peter follows your gaze and snakes a finger to your hair, twirling around a strand. “I mean it, Y/N.”

“AYYYY, PENIS PARKER!” roars from behind a couple making out. Lo and behold, Flash Thompson is suddenly in front of you, nestling a Corona in one hand and waving furiously at you both with another. He’s gotten taller somehow since the last time you saw him, which was quite literally graduation. You roll your eyes at his arrogance. To your surprise, Peter knocks fists with the kid and gives him a half-hearted side hug. “Oh shit, dude, what the fuck happened to your face?”

“This one right here gets a little too rowdy when she loses Monopoly,” Peter smiles, hanging an arm over your shoulders.

“Shut up,” you whisper, voice laced with venom as you shoot Peter a glare. “He’s lying. This one is just… incredible clumsy.”

“Jeez, she bite too? Hey, I know a guy who’s really into that kind of thing.”

“Okay, relax, Flash-your-tits,” you sneer.

“Wow, still the wicked witch of Forest Hills,” Flash retorts. His eyes scan you up and down, then to Peter’s arm around you. “Didn’t know you guys were a thing. When’d that happen?”

“We’re not—“ stumbles out of both your mouths in unison. Your face heats up immediately, though Peter is merely holding back a laugh.

“Right. Save your virginities, fellow comrades! It’s a scary world out there. ’s some liquor in the kitchen,” Flash slurs, immediately making eye contact with another poor soul who’s about to be subjected to a similar greeting.

“Freak,” you mutter under your breath as you saunter past a rowdy beer pong table. Without bothering to rummage through the stash that’s sat on the kitchen counter, you take the first bottle of cabernet sauvignon you see. Peter grabs a shot glass and pours himself some Tito’s.

He meets your eyes. “What?” he shrugs, knocking back the shot with a scrunched up face.

“Nothing, you just like, never drink,” you smirk. You decide to keep the wine for yourself — it was the cheap kind, anyway. You down a good amount so that you can get a little warmth into your stomach. The effect is slightly numbing.

“Yeah, but my metabolism’s all weird since the bite, remember? Surprised I haven’t tried to drink more. I think I’ve only been drunk like… once or twice?”

“Better go easy, there, Parker,” you tease, jabbing him in the ribs. He grunts just a bit and you gasp. “Oh shit, I’m so sorry.”

“Nah, ‘m only a little sore. I could still take you in a fight,” Peter snickers. He grabs a red solo cup and fills it with more Tito’s, not paying attention to the amount he pours in, and then fills it to the brim with some orange juice. You practically gag at the sight. Vodka was never your forté and you were sure that it wasn’t much of Peter’s thing either. And yet, here he is. You wonder about his out of character desire to come to the party but ultimately shrug it off.

___

Seeing it feels like a kick in the throat, your face flushing hot like molten lava, chest creaking like a wooden floor in a haunted house. You didn’t expect to get everything you wanted, did you? Of course not. So it shouldn’t hurt that much to walk outside in need of that crisp autumn air and accidentally be met with some blonde eating off the face of your best friend. The love of your life. You don’t remember what time it is. You actually don’t even remember that you had been looking for Peter at all, but the realization hits you in the face once you recognize his brunette little head getting his hair pulled by some Walmart-brand Blake Lively.

and god you’re so pretty

your smile’s unforgiving

i’ll place it where nobody can find

You’re in too much shock to even beckon to him, but you know that the gears in your brain are turning with bells and whistles shrieking abort, abort, abort, abort! Before you can so as much turn around, Peter pulls away from the girl and yells for you. His face is carnation-pink, lips reddish from the girl’s lipstick. He’s waving at you like a little kid but your head feels like it’s underwater.

“Hey! Y/N! Been looking all over for you!”

Embarrassed, you wave back meekly before sliding back into the house. You hear hushed whispers of “shit, was that your fucking girlfriend?”, maybe a mild slap, Peter mumbling the words “best friend” and “not dating” and “what was your name again?” You could laugh if you didn’t feel like a literal hole was burning into your chest like the end of a cigarette charring flesh.

Calm, calm, calm. We are calm.

You don’t even know what to do with yourself, really. Your mantra isn’t helping and if you take one more sip of your wine you might as well throw up. Your eyes flash in surprise at MJ walking towards you, smiling but then settling her face into a confused frown.

“Hey, Y/N, is everything alr—“ MJ attempted to intervene, but you smile and nod your head maniacally as you pace through the house past her.

“I’m great! Fine. Um, I gotta go…”

You and MJ aren’t as close as you were in high school, but she knows well enough what you’re like when you’re in a state of crisis. She calls your name but you’ve dashed out of her grasp. She stares after you, puzzled, right before Peter nearly knocks into her, a collision of whiplash. The poor brunette stares wildly at the boy.

“Jesus, Parker, are you good?”

“MJ! Hi!” Peter exhales. His eyes are the size of flying saucers. He grips MJ’s shoulders and doesn’t realize the volume of his voice, which makes spectators around them look on curiously. “Listen, have you seen Y/N? I gotta talk to her.”

“Um, yeah, she went that way… dude, are you drunk?”

“No! Yes? All of the above,” he replies hurriedly, moving into the foyer and up the stairs.

You can’t really explain your emotions, process them even, so you do give into the wine bottle. Might as well detonate the bomb. Before Peter can call after you, you escape his field of vision in the hallway and immediately slip into the upstairs bathroom without him seeing you.

You stare at your reflection. There’s no point in crying, you think. Peter’s too good at prying and you’re too bad at explaining. It’s best not to worry him. Isn’t it? You want to believe you’re capable of staying sane with your little crush. Your stupid unrequited crush. You realize you’d have to reach into your guts and rip out all that you feel for Peter in order to get over it. It was best to drown out all those feelings now until you passed out. Maybe Michelle could take you home. Or a kind stranger could seduce you. Or you ‘accidentally’ fall out of the window and escape Peter’s questioning by being in a literal coma for a few days so you can forget the image of him kissing that girl that’s burned into your brain.

You frown at your reflection. You look pretty, Peter was right. It’s a miracle your makeup is still intact. Your under-eye liner is smudged a bit but the glitter on your cheekbones reflects even with this shitty bathroom lighting. With the alcohol inside you, everything seems to melt, like the walls are sweating and closing in on you. Before you’re able to control your breathing, the sound of your name reaches your ears like a harsh wind. It’s coming from your favorite voice in the whole world. Pounding on the door ensues.

“Hey! Y/N?”

“It’s… it’s occupied, sorry,” you caution in a high voice.

“Y/N, I know that’s you in there! Can you please let me in?” Peter begs. More raps on the door. You stay silent, staring at the sink.

“Please, Y/N, something bad’s happened… MJ’s…um…” Peter yells. You furrow your brows in worry. God, I can’t get a break. What a cursed fucking party.

Profanities are mumbled to yourself as you finally open the door. Peter rushes in and backs you into the wall, shutting the door promptly behind him and locking it. You gasp at how quickly he manages this without the two of you colliding, his swift movement and your intoxicated state dizzies you. Peter settles his palms on the wall, trapping you in between his arms.

“What happened to Michelle?” you glower. Peter sighs with a look of defeat and avoids your gaze.

“Nothing. Just needed you to let me in.”

“You asshole,” you roll your eyes and vociferate. Your teeth are gritted — you can’t bear to look at his face, but you do. Peter’s puppy dog brown eyes are boring into yours with desperation behind them. He takes his palm from the left of you and tilts your chin up, to which you shake your head in rejection.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” So you do. Your faces are inches away from each other. You can feel his hot breath in your face. It makes your body feel even hotter.

“What do you want, Peter?” you whisper.

“Want to talk to you,” he slurs.

“Okay, so talk.”

“Why were you running away from me?”

You scoff. You almost want to tell him the truth, but you can’t. “I’m in a bad mood,” you mumble. “I don’t need this right now, okay? I want to be alone. Why don’t you go back to that blonde? She seems to like you an awful lot.”

“Who— what? Are you… are you jealous?”

“Who you take home is none of my business, Parker, I swear on my heart. I’m a big girl, I can get an Uber by myself. Don’t worry about it,” you spit back at him. “Okay? Can I be left alone, please?”

“But I wanna be alone with you,” he confesses, absentmindedly twisting your hair between his fingers again. You didn’t think anything of it until now because this is something he always does. It’s as easy to him as breathing or blinking. But at the moment, he’s staring at your collarbone and your neck and the side of your jaw. You make eye contact with him and you gulp. Lipstick is smeared from the corner of his mouth like a streak of wine on a white sheet. The space between you feels like television static, like a red string you’re dying to pull into a knot to close the distance.

Instead, Peter does it for you. You blink once and his mouth is on yours, and you taste the other girl’s lipstick and mandarin oranges and a hint of copper from his bloody lip. You breathe in the smell of your own shampoo, which Peter keeps in his apartment for you even though he secretly uses it when you’re not around. His hand is gripped to your jaw, tongue peeking into your mouth as he pushes into your body. The hurt inside you crawls out of your throat and spreads your body like a blessing instead — a baptism, a rebirth.

His hands are to your sides now, pushing the mesh fabric of your shirt up so he can palm the skin of your upper hip. You sigh into him as he massages the skin lightly and he responds to your sounds with a subtle moan. You feel like your knees are buckling to his touch as your heat gets wetter and wetter.

“Touch me, Y/N,” Peter whispers in between your kisses. A whine emits from the back of his throat when you tug on his hair just slightly.

You pull away suddenly, though Peter doesn’t see this as a halt. He simply peppers wet kisses to your earlobe and down your neck. You sigh deeply and give him a slight push to the chest.

“What, what’s wrong?” he whispers. He’s drunk on you, maybe literally considering he lost count of how many shots he’d taken. He looks like an angel like this, brown hair mussed up with smoothed out curls falling over his face and a just-bitten pair of pink lips.

You touch the band-aid on his face. “You’re drunk, Peter.”

“Yeah? I know. So are you.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t want you to regret anything,” you mumble, biting the inside of your bottom lip.

“I couldn’t… I won’t. You know how much I love you, right?” Peter pleads. He’s breathless at the sight of you. You look away.

“Don’t say shit like that, Peter. You’d… you’d never say that sober.” Hurt flashes over Peter’s face as he listens to your words. He wants you to believe him so badly and he’s too drunk to process what you could be feeling. All he feels is that he wants to be absorbed into you at this very moment. His brain doesn’t even register the actions that made you upset in the first place.

“That’s not true, Y/N, you know that,” he urges. His thumb swipes over your inner eye, where a salty tear has fallen. His voice is hoarse, raspy, raw. “I only want you.”

You close your eyes and shake your head, tears flooding your cheeks that he tries to kiss away gently. “Why are you doing this?” you croak.

“What am I doing, baby?” he whispers, taking you in his arms and cradling you. Your cheek is against his warm chest and you can feel his beating heart. It ticks like a clock, which somehow comforts you in the most minuscule way. His tender knuckles are in your hair, combing your locks softly. Peter wants to find every jagged piece of you so that he can soothe it like nighttime tea and a spoonful of honey. Would you hate him for it?

“This is fucked up, Peter.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” is whispered through hushed breaths against your hair. You pull back after a few minutes, embarrassed at how red your eyes must look. He cups his hands on your cheeks, tilting your face to look up at him. “I’m not lying to you. I… I love you so much that it scares me sometimes because you’re my best friend. I always get scared that I’m gonna lose you. And… and I don’t even know that girl. The one I was making out with. I think I just needed a distraction from you.”

An awkward beat.

“I don’t know why I got so drunk. I think because patrol was so fucked up and I’ve been having more nightmares, and I was scared that if I told you I loved you tonight that I’d fuck everything up, and I wouldn’t remember, and I couldn’t find you anywhere…”

You shush his rambles with your lips against his.

“I love you, too,” you whisper, wiping your eyes. “Always have. It scares me too.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you idiot, I thought it was obvious. You scare the shit out of me sometimes.” The two of you laugh darkly at your mutual drunken states. Your mutual confessions, the fear of your mutually assured destructions. The moment was making your heart swell up like a balloon.

A rude awakening breaks through with a pounding on the door. “HEY, ARE YOU GUYS DONE FUCKING? SOME OF US HAVE TO PISS.”

The two of you are broken out of your spell. You both erupt into laughter. You wipe your face with your sleeve as you open the door. Your toothy smile flashes the unfortunate spectator when you open the door.

Flash stands there with a look on his face that is both bewildered and dopey. His eyes flit between you and Peter, mouth agape.

“All yours, babe,” you taunt, holding Peter’s hand as he follows you across the hall.

___

i’ll be your old broken tv

your stuttering baby

your puppy when nobody’s home

He can barely take his hands off you once you get the door of your apartment unlocked. Immediately, his hands are all over you, pushing up your top to reveal your stomach. He kisses you roughly which has your head spinning.

“Peter… I—“ you giggle in-between kisses. He can’t detach himself from you. He doesn’t want to. He takes matters into his own hands and rips your jacket off for you, picking you up effortlessly so that your legs are around his waist until both of your bodies collapse into your bed.

You feel like you have motion sickness. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the uneasiness of letting yourself fall blind to Peter’s desires. He knows how stubborn you are about literally everything and he doesn’t know how to fully convince you how much he wants you. He’s hovering over your body, forehead to forehead, pawing at your clothed body. “You’re so pretty,” he says, thumbing your cheek.

His eyes are glistening like the earth wet from being kissed by autumn rain. You swear to yourself it’s just lust but you know this is exactly how he looks at you when you’re just there. Existing. In his room, on his lap, on his fire escape in the middle of the night. You’ve always noticed but decided you’ve made it up in your head. But he really does love you like this, vulnerable and soft like a cherub out of heaven. He could certainly get used to the sight of you underneath him. His mouth turns up into a grin.

“What’s got you so happy?” you coo.

“You,” he breathes, dipping his head back down to meet your mouth.

“Cool,” you mumble in between your kisses, sighing as you feel Peter massage little circles underneath the hem of your shirt. “What’re you thinking about?”

“Mmm, lots,” Peter sighs. “There’s this girl… thought she’d never… like me back. But I think she does.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Well, she’s a hard one to chase down, y’know? She’s too pretty and smart for literally anyone. And she’s really good at playing with my hair, and knowing everything I like, and beating me at wrestling. And she smells like flowers. And looks like flowers.”

“Hmm, sounds like a catch,” you flash him a candy-sweet smile. The glow between you two is bioluminescent. Every part of you that Peter touches feels like electricity.

“Mhm. That you are,” Peter nods. He’s feeling feverish, sobering up from his many shots but still drunk on the sight of you. In the past few months, Peter feels like he’s only present between peripherals and the only time he’s even remotely tuned in to the world is when you’re beside him. His mind is swamped with only you and your kiss tastes like honey dripping into his mouth.

A low hum reverberates from your throat as you feel Peter’s lips on your neck. He settles back to your lips like he’s diving underwater. He doesn’t care about coming back up for air. Your brows knit in concentration as you try to pull him closer, despite the fact he’s basically falling through you like fog. Your brain is begging him to devour you, burn you, lick up all the hurt inside your chest from the night.

“Can I touch you, please?” Peter asks carefully, his voice low, brain spell-bound.

You nod fervently, heart beating out of your chest when you’re suddenly aware of how hard he is. Peter helps you slip out of your shirt and your jeans, leaving you in your underwear. He can barely breathe. He chuckles like he’s seeing something that shouldn’t be possible.

“Don’t laugh when you just stripped me naked, freak,” you chastise, covering yourself up with your arms.

“‘m not teasing you. I’m… I just can’t believe it. How pretty you are.”

“Shut up and touch me, Parker.” Peter feigns a look of seriousness before attaching his lips to your bare stomach. He loves the way your body reacts to his touch, breaths rising and falling to the pitter-patter of his heartbeat and his fluttered eyelashes. He teases you with kisses close to your center and descending down your thighs. You whine at how sensitive you feel, coaxing his head forward with your hands.

“Okay, needy,” he taunts, which makes you whine in response. He slides your underwear down your legs and doesn’t hesitate to lap you up at your clit. You gasp in response. He’s ravenous in the way he works, responding to all your little sounds by gripping your thighs harder until you’re nearly bruising. Your mouth gapes open wider when he slides in one finger, then two into your pussy, your wetness making his entrance easy.

“Jesus, fuck, where did you learn that?” you ask breathlessly as he pumps his fingers in and out of you in all the right places.

“Secret,” he murmurs, pausing his sucking to curl his fingers into your walls in a way that makes your insides flip. You immediately feel a pressure inside your core that slowly rises like a rollercoaster rolling upwards on a track. He brings his tongue back to your bud and scissors his fingers in a way that makes your hips buck upwards, which makes him lose his balance a bit. He chuckles, adoring the sound of your moans and the way your long eyelashes blink rapidly like a butterfly’s wings.

“Say my name,” he groans, desperate to hear your voice.

“Fuck,” you moan. “Fuck— Peter, just like that. Oh my God, Peter!”

He decides right then that his name sounds like it was made for your mouth, how it sounds like a hymn, a magic spell, a word invented by you, his creator. You grab fistfuls of his chestnut curls as you feel your body plunge into saccharine warmth. You surprise yourself with your restrained moans; you don’t recognize the sound of your voice. Peter’s moans echo yours as he watches you come undone. His lips part at the way you come, gazing at the way your body flexes like a viscous liquid with your hair fanning the sides of your face like Juliet on a bed of roses.

“Peter!” you strain, breathing heavily on the comedown. You blink at him, bleary-eyed, tasting yourself on his tongue once he reaches up to kiss you again. “Take your clothes off. ’s not fair that I’m fully naked and you aren’t.”

“Anything for you,” he says, echoing your words from earlier that night. You think that maybe you’re melting or you’ve been struck by lightning. Peter blesses you for your request because his cock is quite literally straining against his jeans. He can’t believe you’re real — that this version of you is real and right in front of him, instead of being a dizzying made-up thought in his brain. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t fantasize about what your pussy feels like, how you’d sound with your toes curling into the mattress as he fucks into you. He’d always shake the thought of you after he comes when he’s alone, embarrassed after his orgasms when he’d come back to reality. But now he doesn’t have to. You’re fulfilling his dreams at this very moment.

Not even thirty seconds pass before he’s stripped just like you. Your mouth waters at the sight of him. You’re convinced he must be carved from Ancient Rome, porcelain skin and smooth edges. His size is certainly unexpected and you’re shy about how your eyes are probably bugging out of their sockets.

“Do you… do you want me to get a condom?” he asks you, voice cracking slightly. You’re reminded of how boyish he really is, how despite everything, he’s always been your Peter. Your puppy, your best boy. You nod at him and grin. “Right… ah— where are they?”

“Under the bed, blue shoebox.”

He comes back from under the bed and rips the silver foil. He toys with it for a second, awkwardly. “Ah, this is… a good brand. Very safe.”

“Yeah, good reviews?” you gush at his awkwardness.

“Like I’d know,” Peter blushes and shrugs. You know that Peter’s not a virgin but he’d never been the type to be cocky or promiscuous. It was you in senior year of high school who broke down where a woman’s clitoris was, after all. You playfully hit him, urging him to continue. He nods sheepishly.

“Wait, do you want me to… do you want head, too?” you ask curiously.

He shakes his head, sliding the condom onto his length. “No, ‘m okay. Just want to be inside you really bad.”

You kiss him hard, and to his surprise, you push him onto his back. His eyes widen at your shift in attitude and newfound dominance. His taut mouth widens when you push down onto him, going up and down at an agonizingly slow pace as you grip his shoulders. “Oh, fuck.”

You respond graciously with a breathy sigh, eyes closed as you grind against him. “Fuck, that feels really good,” he whispers. “Gonna be the death of me.”

“That’s why they call it la petite mort, yeah?” you smirk. You start to grind faster and Peter’s eyes screw shut, mouth slack in a blissful fashion. He grips your hips harder and gives your ass a light smack as he groans.

“Ass man, aren’t you?” you tease. “Figured you were more into tits.”

“Can’t talk, feels too good,” Peter mumbles. He palms your breast with one hand in response to you, which makes you giggle. “Please don’t tease me at a vulnerable time like this.”

Your laughter is like music to his ears. He looks at you with a dark expression on his face, a sort of pained desperation that secretly begs you to wreck him. He wishes he could tell you that you could have him in any way possible, but he figures that the enormity of his desire would scare you away. Peter caresses your cheek and your head lulls backward at the elation of him inside you. Teasing a finger on your bottom lip, you take his finger into your mouth and you suck on it gently. He feels like he’s about to lose it. It’s a miracle he’s even lasting this long, he thinks to himself. He swore he almost came when he was just giving you head.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Peter breathes. The aura of you is everywhere in the room, the smell of your skin permeating his senses. He can’t get enough. You’re surprised by how vocal he is and it kind of makes you feel a bit cocky. His lips are slick and swollen from your love bites and you can’t help but admire how he looks underneath, curls loose over his warm forehead.

“Fuck, hold on. Can I do something?” he asks, his eyes doe-like. You nod quickly. “Can, um, can you get on your stomach?”

You oblige to his request, getting off from his lap and sinking into the bed, ass up. You nearly choke when he fills you up from behind, his hands cradling your hips. He’s slow with his thrusts at first, wanting to be careful to both control himself and to make sure he doesn’t hurt you. He reaches you at a deep angle and you nearly scream out, which encourages Peter to rock his hips a bit faster.

“Oh my god, Peter!”

Your head twists slightly so you can see his face. He reaches over immediately to kiss you, holding you by the chin forcefully as he pulls your hips towards him. His hand stays wrapped around your throat as he bends over to pepper kisses to your neck and down your back. A finger rests on your bottom lip that you take into your mouth. He moans at the feeling of it.

“Fuck, you’re gonna… make me come soon…” you breathe. You whine as he pulls your hair slightly to get better access to the side of your neck.

“Fuck, I fucking love you,” Peter pants. His breath is hot beneath your ear and it makes you shiver. His hushed curses are like little love notes spilling onto your shoulder. “My favorite girl.”

Your face falls into your bedsheets once he hits your sweet spot repeatedly. Your whole body vibrates at the feeling of it as you grip your sheets hard enough to strain your knuckles. Tears are pricking from the corners of your eyes on impact. Your orgasm is white-hot, blinding, paradisiacal.

“Hey, hey, hey, are you okay?” Peter whispers worriedly, slowing down his strokes and wiping your face gently.

“Yes,” you moan, shutting him up with a kiss. He pulls out of you and melts into your lips, the wave of your orgasm and the tenderness in your chest igniting a small fire in the pit of your stomach. The two of you are side by side now, limbs entangling one another in a blob of lust and warm bodies and languished breaths. He’s confused at your husky laughter but stays attached to your mouth, tasting you in all your sugared glory. The taste of blood pools into your mouth again and you pull back slightly. You lick his bottom lip carefully, lacing his mouth with your sweetness.

You smile devilishly at the red marks on his neck, marks that you left. He rubs his neck and it’s like he’s blushing all over, because he knows that although he’ll complain about the hickies in the morning, he feels blessed to have any remnants of you on his body. A burn, a bruise, a red stamp on his forehead with your name on it. He doesn’t care.

“You wanna stop?” he questions. He traces shapes on your hip, then letters. I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

You shake your head and nuzzle his neck. “No, I want you to come. I want to see your face when you come inside me.”

The alcohol has definitely worn off but he still feels intoxicated in your presence. How can someone look like that? he wonders. You’re underneath him now, bright-eyed in anticipation. He licks his lips, amber eyes wide like a puppy. He wants to come — no, needs to — but he's also entertaining the idea of holding himself in so he can hear you orgasm ten more times.

“C’mon, Spidey,” you whisper, pulling his length towards you. He slides in slowly and exhales like it’s the first time again. You sigh dreamily, eyelashes fluttering at the halcyon feeling of warmth inside you. You feel so fucking full. Your nails dig into his muscular back as he moves faster, and the feeling is so euphoric that you’re sinking your teeth into his shoulder to muffle your screams.

“Oh, shit,” Peter sputters, whispering your name like it’s a poem he’s memorized. You nearly are a poem he’s memorized and it feels like heaven and more that he’s able to experience your body in this capacity — every inch, every curve. He’s about to be pushed to the edge once he hears you stutter his name mindlessly.

“Peter, Peter, Peter… f-fuck… gonna come again…”

Your back arches as shockwaves course through your body and suddenly Peter is gripping you from your hair to your shoulder hard enough to almost hurt in the best way possible. His knees buckle as he releases his come into you and you’re coming up for air after hearing his guttural moans and whines.

“Ffffuuuuckkkk,” Peter cries out, murmuring your name over and over like it’s the only word he knows.

You clutch his body like he’s a fallen hero (ha ha) and push the hair from his forehead, pecking him with kisses all over his face. His face is warm and so is his smile — so pretty, so unforgiving.

“We should do that, like, all the time,” he sighs, flopping his head onto your chest. You giggle, pulling him in your arms. His body is like a weighted blanket. He purrs at the feeling of your fingers through his hair.

“Definitely.”

___

i’ll be your cigarette ashtray

come back when it’s too late

worship you til morning comes

It was an annoying habit of yours. For some reason, your biological clock decided that when you got really drunk, you wouldn’t sleep in. Instead, like clockwork, you’d wake up at the crack of dawn.

Your eyes squint at your phone. 7:09 am. You groan, turning your body away from the sunrise that was perching itself higher and higher into the sky. The body next to you stirs at your movements, mumbling something unintelligible and laying an arm over your frame.

Your eyes flutter open to see Peter’s face, angelic and blue-tinged in the dimness of your room. His breaths are slow and quiet. You want to trace his cheekbones and his slightly crooked nose but you’re afraid to wake him, so you settle for a longing gaze.

“Morning,” he whispers, making you wince. His eyes are still closed but his mouth turns upwards into a smile.

“Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“Maybe, but I’m a light sleeper.” His pupils are blown out and black when he opens his eyes. He takes his hand and strokes your hair, inching over to your face and peppering a chaste kiss to your nose. He waits a second, then gives you a more passionate kiss on the mouth.

“Mmm. Morning breath,” you chuckle lightly.

“Hey,” he pouts. “That’s not how I like to be dirty-talked.”

You’re used to waking up next to Peter but the sight of him now is something new. He’s grown into his body and the way he looks naked right now, wrapped in your comforter… it’s like an alternate universe fr you. The sound of his morning voice is slightly raspy and low and you absolutely adore it.

“‘m not getting you off right now,” you mumble. “Make me breakfast first.”

He groans dramatically. He pulls you closer so that your nose is nestled into his warm chest. “Nope. Haven’t slept in like twenty-six hours, baby. Sweet dreams.”

#peter parker fanfiction #peter parker smut #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker fluff #peter parker x you #peter parker angst #tom holland smut #uni!peter parker #college!peter parker #peter parker oneshot #peter parker imagine #uni au #college au #friends to lovers #best friends to lovers

1K notes · View notes