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humanpurposes · 3 months

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You Want This, You Need This

The only daughter of Rhaneyra Targaryen is firmly devoted to her mother's cause, and yet she finds her way through the passages of the Holdfast, to the bedchamber of a Prince she should hate // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (daughter of Rhaenyra)

Warnings: 18+, smut, enemies with benefits, hate sex, degrading, angst, Targcest (uncle and niece)

Words: 3.7k

A/n: Me making a poll then doing whatever I want 🫶

There’s no use in waiting for sleep to come to her, she’s too restless for sleep.

Her bedroom is full of alcoves and adjacent chambers, good for hiding and keeping the room cool during the summers. In one of the alcoves is a mural. If she presses a particular space on the wall with much force, she can push it to reveal an entrance into the hidden passageways of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Light is lost beyond the threshold. A gentle but piercing breeze washes over her, through the thin and billowing fabric of her night shift. There’s always this lingering excitement when she opens the doorway. She equates it to the thrill of flying, cutting through the wind on dragonback. Only she’s not in the sky, she’s staring into darkness, daring herself to take a single step.

As children she and her brothers had found many of these hidden doors throughout the castle, the perfect sort of places to hide in when they were in trouble, the perfect place to eavesdrop and move through the keep undetected. When their mother found out she had discouraged them from venturing too far, lest they end up like the piles of bones left by rats and other rodents that had never found their way out.

The paths within the walls are treacherous, but she knows some of the routes by heart. She knows how to head down to the kitchens, she even knows a way which leads past the dungeons, to a chamber which houses the skull of Blaerion, the Black Dread, out to a beach along the shore of the bay, out of reach by any other means.

There is one particular room she has in mind tonight.

She treads carefully, tracing her fingertips against the wall so that she does not lose her way. When she comes to a series of steps she takes even more caution. She counts twenty steps, then turns another corner and keeps walking until the stone underneath her fingers turns to wood. It is a door, one which appears as part of a panelled wall on the other side. She pushes it open, hoping he has left the latch undone, and he has.

The room’s warmth is a welcome sensation. She makes as little noise as possible as she enters and closes the door behind her.

He’s sitting by the fire, turned away from where she stands, head lowered slightly and his silver hair spilling down the back of his chair. She almost always finds him like this, practising one of his self righteous rituals. He reads until the hearth and the candles have burned out because it enforces his own belief that he is a more dedicated son than Aegon, more intelligent and more worthy than the Velaryons– than her and her ilk.

His shoulders stiffen as the soles of her slippers tap delicately against the floor, moving towards his bed. She imagines him frowning, or perhaps smiling to himself as he closes the book in his lap.

She perches at the edge of the mattress, pushing her shoes off and letting them fall to the floor. “That was quite the display in the training yard this morning,” she says in a clear voice.

Everything he does is agonisingly slow. He grips the arms of his chair as he rises, slots the book back onto a shelf, and finally turns to face her. He is dressed in a simple black shirt and the breeches he usually sleeps in. His hair is half tied, his leather patch secured around his head, over the space where his left eye should be, sliced out by her own brother’s hand.

The low light of the hearth casts shadows in the sharp edges of his face, the lines around his mouth, the curve of his lips, proud but restrained. His remaining eye is trained on her, glaring at her like a hunter approaches prey.

“You were there to watch your brother, I thought,” he says in that softly threatening voice of his. He comes close enough to loom over her, though just far enough that their legs do not touch. “Or did you find your eye wandering?”

Jace’s first mistake had been to go down to the yard early. Aemond was always there in the mornings after flying Vhagar, to train with Ser Criston Cole until noon. His next mistake had been to succumb to Aemond’s goading. Their uncle is never one to use violence at first, not like Aegon who would brawl with a gull if he thought it offensive enough. Aemond likes to use his words to tease and probe, to lure an opponent to action, and Jace almost always falls for it. The moment her brother had challenged Aemond to a sparring match she knew what the outcome would be. Jace was a promising fighter, but he simply could not match Aemond’s height, strength, speed or skill.

Her heart sank for her brother, but it couldn’t force her attention away from Aemond. He moved like a dancer, all fluidity and control, like he already had the entire performance planned out in his head. He toyed with Jace, kept his defence up, only to knock his sword from his hands and place his own blade at his throat in a sudden flash of silver and steel.

She’d had to bite the inside of her lip to stop herself from smirking.

“You humiliated him, before spectators,” she says.

Aemond frowns in mock sympathy, taking her chin between his finger and his thumb to tilt her gaze up. “I would do it a hundred times over, for my own pleasure if not for anything else.”

She tilts her head. “And what of my pleasure?”

He hums cryptically. The corners of his mouth flicker upwards. “Your pleasure is only my concern within the confines of this room.”

He’s looking at her like that again, like he wants to devour her.

He traces his fingers down her throat, her collar, the neckline of her shift. His touch is sparse but familiar, exploring the curves of her body through the fabric, patterns she’s felt before, spaces he already knows and seems to have mapped in his head.

He leans in closer, his other hand pressing into the bed, invading her space, infiltrating her senses with the scent of smoke and lavender. She could drown in it, the scent of him.

She shudders as he runs his nose over her neck, following the heat of his breath with a lingering kiss against the sensitive spot of her skin. “What is it you want from me tonight?”

She has an idea in her mind, one she’s been toying with since she had seen the look of pride in his face in the yard.

“Lie down, on your back.”

He stands straight. Eye still fixed on her, he does as she says, making himself comfortable against the pillows.

She draws out every movement, just as he likes to do to her. She straddles him, settling her hips against the growing hardness in his breeches. She rests her hands against his chest, runs her fingers over his skin and the patch of silver hair revealed when she pulls on his shirt.

His hands are on her immediately, running up her thighs, gripping at her waist, bringing up the hem of her shift and tutting as though it has caused him some personal insult in hiding her body from him. He pulls it over her head and surges up to kiss her, capturing her lips with the desperation of a man starved. His kisses are always like this, slow and consuming, pulling her in closer and closer like he expects her to try to escape, like the only air he wants exists in her lungs.

It’s fast and overwhelming, and at first she’s content to just let it happen, to let herself be carried away in the currents of his wants and not her own, but once she’s a little more settled, she pushes him back against the bed.

He stares up at her, blood rushing to his cheeks, lips parted and panting. For all the times she’s seen his stoic exterior at court, she thinks he looks best like this.

“I thought you were concerning yourself with my pleasure?” she says, not bothering to contain her smile.

“I thought you liked it when I take what I want,” he retorts.

“I want you to do as you’re told.”

He huffs a laugh, but his gaze softens and his tongue wets his lips, his eye roaming appreciatively over her bare body, until he stops at her small clothes. All it takes is a few gentle rocks of her hips before his jaw tightens and his fingers dig deeper into the flesh of her waist. She swears she feels his hips twitch beneath her, but he makes no move to take what he wants.

She leans back on her haunches as she drags his breeches below his hips. By the sight of him, hard and reddened at the tip, she knows he at least finds something about this arrangement appealing.

She discards the rest of their clothing, his shirt, her small clothes, the leather eyepatch on his head. She pauses when she reaches for it, waiting for him to protest, but he doesn’t. He gives her a small nod and she slides it up to reveal the true extent of his scar, the twisted red flesh around the sapphire wedged in his socket.

She has seen it countless times before. She needs the reminder of who he is, how much he must hate her.

Now that they are both bare she resumes her position, pleasure like a flame licking up her spine as she traces circles over her centre. Aemond grinds himself against her, breathing with a strain in the back of his throat. The sound only makes the wanting feeling in her gut tighten. She can feel herself clenching over nothing, her body begging for more friction and the release it promises.

She feels she is wet enough to take him now, and her stomach drops in anticipation.

When he whispers her name, she knows she has him exactly where she wants him.

She closes her hand around his cock, giving it a few half-hearted strokes and lining it up to her entrance, only to hesitate. “I hear your mother is intending to invite Borros Baratheon to court,” she says.

Aemond catches his lip between his teeth, staring at the space where their bodies almost meet if she would only lower her hips.

“Might he bring one of his comely daughters? He has four, doesn’t he?”

Aemond huffs and meets her eye. His hands are still on her waist, his thumbs tracing circles over her belly. “Where did you hear this?”

She tries to pretend such a simple touch from him does not excite her or tempt her to relent.

Daemon has spies in the Queen’s household, not that she knows the specifics. Her mother had discussed the matter with her, expressing concern for the Hightowers’ intentions. It has been decades since a Lord of Storm’s End has stepped foot in the Red Keep, and Daemon believes their rivals are trying to close ranks, amass allies outside of the capital. Perhaps such a deal may be sealed with a marriage pact.

“What,” she breathes, trying to smile, “that his daughters are comely? I can only assume, for I’ve never met them you see–”

In the blink of an eye she’s beneath him.

Aemond brings a single finger to her lips. “I thought we had agreed not to discuss political matters in private,” he says.

“I did not realise the matter was political–”

He cuts her off when he snakes his hand down her body and pushes his thumb against her pearl. She hisses, her hips bucking to meet his touch.

“Are you trying to bait me, niece? Hmm? Is that what you came here for?”

She shakes her head as he circles over her. For such minimal effort on his part, it sparks something frustratingly bright in her, back arching, warmth settling between her legs and beneath her skin.

“Is that really what you want me to be thinking about? Wondering which one of the Baratheon girls is the prettiest?”

His fingertips tease over her entrance, but he doesn’t push them inside, instead they’re replaced by the head of his cock. She presses her lips together, determined not to make any kind of noise he could take for weakness, for wanting, but she feels it all the same.

“Presently, I’m only thinking about what I can see, and what I see is a spoiled little Princess, laid out beneath me. Poor thing, she’s trying to look smug, but I’m not sure I’m convinced, not when I’m about to fuck her tight, little cunt.”

Her pleading is mindless, falling from her lips as effortlessly as her breath. “Please… please… please…”

She wonders if it is her want or his own he eventually succumbs to. He pushes in slowly, delighted at the slight moan he elicits from her, sharing her air as she gasps at the pleasurable ache of being stretched out around him.

“I’ve heard rumours too, that Rhaenyra has been sending ravens to Highgarden,” he says as he starts to snap his hips against hers. “What business would your mother have with the Tyrells, I wonder?”

Rhaenyra has her own plans for a marriage pact, plans she’s known about for months. “What indeed?” she says, trying to smile as he ruts into her.

Aemond almost growls, burying his face into her neck. As his voice is harsher so are his thrusts. “My sister will sell you to a sickly little boy, is that it? Why would Rhaenyra want an alliance with the Reach?”

Because the King is little more than a breathing corpse and who knows how much life he has left in him. Because eventually, he will die, and they both know what will come next.

She’s always known her part in this, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Her brothers may well fight in battles to defend their mother’s claim, but wars cannot be won without the necessary support. The Reach, The Riverlands, The Vale, The North, they must all be secured one way or another.

With his face hidden from hers she allows herself to admire the way his muscles move and flex under the smooth, pale skin of his arm. Since leaving childhood behind, he seems to have this idea of efficiency, with no tolerance for excess. His arms are slight, but defined where he trains with his sword each day, where he hauls himself onto Vhagar’s saddle and steers her around Blackwater Bay.

“It’s always been expected of me,” she says, tracing her hand over his skin, almost perfect, save for a few marks: a burn after an unfortunate encounter with Vermax when he was just a hatchling, a scar above his elbow where he fell from an apple tree, and crescent shaped indents from their last tryst. “I will do my duty.”

“Duty?” He stops, grabbing her by the neck so her breath hitches in her throat. He leans into her, pressing his forehead against hers, caging her between his body and the bed. She sees nothing but a single eye and a sapphire, nothing but contempt. “You’re the antithesis of it, crawling to your uncle’s bedchamber every night, begging to be fucked.”

Anger flares in her blood. She clamps her hand around his wrist and digs her nails into his skin, hoping it will mark him. “I have never begged for you,” she spits, teeth bared, lips grazing over his, “and I never shall…”

Her words fade on her tongue when he resumes a punishing pace, urging her closer to oblivion with every thrust.

“Oh there you go,” he coos, “that feels good, doesn’t it?” He’s on his knees now, one hand still on her throat, the other on her thigh, forcing her legs further apart, fingertips pressing painfully into her flesh.

She tries to pull away from his grip, pushing herself further into the bed amongst the pillows, but Aemond has always been stubborn and does not relent. She has nowhere to go, no other option but to take it.

“You’ll be sent off to some castle in a miserable corner of the world, live the dull life of a Lady. Your Lord husband will trade swords and shields for you like a brood mare and fuck his children into your belly each night.”

She feels her peak building within her, the weightlessness rising and rising, she can hardly take much more. “Do you believe I will think of you?” she says with a grin, “as he touches me, as he spills inside me…”

Aemond grunts, folding his chest over hers, brushing his lips over her cheek as he hisses, “wanton little whore. I am the one you seek out, and as long as you do, you are mine.”

It tears through her quickly, a spark that turns to flame, a piece of kindling caught alight, pleasure that reduces her simply to feeling, warmth and the absence of his weight on her body. She claws her nails into nothing, empty space where she expects to find his skin.

Aemond has pulled away from her, groaning as he comes, spilling over her stomach and thighs. She watches him, jaw slack, brows angled like he’s in agony.

She basks in the numbness her peak leaves behind as he drags his shirt over her skin to clean the mess he’s made with a touch that is soft and slow. His eye trails along her body to her face. She sees nothing in him, not amusement or satisfaction, not hatred or remorse, and yet he comes to lay beside her, turning her onto her side, settling against her back and putting his arms around her.

She allows it, too used to the feeling of lying in his bed, too used to the scent of sweat and smoke and lavender.

Aemond’s chambers are ruled by order, every book has its place on a shelf, he does not leave papers, clothes or used cups of wine lying around. The bedchamber lies on the south side of the castle, with a balcony overlooking the bay where two of them used to watch the ships leaving the harbour. She likes the intricate tapestries, scenes of Valryian mythology, and his fondness for the colour blue. Even if she cannot see most of it in the dark of night, the silence and stillness is comforting.

“Lord Corlys’ ship was attacked,” she mutters, placing her hand over his, where his palm against her stomach. “We cannot be sure if he even survived.”

“So I’ve heard,” Aemond says, “I’ve also heard Vaemond Velaryon intends to challenge the succession of Driftmark, should the unthinkable be true.

“And I assume the Queen and the Hand will support him in this endeavour.”

Aemond’s chest stills. “They will hear the petitions and pass their judgement,” he says, quietly but finally.

“Then the decision has already been made.”

Aemond’s breathing is deep, her hair fluttering against her cheek as he exhales. Her mother has a similar way of scolding her without uttering a single word, as if to say the answer should be obvious.

With a scoff she pushes his hand away and drags herself out of the bed. The cold air stings her skin and she makes short work of finding her night shift, discarded on the floor, and dressing herself.

“Lucerys has no claim to Driftmark,” Aemond says from the bed.

“And why is that?” she says shortly, grabbing her shoes from the foot of the bed.

He won’t say it, but the word is there, in the way he teases Jace, the way his family watch her and her brothers and stare at them across the throne room with nothing but disgust. It’s there in his indifference towards her beyond the walls of his bedchamber, avoiding eye contact, muttering under his breath, insults and backhanded compliments. But the last time he said it, it cost him his eye.

She turns to face him, a defiant glare through the darkness now that some of the candles have started to burn out.

“Coward,” she whispers.

He does claim to disagree.

With her shoes on, she moves towards the hidden door without sparing him another glance.

But she hears a ruffle of fabric, his feet against the floor as he follows her. His hand closes around her arm, hard enough it feels as though it might leave a bruise. He turns her into him, placing her back and his palm against the panelled wall.

“Stay,” he says.

“Surely you would not want to sully yourself, sharing your bed with a bastard.”

“But it’s different with you.”

“How? How is it different?”

He cups her face in his hands, begging her for something but never saying it. He leans in gradually, kissing her firmly. It’s easy to follow his lead, to let him slip his tongue between her lips, let him pull and tug at her delicate flesh, to feel him and lose herself to him. It makes her weightless all over again.

Once it was easy to love Aemond. They found friendship easily as children, even when they bickered and argued, because they could always forgive each other.

Some time ago she realised that love has always been destined to fade away, like summer changing into autumn, winter snows melting away with the spring. There is no place for it amongst the animosity between their families, causes they were born to, that neither of them will ever forsake.

Aemond pulls away but stays close to her, a hand on her waist, the other on her cheek. “I want you to stay.”

“And what then? What do you think could ever become of us?” The one-eyed Prince and the bastard Princess.

Suddenly she hates the stillness of this room, the weight of his silence in her chest.

Aemond’s hand slips from her cheek, his expression falling from pleading to indifference.

She leaves him standing there, bare chested and breathless, with no light to catch in the cut edges of his sapphire. She fades back into the shadows of the passageway, amongst the cold and the dark and the bones.

The rot has set in. The King will die, and both the Blacks and the Greens will seek to claim his throne. The empty space between her and Aemond can only ever grow.

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General taglist: @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

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yesimwriting · 4 months

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OKAY idk if you keep taking thoughts but this IS the dynamic I had thought for Felix since DAY ONE, so of course I need more best friend!felix and maybe this one is a typical one but...

The jealousy??? like this man is very facial and expressive and protective, especially towards the reader.... so I thought about him watching any of his friends flirting with them? And maybe also being way too touchy? You can decide if reader is comfortable in all that or not (I think she wouldn't), but having him like trying not to be a dick but also like needing to, like they're my best friend shush so yeah, I'd love it if you could write something like that! thankss

a/n omg that one scene in saltburn where felix is like 'you're my friend,, you're supposed to be here with me' yeah i knew immediately

----

"Sorry, darling." Despite the soft, almost far off cadence of Farleigh's voice, his words manage to cut through the atmosphere of the party. He leans forward, handing off his half finished joint to the girl standing next to you. "This stuff's heavy, and I don't need Felix on me tonight."

You frown. His denial doesn't get to you as much as the way he's framing it. Like you're a child that needs to be looked after. Like you're Felix's property.

If you weren't already a few drinks in, you'd dismiss Farleigh's words with an eye roll. The buzz burning in your veins latches onto that pinch of irritation. The full sounding giggle that comes from the nameless girl by your side only amplifies the feeling. "I don't do everything Felix says."

"No," he agrees, "You do just enough to be a good, little pet." You cross your arms in front of your chest, tilting your head to better glare at him.

The feel of something touching your shoulder cracks the tension. Your head turns. Felix. Despite your annoyance, Felix's sudden appearance at your side has you easing. He leans forward, pressing a kiss against your cheek near the corner of your mouth. "I was looking for you."

You smile, placing your hand over the one Felix still has on your shoulder. "You seemed busy, decided to take a lap."

He brushes his thumb against your shoulder. "Never too busy for you, darling." Felix has a way of making things that should feel just polite sound genuine. "How're you doing?"

"Farleigh's being mean."

"Didn't let her smoke." Farleigh explains flatly, taking the joint back from the girl. "After the way you reacted last time, it wasn't worth it."

Felix squeezes your arm. "That true?" You're not given a chance to respond. "You know how you get. Especially after drinking." You blink at him, eyes wide and lips pressed together. "Don't give me that look." It's too gentle to be a scolding. "We can smoke when you're sober, if you want."

You're not one to crave getting high too often. There's a sluggishness to it that you have to be in a certain mood for. But something about smoking with Felix, in his room with the window open and the two of you lounging like the only things that matter are what's within arm's reach, is unbelievably soothing.

Even in your current state, you're fully aware of the fact that you're getting the better end of the deal. But with Farleigh's smug comment and that random girl that laughed still paying attention, you don't feel comfortable agreeing in front of everyone.

"You're looking for an excuse to argue." Ugh. The way he reads you is almost eerie. You press your lips together to keep from giggling, watching him carefully. You shake your head, a flimsy attempt at denial. "Yes." Felix leans closer, grinning. He drapes an arm around your back, pulling you against his chest. " I can see it in your eyes."

"My eyes are innocent."

His freehand moves to hold your chin, angling your head to better look you in the eye. He's focused, exuding more concentration than the moment warrants. That's the thing about Felix, crowded room or empty dorm, it doesn't matter. He has a talent for making anyone feel like the only person in the world.

"Hm," he hums, "You pass." Despite coming to a conclusion, he makes no effort to move away from you. "Want to get another drink?"

You nod, "Yeah."

"C'mon, then." He drops one arm, waving a halfhearted goodbye to Farleigh before guiding you forward.

Felix keeps an arm around your shoulders as you maneuver through the chaos of the party. It's instinct to accept his lead, a part of you more glad for it than usual. You're starting to feel fuzzy, and with Felix guiding you, it's safer to accept the sensation.

"Oh my god!" A squeal and then your name.

You turn your head, eyes landing on a familiar face from your lit class. "Daphne!" She's a newer friend that you mainly know from exchanging lecture notes and working on essays together. A part of you is surprised to see her here, but you guess you shouldn't be. Now that you're thinking about it, you feel like you've seen her around Felix's friends before. "Hey."

Daphne approaches you with a wide grin. "I didn't know you were here." She then glances to Felix, and then Felix's arm, and then back to Felix. "Hi, Felix."

If he notices Daphne's curious scrutiny, he gives no indication of it. "Hi, Daphne," he greets, confirming that they do run in the same circles.

She smiles politely before turning her attention back to you, "It's been a minute since I've seen you." Daphne tosses a glossy strand of hair over her shoulder. "We need to catch up, I found out the best thing about the girl that sits in the front row that always tells everyone her grades."

"Bragger girl? She's the worst."

"Oh, you have no idea."

Felix squeezes your arm, turning your attention back towards him. "I'll get you your drink, you catch up with your friend." You beam at him as his arm gently moves off your shoulder.

As soon as he's disappeared into the crowd, Daphne gasps, "Oh my god, whatever's going on there is better than my bragger girl story."

You blink. "What?" Confusion and Felix's absence make you feel slightly off balance. It takes you a moment to catch up. "Oh, Felix? We're friend." Daphne presses her lips together, the look she's giving you not entirely convinced. "C'mon, tell me about bragger girl."

"Okay." Daphne gestures to an empty coach that's been pushed against a wall. "Let's sit?"

The two of you make it to the edge of the room. Daphne's not shy about taking up space, letting her long legs extend into the start of where people might walk. She trusts the world to move for her. It hits you then that your friendship with Daphne, like your relationships with a lot of people you've been spending time with recently, doesn't make make sense on paper.

You sit, grateful for the chance to lean against something sturdy.

"Alright," Daphne starts, angling her body towards you, "Bragger girl--never's gotten an imperfect score girl--" She cuts herself off with a soft, tipsy giggle. "Is hooking up with the TA."

Oh, you're fully hooked. "What?" Daphne nods, expression satisfied. "No way." There's no way to prove the connection between that girl always managing to beat your scores by a few points and any of her personal relationships, but come on. "Wait--with--with which one--the tall one or--or the one with the--" You're too out of it to recall a good descriptor, "Hair."

Daphne laughs again, "Hair?" You shrug at her. "Doesn't matter how little sense that makes, because that's the--the best part of the story." You nod, urging her. "She's hooking up with both of them."

You gasp. Oh my god, you cannot wait for Felix to get back so you can reiterate every detail of this. "Really?" Daphne giggles, nodding her head. "How do you know?"

"Okay," she crosses her legs, "So, I was at this ba--"

"Hey, Daphne," the voice is low and clumsy, over extending the second half of Daphne's name. Daphne looks up in time to see a guy sit on the couch's cushioned arm. "Who's your friend?"

Daphne throws you an apologetic look before turning back to the stranger. "Hi, John." She then introduces the two of you politely, presenting you as a friend from her intro to western lit class and John as someone from her econ class.

John doesn't even attempt to hide the fact that he's looking you over. You're not sure if it's the slightly glazed over quality to his eyes or his lack of shame gets to you. All you know is that some instinct tells you to be wary.

He tries your name on his lips, slurring slightly. "Why've I never seen you around?"

"Oh, I don't know," you try, tone much more sober than it was a moment ago, "I'm around, I guess. Here and there."

It's not your best small talk, but the only part of you that seems to be clinging to sobriety doesn't feel right. He's friends with Daphne, you tell yourself, you have no reason to believe he has bad intentions just because seems like he's had too much of whatever he's been having tonight.

John laughs, like your words were some obscure joke that he wants you to know he decoded. "So what do you do when you're not getting out?" He angles himself towards you, disregarding Daphne entirely. "I'm having a hard time picturing you in a library."

It's almost ironic enough to get you to laugh. John sees you here, he sees how you're dressed, and who you're with and just assumes that this is your regular state. And while there's nothing wrong with being the party girl type (some of your favorite people are that kind of person), it's just not who you are every night of the week.

"Actually, John," Daphne interjects, "She's really smart, like basically certified genius smart." You throw her a not so subtle look that says you feel like she's exaggerating. "What? I said basically." You don't look like you agree, "C'mon, even Dr. Alvero's said it, and he can't stand anyone."

"Really?" John moves to stand. "Dr. Alvero. His class is bloody murder." He takes a step towards you. "Maybe you could help me study sometime." You're too aware of the length of your dress, of your legs. "I'd pay you for your time."

There's something about the way he tacks on the reference to finances, an implication that burrows beneath your skin. That's the worst part of Oxford's elite, they assume that if you don't run in the same circles...that if you don't come from generational money, you have nothing. That you're in a position to bend to their every whim for what they consider petty cash.

"John," Daphne tries, voice hard.

"What?" John takes another step forward. "I said I'd pay her."

Indignance and nerves bond uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach. As much as you want to tell him off, the way he's looking at you leaves you frozen, and it's not like the two of you are in a private area. You don't want to be labeled as a hysterical drunk.

"Sweetheart." Felix is within reach.

You turn your head instinctually. He's less than a foot from the couch, holding a solo cup. Despite directly addressing you, Felix's attention is fully focused on John, who seems to have finally remembered the concept of personal space.

Felix walks past him without a second glance before sitting next to you. It's a squeeze, Felix's knee pressing into yours. "They ran out of cups, so I thought we could share." Felix extends his arm slightly, gesturing to his drink. "Have some."

You lift a hand to reach for the cup, but Felix shifts before you can actually attempt to take it. Confusion has you dropping your hand back to your lap. You don't get where he's going with this until he gently tilts the cup in a silent question. You nod.

Felix brings the drink to your lips, gently tilting the cup until its contents are down your throat. The alcohol burns slightly, but not overbearingly so, and the flavor is familiar. Your favorite drink.

He pulls the cup away, a drop of liquid sliding down the corner of your mouth. Felix's thumb wipes it away before it can reach your chin. He then brings his still damp thumb towards his mouth to clean it.

Heat roots itself in your chest and crawls up your neck. All of your discomfort, all of your worry from before feels far and abstract until Felix asks, "So, who's your friend?"

"Oh, uh--this is Daphne's friend, John."

Daphne nods, leaning forward to join your conversation, "Yeah, I know him from my econ class."

"Yeah, good to finally meet you, man. " Felix finally looks back at John. "I think my step-mother's friends with your mum."

Felix places an arm against the back of the couch, giving you space to relax against his side. A more sober you would have thought twice about giving in so quickly, but you're starting to feel light again. "Uh--Cindy Marin."

"Right!" John exhales, relieved, "Right."

Felix nods once before turning his attention back to you. "You ready to get out of here?" There's an assuredness in the way he asks the question that makes it seem like there's nothing of value left at a party that hasn't at all since he sat down. You nod. Felix leans towards you so that he can better look over your shoulder. "See you around, Daphne."

"Yeah, see you."

Felix gets up, immediately stealing the warmth and comfort he'd been providing while next to you. Something that you only very minorly resent him for. He offers you his hand as you stand, and that makes up for most of it.

You turn your head to say goodbye to Daphne. Now that Felix isn't looking, she grins at you before mouthing: that was hot.

You roll your eyes, hoping your feigned irritation is enough to cover any signs of being flustered. Especially when Felix pulls an arm around your shoulders.

"Bye, John," he mumbles, "Congratulate your step-mum for me, yeah?"

Felix guides you out of the party. Once the two of you are exposed to the cool, night air, Felix lets go of you. There's a stiffness to his release that gets to you.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box of cigarettes.

"Can I?" Your voice is smaller than you thought it'd be.

Felix pauses, thinking through your request before handing you the box. You smile as Felix leans towards you. You don't smoke--with the exception of an occasional drag from one of Felix's cigarettes--but you like lighting them for him.

You pull one from the box and place it between his parted lips. He hands you his lighter next. You spark it to life, bringing the flame to the cigarette's end. Felix takes a deep breath, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling. He doesn't attempt to take your hand or place an arm around you again.

"Are you--" You're not even sure how to word it, "...Okay?"

He takes the cigarette between two fingers as he breathes out. "Fine." Felix inhales another drag. "Just didn't love the way that guy talked to you."

"If it helps, neither did I."

Felix glances over at you, eyebrows pulling together. "Then it's a good thing your best friend was there."

You roll your eyes fondly, fighting a grin, "You're always a good thing."

He looks down, his fingers brush against yours. You intertwine them, pulling his palm against yours. "Someone loves me."

You attempt to glare at him, but the look feels too sickeningly fond to come off as menacing. "Don't start."

His smile broadens. He squeezes your hand, thumb brushing against your knuckles. "Want to stay over tonight?"

"Yeah." You grin, body subconsciously leaning against his a little more. "Are you tired?"

Felix eyes you with exaggerated skepticism, "Why?"

"Wanted to know if you were in the mood to read to me tonight."

He smiles, angling his head to press a kiss against the top of your head. "Anything you want, lovie."

----

felix: oh my god,, i can't believe people treat you like that!! maybe you should borrow my last name for a little, just so that they leave you alone

taglist; @vader-is-hot @spiritofbuddha @getosangie @freyafriggafrey @ilovehyperfixating @aryiannarae @willowpains

#bestfriend!felix #bestfriend!felix x reader #saltburn x reader #saltburn imagine #felix catton x reader #felix catton #jacob elordi x reader #jacob elordi

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nxttheendxfthestxry · 2 years

Text

Re-done Tag Dump: Dynamics (2/6)

#golden swords || we're not nameless; we're not faceless; we were born for greatness!#sweet sorcery || we might think a little differently but we've got a lot in common #crystal bookworm || we're gonna be just fine cuz there's a place for us #treasured enchantment || you're never alone; we're birds of a feather #galaxy guitars || we're all just broken pieces trying to fit in somewhere #saturday morning || she makes me feel like home's not so far away #no ducks to give || i've got her spirit and she's always got my back #rainbow sea || we don't even have to try; it's always a good time!#research heart || i may fail but that doesn't mean that i won't try #security breach || the fable will prevail as our heroes travel far #strawberries & honey || but you complete me and that's no lie #new generational elements || let's rock and roll and just let go #just take my hand together we can do it || double exposure #order & chaos || and don't forget all the trouble we got into #double dumbass || back from another great adventure #starry waves || you got a home for now and forever #band king || we're the ones that make the rules #sweet nanny || trust your heart; let fate decide #greenhouse dragon || you are not your skin #tag dump

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ghoulphile · 1 month

Text

janey's dad | c.h./the ghoul | teaser

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 465 for the teaser, overall wordcount tbd ➥ overall warning(s) | 🔞 smut; age gap (i hc reader to be late 20s but i tried to leave it vague enough), cowgirl position, biting, hair pulling, choking, squirting, teasing, pining, lipstick kink, breast/nipple play, masturbation (m), porn w/ feelings, porn w/ plot, mild angst w/ happy ending, coop's pov to start - rest of the fic will be in reader's, divorced!coop, babysitter!reader, pre-war/bomb ➥ summary | "We really s-shouldn't - oh fuck - be doing this." ➥ notes | here's a teaser for the fic i took a poll on, some people wanted more info 😊 coop is a big dick dilf fite me. feedback is always appreciated ❤️ lmk if you want to be tagged feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | masterlist

Divorce is hard, but being a divorcé is downright hellish.

Ugliest thing in the world, if Cooper Howard has any say.

It's not like being a Marine with a gun in hand, being told where to point and shoot, or an actor reading off a script. There's no guidebook, no crash course. These people aren't nameless threats coasts away or co-workers following a cue.

In fact, his 'enemies' aren't enemies at all.

They have names: Barb, so smart it hurts, and sweet little Janey, his very own North star. Sometimes looking at them rips open a hole in his chest that'll never close, edges jagged and sore. The phantoms of family, of happier times, found in the glint of a smile or a peal of laughter.

See, war's something he understands. Something he's good at.

But these domestic battlefields where he's gotta look his ex-wife in the face, and struggle to meet his daughter's eye? Barter this weekend and that holiday? To pay for the privilege of his child's presence (he does, he will, she's worth every goddamn cent he's ever made)?

To look down the barrel of a smoking gun only to find the woman he loves staring back; he doesn't, can't, comprehend that. Because once upon a time, he was happy (with her) and life was sweeter than pie.

Now he's nothing but a washed up actor who struggles to land a call back let alone make his monthly alimonies. His marriage has failed, his reputation is in shambles, and his bank account is dryer than the Mojave.

Barb gets the house. He gets the dog.

And caught in the middle of it all is his little girl; the only thing he’s got left worth while. He wants to protect her, provide for her the way she deserves — only he seems to fall short every goddamn time.

The mistakes and missteps keep stacking up against him; such is his new life in all its raw, unglamorous glory.

Look how far the mighty fall.

Lucky for him — the first bright thing that's come his way in a long, long while — a sweet, young woman moves into the apartment next door. Of course, it isn't long before Janey takes a shine, always so friendly.

Thankfully, you're just as good with her.

It only makes sense you'd watch her when a gig runs late. Rustle up some grub and put her to bed whenever he slinks in through the door, stripped to the bone.

And if he takes himself in hand late at night, stroking his cock to the thought of you down on your knees in that pretty little sundress? Imagines the wide stretch of your lush mouth as you peer up at him from between his thighs when he cums hard?

Well, what you don't know won't hurt you.

After all, he promises to keep his hands to himself.

part 01 of full fic

#cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #fallout smut #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x you #cooper howard #the ghoul #cooper howard smut #the ghoul smut #fallout #fallout fanfic

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zuzu-draws · 1 month

Text

So after the spoilers for Chap 257 dropped, I saw some tweets clarifying the meaning of the Kanji Sukuna used in the chapter when referring to his mother, and the overall reveals in the chapter got me thinking.

I’m making this post as a way of gathering my thoughts, personal speculations and where I think all of this connects to Sukuna’s character and the information Gege has given us over the years. Nothing I say is by any means new information, but like I said, I’m just collecting my thoughts here. By the way, just a warning, this post contains SPOILERS for the JJK Manga! If you don’t like that, please don’t read this!

Something I’ve noticed is that the theme of “Hunger” and symbolism of “Cooking/Food” is heavily referenced with Sukuna throughout the Manga. Gege in a previous Fanbook has disclosed Sukuna’s favorite Hobby to be “Eating”.

This theme is again very much ingrained within Sukuna’s cursed techniques and even his Domain Expansion, the “Malevolent Shrine”. With his two main techniques being “Dismantle” and “Cleave” are cutting-type attacks. He is also able to use a Flame-Arrow, and Fire is essential for making Food. The Shrine in his Domain Expansion literally has mouths on all sides, looking eager to chew down anything in-front of them!

This symbolism also heavily influences Sukuna’s own manner of speech, and the way he speaks to other characters in the series as well. With his post-fight chat with Jogo before his death, Sukuna mentions Jogo lacking the “Hunger” to take control of his desires, preventing him from reaching the heights of Gojo Satoru. Before the Start of their fight in Shinjuku, Sukuna called Gojo a “Nameless Fish on top of his cutting board”, and that he was going to start by “Peeling off the scales”(refering to Gojo’s infinity). There’s also further symbolism that supports this by analyzing the Kanji and meaning of Sukuna’s “Malevolent Shrine” but I’m not very educated on that so I won’t be opening that point here.

What all of this points to is that Eating and Food……is extremely important to Sukuna, to the point that it literally affects him in manners innumerable.

Eating is an instinct, a necessity for the survival of every single living being.

And In the face of extreme Hunger and starvation, even those with the strongest will could lose their Humanity and revert to the basic animalistic side of their existence. (The Heian Period also had a Famine, although I believe the timing to be a bit off, but do with this info as you see fit)

In JJK Chapter 257, it is revealed to us that Sukuna and his Twin were most likely starving in the womb of their starving mother.

On the brink of starvation, Sukuna had to consume his “other self”(his twin), so that he could survive.

Btw, this tweet and this thread gives additional characterisation to Sukuna:

Link to the original thread: Link.

More context (and reactions :P):

Link to original thread: Here

This reveals to us that indeed, Sukuna was born a twin. And as we all know, “Twins” are seen with extreme scrutiny in Jujutsu Society, they’re not well liked. This too in a period where Cursed Spirits and Jujutsu Sorcery was at its peak, it is not far-fetched to assume that his Mother may not have been treated very well by the people in her surroundings, especially as she bore twins.

When Kashimo asks if Sukuna was born the Strongest or if he made himself the Strongest, this is the response Sukuna gave to him:

When you think about it, how do you think the people around them would have reacted when the woman: who was supposed to birth two twins, gave birth to a single child instead? and that child had consumed his other twin in the womb itself?

No doubt people would’ve been horrified, disgusted and even revulsed. With the woman and her newborn child.

This would’ve led to their further ostracisation in the already very close-minded society. Unable to fend for herself and her newborn child, it must’ve been difficult for Sukuna’s mother to survive. I feel like somewhere along the line, Sukuna was left alone to fend for himself at an extremely young age. To protect himself from both Curses and Society alike.

This is why I believe Sukuna knows what true starvation, weakness and hunger feels like. Both in the emotional and literal sense. He was left without another person caring about him or his well-being, in a cut-throat period where it was “Fight or be killed”.

Powerful curses roamed all across Japan, nowhere was safe. Simply be strong, or you'll die. There's no room for weakness. And initially, a kid!Sukuna was weak, as anyone would be in the beginning when they're just starting out in this world. (and maybe, he didn't have much to eat, leading to long periods of starvation? :') )

I believe it is this debilitating hunger, and feeling of weakness that eventually led to Sukuna’s current Hedonistic mindset.

He’s essentially traumatised by it, and believes that it was his own weakness that led him to experience this sheer starvation. That he deserved to feel this way because he was weak then. Perhaps, the people around him were right, that as long as they have the power and strength to overcome anything, they’re free to do as they please; And there is nothing anyone else could do about it.

I feel like the irony here is that Sukuna himself, must’ve been a “weakling” before eventually rising the ranks to become History’s Strongest Sorcerer. This is also why he values Strength so much.

Ultimately, Sukuna has decided that there was nothing more important than being strong enough to fulfill your own desires. And “eating” is one of his most important desires. It’s his favourite thing to do, the one he derives the most pleasure out of. And like an animal, whose main focus is to consume, consume and consume. He too, simply consumes.

Most morals likely have no meaning to him. He doesn’t care who he hurts, what he does, as long as he’s able to get what he wants. And this isn’t limited to eating.

This is why people referring to Sukuna as a “Natural Disaster” is so befitting of him. Because Natural Disasters also don’t care about what or who they’re destroying, they just come and go, wreaking havoc appropriate for their nature and magnitude.

I believe Sukuna himself has said lines similar in nature, when talking to Kashimo:

Now I’m not sure how Sukuna perceives or even experiences this “Love”, because I think he has a rather very warped idea of it. I do think that this definition of love is similar to the one that Gojo also understands, but I don’t think he knows what “love” truly is. I’m not sure how I could comment on this, but I do think that Sukuna’s emotionally starved, whether he realises that or not.

Because, like Kashimo himself asked Sukuna “What is the point of dividing your soul into 20 different parts and then traversing across time if you’re satisfied with this?” we do not know the answer to that yet.

But many people have speculated that “Black Box” panels in JJK manga represent a curse (either self-inflicted or put by someone) on the speaker. Like, take a look over here where Sukuna reiterates the same dialogue, except it looks like he’s trying to reassure himself:

This once again shows that Sukuna has only ever strived for himself, in the same hedonistic fashion, to a very very extreme degree. It is possible that he's been lacking something, and he himself does not realise that he’s lacking it. Maybe it was this subconscious feeling, that led to Sukuna agreeing to Kenjaku’s plan of dividing his soul into 20 different parts, and to traverse across time as a Cursed Object.

Sukuna’s an incredibly complex character, and I’m excited to see where this goes. Gege has put extra care in the way he characterizes and depicts Sukuna, and again, I’m really sad that a lot of that characterization gets lost in translation. Still, I’m going to try my best to understand and get the most accurate feel of his character as I possibly can.

If you made it this far, Thank you for reading! And if you would like, please do leave a comment in the tags or replies because I would love to read what other people think of this and just Sukuna in general. I do not see a lot of people doing critical analysis of him, and a lot of his actions are seemingly swept under the rug. I don’t like that, so hopefully this contributes to people focusing more on Sukuna and his character. (/^v^)/ <3

#ryomen sukuna #jjk sukuna #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna #king of curses #heian era #character analysis #manga #jjk manga #jjk 257 #this is...so very long omg im sorry for my huge word vomit #like 1.4k works but i really did felt like i wanted to gather my scattered thoughts into one place and kind of make the connections #not sure if anyone is gonna read this but if they do #thanks for reading! be sure to let me know what u think!#i just love psycho-analysis of my fav characters and being able to really understand the essence of their characters #their emotions their motivations and to finally be able to do that with Sukuna and reading what everyone else have to say about it ahhh #im super excited! We're finally getting close to the Heian Backlore!! rejoice!!#my gut always did tell me he was a tragic character T_T and now we're finally getting the tid bits #also apologies for adding different panels #but i only added the translations i liked #i don't like J*hn W*rry's translation like yuck #so ima wait for Lightning's translation notes~ for further clarifications!

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highvern · 7 months

Text

Jealousy

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x reader

Genre: angst? humor, idiots in love

Warnings: jealous reader, mingyu is kinda an fboy but not really, Seungkwan is a readerxmingyu stan, alcohol mention

Length: ~1.5k

Note: another Drunk Goggles prequel! its a twin piece to bite the bullet bc they're both dumb jealous idiots but this is still very early on in their relationship.

If looks could kill then the nameless girl chatting with Mingyu at the bar, tracing her manicured nails down his bicep as she giggles obscenely, would be six feet under by now.

She technically isn’t doing anything wrong; you and Mingyu aren’t a couple, you have no right to be upset when someone flirts with him. It's a given that someone as handsome and charming as him has a line of people bidding for his attention. But it doesn’t stop your mood from turning to shit when it happens. Frowning into your watered down drink, you swallow the remaining liquid, wincing against the bitterness. If you’re gonna watch people throw themselves at him tonight you’re definitely going to need something stronger than what’s in your cup.

You make your way to the far end of the bar, away from Mingyu and his new “friend,” ordering yourself two shots of tequila to extinguish the fury igniting your veins. The burn of liquor hurts far less than what you witness from the corner of your eye. Mingyu’s back is to you, obscuring his face but not the face of Yeji or Yeri or whatever her name was. She’s smiling at him coyly, blinking up from under her lashes as she leans a little too far into his personal bubble. Mingyu is an idiot if he can’t tell how much this girl wants him to take her home. Her less than subtle squeeze of his bicep sends your eyes rolling and an indignant scoff living your throat. You’ve seen more than enough.

Pushing away from the sticky wooden surface with a new drink in your hand, you creep back towards the table your friends are spread around. Luckily, most are either caught in conversation and don’t notice your tense expression or they’re kind enough to ignore it.

Keyword: most.

Jihyo hones in on your attitude change in zero seconds. And because she is about as subtle as a bull in a China shop, she jumps up to snag your hand and pull you towards the bathroom without a word before anyone else can say anything (re: Seungkwan who is about to kick Mingyu’s ass on your behalf).

“Mingyu’s an idiot.” Jihyo states calmly once she’s locked the door.

She watched Yerin approach Mingyu at the bar and knew the second you saw there would be a meltdown. Jihyo won’t judge you, she never does. But she will wring Mingyu’s neck the next time he comes to her for advice about you. This was definitely not something she would have suggested to him.

“I’m not upset!” You cry, but it’s no use.

“Oh please,” she snorts. “I saw you at the bars. You only drink tequila when your feelings are hurt.”

“He can do what he wants, it’s not like we’re dating.”

“So? You like him, he likes you. If he’s gonna act like a dick in the meantime then he should have at least done it where you wouldn’t have seen.”

“If he likes me so much, why is he flirting with some girl?” You warble.

The tears forming in the corners of your eyes are sponsored by shitty tequila and a long island iced tea.

"Because he’s a dumbass.” She raises her voice. “He adores you, but he’s a dumbass.”

“He can adore my foot up his ass.”

“He probably would.” She contemplates.

You snort. Jihyo knows exactly how to make you feel better.

“If you wanna go home, I’ll come with you. I hate this bar.”

“No you don’t, but I appreciate it.”

“Alright then, can we please get out of here?”

“Yeah, it smells like vomit.” Your face twists as you dab away the tears on your cheeks.

“I thought that was just you.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.” Jihyo argues. “Now, let's go show him what he's missing!”

You raise an eyebrow but leave the cramped space nonetheless.

It's difficult to hide your shock when you approach the table and find Mingyu getting an earful from Seungkwan. You can’t make out what he’s saying but Seungkwan's face is red with either alcohol or anger (probably the latter given the way he’s gripping Mingyu’s collar). Mingyu’s eyes are wide in fear as he’s shaken to and fro by the younger man.

But when Mingyu sees you approach over his friend’s shoulder, the fright melts away, leaving a beaming drunken smile. It’s really hard to be pissed off when he looks like a puppy whose owner just came home. Seungkwan looks around to see what interrupted his lecture to find you staring inquisitively, to which he just rolls his eyes before settling back in his seat, diving into the heated exchange between Jeonghan and Chan.

Mingyu throws an arm around the back of your chair after you settle next to him. His fingertips trace the peak of skin next to the strap of your tank top, raising goosebumps and evaporating the rigidness in your posture immediately. Damn him.

“Missed you.” He mumbles close to your ear.

This time your eye roll is obvious. Mingyu thinks you're being playful but you remember how he was pinned to the bar only a few minutes ago and steam is threatening to pour out your ears again.

“Seems like you had decent company.” Your words are pointed and the way his eyes grow wide and his smile drops almost makes you feel guilty.

“Yerin?” He furrows his brows, “She was nice but not really my type.”

“Pretty girls aren’t your type?”

“Not when they aren’t you.”

The smirk on his face is lazy and confident. Knowing Mingyu, he’d high five himself if he was less trashed.

A cough covers what suspiciously sounds like a snort on the other side of his seat where Seungkwan is.

You bite your tongue against the scoff in the back of your throat. Mingyu’s got balls, you’ll give him that. But if he thinks he can flirt with you right after letting someone feel him up where everyone can see then he has another thing coming.

“You think I’m pretty, Gyu?” Your voice is sickeningly sweet, encouraging Mingyu to fall into your trap.

You turn towards him, letting your eyelids lower and lips pout. One of your hands drops to his thigh as you twist to see him better. It's exactly what Yerin was doing to him earlier but you can immediately tell that he is much more receptive to your antics than he was to hers.

The shock on Mingyu’s face makes you wish for a camera. It’s an effort to keep from laughing when his jaw falls open as his gaze follows the pattern your hand traces on his knee. You’ve never touched him like this before, but if this is how he reacts you’re more than happy to continue.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “The prettiest.”

You hum in acknowledgement. Mingyu is free flowing with compliments whether he’s drunk or sober but it always leaves you breathless.

“Prettier than Yerin?” It’s petty but you’re feeling the shots you downed and logical thought isn’t your priority.

His face has moved into the crook of your neck, chin resting gently on your collarbone, sigh ruffling your hair as he gets cozy in the warm space and allows his nose to trace the curve of your shoulder.

“Absolutely.” His lips tracing the word on your skin makes you shiver.

“Then why’d you spend all night talking to her instead of me?”

Disappointment seeps into your voice; as much as you deny it, he’s hurt your feelings and wounded your pride.

“I—,” Mingyu swallows.

“Hmm?” You’re being mean but he started it.

“Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” you coo in his ear. “Looked like you were having fun.”

“Have more fun with you.” He’s stuttering, flustered at how easily the words slip from between his lips.

“Where’d she go anyway?” You turn your head to locate her but she's nowhere to be seen.

“Don’t know,” Mingy rasps, mind focusing more on the way your nails tickle the inside of his knee through the fabric of his jeans than your questions. “Don’t care.”

“Don’t be mean.” You chide.

“I really don’t though.”

“Well, Jihyo and I were thinking about heading out.” You feign a yawn. “It’s late.”

At the sound of your threat, Mingyu is immediately up out of your neck and staring at you with puppy eyes.

“But you just sat down!” He pouts.

“I’ve been here for hours.” You mirror his expression. “I’m tired, Gyu.”

“I haven’t gotten to talk to you all night!”

Hook.

“Maybe you can talk to Yerin again.” You smile with venom in your eyes.

Line.

The shock on Mingyu’s face informs you that he is now realizing how much he fucked up.

Sinker.

“Bye, Gyu.” You coo sweetly, giving his thigh one last squeeze.

Jihyo watched the entire scene play out much to her own horror. She’s ready to go the second you stand, preparing the lecture of a lifetime once you're on the way home. But the shit eating grin on your face makes her proud.

What you two don't see is Seungkwan leaning over to whisper a “told you so” in Mingyu’s directions as they both watch you walk towards the exit and into the night.

#svthub #kim mingyu #mingyu x reader #kim mingyu x reader #mingyu fluff #seventeen fluff #seventeen fanfic #svt imagines #svt fluff #seventeen fic #svt fanfic #svt x reader #🫡 highvern #dghe couple

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shanastoryteller · 5 months

Note

Happy holidays! Do you have any zagreus interacting with other gods? Thanks so much

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Other people are learning about Zagreus.

Not that they know it's him, of course. He goes by the moniker prince.

Just enough to direct prayers and pay tributes, but a nameless god standing against Demeter? It's enough to send the whole pantheon in an uproar.

It's enough to send Demeter to heights of rage that Artemis previously thought her incapable of reaching.

There are gardens that her frost can't touch. Fruit she she has no hand in growing.

There are people who will not submit and die as she wishes it, blaming mortals for her daughter's death and so making them pay the price for a lost goddess.

Not even Zeus has rained destruction upon the mortals like Demeter had and not even Zeus can stop her.

It's too much. Too much taken, too much suffering.

Persephone was a sweet girl. But her loss is not worth the life of every mortal upon the earth.

Artemis is with Aphrodite, both of them having been evoked powerfully enough to send shivers down their spine. She leans against her spear and tried to think of any other way to fix this.

It's a town on the edge of collapse, a thick forest between them and the rest of civilization. In spring the journey is long but easy enough, but it hasn't been spring for a long time.

There's no game to hunt. Loved ones are dying. They beg and beg to any god that will listen but while every god can hear them no god can save them.

None but one.

But how would they know? This far out, there only contact is other isolated villages too deep in the world.

"I'm tired," Aphrodite whispers, knees pulled to her chest, something about her coltish in her helplessness.

Artemis has never tried this. She doesn't even know if it will work. But he won't ever find his way here on his own. "Can you keep a secret, Aphrodite?"

She shifts her head enough to look at her with a single garnet eye. "What secret do you have, sister mine?"

"Aphrodite," she says warningly.

She huffs, amusement aging her. "Yes, yes, my silence or my life. What is it?"

Artemis hopes she doesn't regret this. She hopes it works. "Prince Zagreus!"

"What's Zag going to do?" Aphrodite blinks. "He can't even-"

She cuts herself off and Artemis knows she's thinking through the first part, coming to the obvious conclusion and rejecting it out of hand.

"Artemis?"

They both turn and Zagreus is standing there. Not as image or projection like he was the last time they met face to face, but solidly beside her in the flesh.

He grimaces in pain and raises a hand to his side before straightening and forcing his arm down. Whatever it is that keeps him in his father's realm still has some hold on him, it seems.

"I'm kind of in the middle of something," he says. There's blood on his teeth. There wasn't any a couple seconds ago. "Oh, hi Aphrodite. Er. Please don't tell anyone."

"It's you?" Aphrodite demands. "You?"

"I am me," he agrees.

Artemis would beat him if they had the time for it. "Can you help them? This village will die. Word of you hasn't reached them and your temples are too far to travel too even if they had."

He grins it's all red. His blood drips down his chin. "It's not going to be pretty."

Artemis has never thought about how exactly the god of life and blood spreads his blessings. She thinks she's regretting that now.

"Pretty's my domain anyway," Aphrodite snaps. "Help them."

Zagreus moves too quickly for Artemis to stop. He grabs her spear and slices down his chest and then there's blood everywhere, pouring out of him, more than should be in any one body.

Aphrodite screams and Artemis wrenches the spear away, horrified. "This is celestial silver! You can't - even gods can't heal from it!"

"Death heals all wounds," he says and there's blood down his chin, spilling out his mouth with his every breath.

Then he's running.

They talk off after him and it's easy to follow his trail, the deluge blood and smell of copper filling her nose as they chase him.

Zagreus is mad. When she wasn't looking he went insane and now she's killed him.

They have to slow him down, have to get him to Hermes. It should be easy, they're goddesses and he's dying, but he stays fast enough to stay just out of their grasps.

He's lose a body's worth of blood a dozen times over and yet still more flows.

He finally trips and falls, giving gurgling breathes.

"Zagreus!" she shouts as she and Aphrodite fall into the snow beside him. "Zagreus, hold on, it's going to be okay."

He laughs and pats her cheek. He's too pale. "Relax. I die all the time."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Aphrodite demands, trying to put her hands over the wound but it's too long to stem.

Zagreus doesn't answer.

His body goes slack and it takes Artemis several seconds to realize the person screaming is her.

Aphrodite is sitting there shell shocked and bewildered and then Zagreus's body sinks into the earth, not even reacting to Artemis's attempts to hold on.

"Oh."

She looks up and Aphrodite is looking behind them. Artemis slowly follows her gaze.

Every place blood touched the ground, there now grows bushes of bright purple berries, more vibrant than any fruit she's seen grow that shade. They grow thick and fat on every branch and if there anything like the other food in Prince's gardens, it will keep them alive and they'll be able to grow more themselves.

If they're willing to sacrifice the blood.

The next time Artemis sees Zagreus, she's going to kill him.

#prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #cherryblossomshadow #hades game

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darkworkcourier · 1 year

Note

Could you write Ghost x fem!reader where she finds him attractive but is too shy to actually tell him but also can't hide the way she's feeling, so Ghost notices her interest and eventually they end up in bed (*cough* you know what I mean)? Also Ghost being gentle and protective towards her, plz

Ps. I love your writing!

Word Count: 8314

i’m incapable of short prompt fills, apparently! o, but i am filled with grief!

anywho, reader’s codename is ‘ladybird’ (hc that soap gave it to her because she’s lucky) but is otherwise nameless.

contains masturbation, oral sex, lots of feelings, wee bit of slow burn, ghost being like weirdly emotional and soft, and soap’s gratuitous and unfortunate use of emojis. 💀/🐞4ever

---

The first time it really hits you, you're in a helicopter about two miles above the ground—honestly a terrible place to face your feelings. It's a velvet-dark night, strategically chosen for the new moon, the countryside below nearly invisible. You're almost in a doze, caught up in the Chinook's blades' low, thunderous pulse and the sporadic rocking as it hits little glades of turbulence. Your eyes lose focus on some of the running lights, until they turn hazy, and its only when the man across from you moves his boot do you snap back to attention.

Ghost. Right. You learned his name a few weeks ago during your orientation, but he was deployed on a recon mission only a day later. Price summoned him back for this mission, but aside from a few gruff comments at the all-hands meeting, you haven't heard him say much.

For a moment, you think he might have dozed off, too. He’s leaning back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed. And that’s fair, you think; Soap told you he didn’t think Ghost ever slept.

You silently study him, the way his head rocks a little with the turbulence, how much taller he is than everyone else in his row, the peculiar illusion that the eye sockets of his mask are empty—

And suddenly they aren’t.

He’s looking back at you, dark eyes regarding you passively, even though the mask makes every look significantly more intimidating. For moment that goes on way too long, you don’t look away, your gazes locked. Your heart takes the tracheal elevator to your throat, beating loud enough to drown out the Chinook’s roar.

You look away first, and you swear you hear him snort.

The rest of the journey to the drop-off zone, you deliberately don’t look at him; but when you close your eyes, there he is.

All you can think is ohhhh, shit.

---

Military crushes aren’t abnormal. Put enough people at the peak of physical excellence in a room, throw around some form-fitting uniforms, and mix in a few adrenaline rushes—it’s a goddamn potent mixture. You’ve had your share of mess hall dreamy-eyed gazing sessions, and a few ‘I hate to see you leave, but I love to watch you go’ moments in gyms and fitness centers. That’s fine; that’s normal.

What you start feeling for Ghost isn’t that.

Nevermind that he’s rarely out of tactical dress, and if he is, he usually defaults to a hoodie or something that doesn’t exactly entice the imagination. And he’s never out of some variation of his mask, so you can’t think woah, pal, do you cut glass with that jawline because as far as you can tell, he doesn’t have one. No mooning over cheekbones, admiring the curve of lips. He has nice eyes, but ever since the night in the Chinook, you haven’t been able to meet them for more than a second before your heart does that terrible little samba again.

Per your mental checklist, aside from being tall and muscular, he doesn’t check all your normal boxes. By all those counts, Gaz or Soap are way better fits. Hell, Soap likes to hang around in his silkies like they’re pajamas, showing off plenty to keep your fantasy fodder trough filled. And you’ve caught Gaz doing push-ups in the lounge, his tight shirt doing wonders for his shoulders.

But it’s Ghost who makes you feel like a hormonal teenager. It’s Ghost that gets you antsy and fidgety when he enters a room. And it’s Ghost that you think about during your rare alone time in the shower, when your hands start drifting south and the tile walls are your only support.

You’ve got it bad for him, and you have no idea what to do about it.

---

You’re doing recon in Berlin when Soap notices.

The mission details are simple: a drug lord known as Keiler using a night club as a go-between for his suppliers and dealers—all further complicated by the fact that he has plenty of friends in the arms trade, and by Laswell’s reports, he’s very generous to those friends. The club is a front, a money laundering wonderland. Through your observation, drugs and alcohol are doled out in equal volume, all to the backdrop of skull-splitting bass and sharp scalpels of strobe lights.

The biggest obstacle is that Keiler likes to use a private room overlooking the club as his perch, and your intelligence says that at any given time, he has a small army defending him. Getting to him requires an incredible degree of finesse. Naturally, Ghost is the one to do it.

You, Soap, and Gaz are scattered around the main floor of the club. Gaz is out on the dance floor, Soap’s taken up a spot near the bar, and you’re in the lounge. It’s the first time you’ve done something like this (and in an outfit with so little fabric), and you’re really not used to being ogled and pawed by a bunch of drunk, drugged, or horny Berliners.

Soap must see your discomfort from his position, as you hear a dry, amused, “Feelin’ a little tense, Ladybird?”

You swallow hard and chase it with a sip of your drink, which definitely needs to be watered down. “I’m fine,” you say.

“You look like you just drank petrol.”

“You’re the one who ordered it for me.”

Gaz cuts in with a weary, “Do we have eyes on Ghost, yet? I’m starting to get tired of people grabbing my—”

“I’m here,” Ghost’s voice scrapes over the comms, causing you to sit up straight and look around. You catch sight of Soap who has his hand curled in front of his mouth, clearly snickering like a heathen.

“Think you scared the shit out of Ladybird, LT,” he says.

He’s lucky he’s on the other side of the room, otherwise you’d pretend to be extremely clumsy and find an excuse to spill your drink on his (very, very tight) shirt. You mouth ‘shut up’ at him, and he reaches up with his pointer finger to draw an invisible halo over his head.

Ghost ignores him. “I’m near the east stairwell, headed to second deck. Got one guard at the far end. Gaz, you seein’ anything I should know about?”

A pause, then, “Negative, Ghost. I’ve got what you’ve got.”

“Copy. Going to second deck now.”

Out of habit, your eyes go to the east stairwell, peering through the haze pierced with multicolored lights to see a single dark shape ascending. He disappears behind a catwalk, then reappears to the right, mingling with the crowd near the second floor bar. Once he’s there, he seems to fade into the throng of people, most in dark clothing, some in masks. Just like that, he’s invisible.

It’s hard to focus on looking calm and happy to be there, but you keep sipping your drink, watching the dancers and feeling the bassline of yet another techno song thrumming in your chest. You’re glad you’re not out on the dance floor, or being called to give come-hither glances to bouncers and guards.

Then, “Coming back down to first deck,” Ghost says, clearly agitated. “Too many guards and too many people. We need another way up.”

Soap grins. “Violence isn’t the answer, LT?”

“Negative. Start looking for another route.”

On cue, you stand up and cross the room to the bar, sliding in beside Soap. He’s fishing for another couple Euro from his wallet, pushing it across to the bartender with two fingers. The bartender gives him a brief nod and refills his glass, while Soap turns his attention to you.

“Any bright ideas?”

You frown and adjust the straps on your top again. It’s a stupid piece of clothing, always feeling like it’s going to fall off. “Only the emergency stairs by the front doors, but I can’t imagine Keiler leaves those undefended.”

Soap looks thoughtful and scratches at his stubble. “Yeah, but probably no civilians, either. And if the door’s alarmed, Ghost can take care of that.”

As if summoned, you feel Ghost appear before you see him, a huge presence over your shoulder that makes you jump. “Jesus!” you hiss.

And Soap, the traitor, laughs to the point of wheezing as Ghost takes up the bar stool on his other side. “I think you’re giving our Ladybird here a complex,” Soap says through his laughter.

Ghost rolls his eyes. From this angle, you can see Ghost in more than just the dim light you’ve been working with most of the night. He’s not dressed too far outside his usual fashion wheelhouse—heavy boots, black trousers, and a loose black hoodie. His hood’s pulled up over a black beanie and a skull-painted gaiter, and he’s foregone his usual thick coating of greasepaint for black-ringed eyes (is that eyeliner?) and a streak of smoke-colored paint that just manages to obscure the color of his brows. The downside (for you, at least) is that the combo manages to draw his eyes into sharper contrast, making them that much more intense.

Suddenly, your heart’s doing the thing again.

Ghost doesn’t seem to notice any change in you, but you think Soap’s actually looking for it. He watches you, brows lifted, mouth curled like a flirtation of a smirk. Briefly, he glances between you and Ghost, and then the smirk appears in full force, enlightenment dawning.

Before he can insinuate a thing, you’re shoving your half-empty glass across the bar top with a too-high, “Bitte.” The bartender only gives you a brief, unamused look before taking your glass and remaking whatever godforsaken cocktail Soap ordered.

It’s not a good distraction, and the damage is already done. Soap knows, damnit. His smile is too easygoing, but he turns to Ghost and starts talking about the emergency stairwell, which is a relief. Ghost looks over his shoulder toward the stairwell in question, and as he does, Soap looks at you and makes the gesture of zipping his own mouth shut, throwing away the proverbial key with a wink.

As he does, Gaz pipes back up with, “Ghost, you copy?”

“Yeah, Gaz?”

“You, uh, know anything about a big guy with a tattoo of a boar on the back of his head?”

Ghost looks toward the dance floor, brows furrowing. “Yeah, that’d be Bauer, Keiler’s right hand man.”

“Great. Glad you know him, because he’s here.”

Shit. He wasn’t supposed to be. If Bauer’s here, then either Keiler’s doing something more than his usual partying upstairs, or Keiler knows someone’s here looking for him. Either way, the mission just got significantly harder, and your night got that much longer.

With a grunt, Ghost pushes off the bar and starts making his way to the emergency stairwell. “I’ll take care of it,” he says. “Keep your eyes open. Out here.”

Once he’s gone, there’s a pause—a very heavy pause. Then, Soap looks at you with an expression that is just a hair too pleased. “Ghost, huh?”

Your face heats up, right as the bartender hands you your drink. You reach for your wallet, only for the bartender to put a hand up and shake his head. “Nein, für das schöne Mädchen,” he says.

For the pretty girl.

“Bet Ghost thinks so, too,” Soap says, and you resolve to definitely spill your free drink on his too-tight pants.

---

Weeks after Keiler’s nice and cozy in a maximum-security prison and the 141 is back at base, you have another miniature existential crisis.

It’s all an accident—just a tempest of bad timing and bad luck. Ever since you came back from Germany, you’ve had a tough time getting a full night’s sleep. It’s easy to blame the natural stress of your work, the long hours, the high-adrenaline action you see more than you ever did before this job. And, well, part of it has to come from Ghost. He’s occupied your thoughts more than ever since the night club.

Your solution is to hit the gym late at night, pushing yourself until you can’t keep your eyes open and no amount of insomnia can overcome it. The first few nights of this effort work fine—you end up in bed around one or two in the morning, and sleep until your alarm goes off. No one bothers you; no one hogs the machines. It’s kind of nice.

However, you don’t account for all the night owls that share the base with you.

You head to the gym late on a Friday night, towel around your neck, water bottle at the ready, podcasts preloaded. If you ever hit the gym during the day, you usually do so in a t-shirt and sweatpants. At night, you’ve started opting for PT shorts and a tank top, happy for the lack of eyes around the room.

Except for tonight.

You open the door into the gym, only to hear the mechanical drone of a treadmill and someone sprinting damn fast on it. For a second, you freeze, hiding behind the corner. Then, slowly, you peer around it, clutching your phone and water bottle close to your chest.

Jesus Christ. It’s Ghost.

Ghost, in a t-shirt. In sweatpants. Running on a treadmill set to the highest incline. Panting.

Ghost, with bare arms, showing a detailed tattoo on his left arm, and prominent veins running over his chiseled muscles. He looks like a fucking Greek statue, and that’s just what you can see.

“Ohhh, my God,” you whisper to yourself, immediately working on an exit strategy that doesn’t involve catching his attention.

Which obviously doesn’t come to pass. It’s something you probably should have learned on the helo ride—Ghost knows when he’s being watched. He turns his head, dark eyes fixing on you immediately. Briefly, he looks back at the treadmill, then down at his watch, and back to the treadmill’s controls. He slows it down, dropping the incline, until he finally steps off and starts walking toward you.

Abort, abort.

You think about fleeing, running back to your room or rolling under a table or hiding behind a counter like he’s a goddamn velociraptor in the kitchen. You do none of those things, because despite your training, you freeze up. No one could blame you, you think. It’s hard to do much else when a six-foot-something skull-faced wall of muscle walks up to you. And you must look stellar, holed up in a corner by the door, your water bottle and phone held up like a shield.

Ghost takes in the sight of you, eyes flicking up, down, up. Heat rises to your face, and down to—to nowhere, because it’s better not to think about it. You suddenly feel too vulnerable in your choice of outfit, naked under his gaze.

“Ladybird,” he says. Your nickname becomes a hot scratch of sound, losing its whimsy in favor of a tone you can’t define. “You need somethin’?”

There’s a patch of sweat by his collar. You stare at it, then at the floor.

“No, I just— I was, um, just about to leave, and... Yeah, I’m gonna go.”

He’s silent until you finally look up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time in what what feels like an eon. He looks amused, but there’s a quirk in his brow like he can’t quite get a good read on you. “You look like you were about to use the gym.”

You look down at your bottle, phone, and towel like you’re just now noticing them. When you bring your attention back to him, you feel like you need to just kick the door open and escape, dignity be damned. “I... was,” you say slowly. Then, you rally yourself, trying to look upbeat and resolved. “Y’know what? You can keep using it. I’ll come back later.”

He shrugs, but you see it. Some secondary expression slinking around in his eyes like it’s working through the perpetually-moving cogs in his head. He gives you another one of those assessing glances, and for a second, you think he’s going to step into your space. His body language looks primed to do so, and you hold your breath in anticipation for it, unsure of what he’s going to do.

Then he takes a step back, and another.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind it, though.”

Before you can process his words, he’s back on the treadmill, tweaking the settings and raising the incline again. The belt starts moving, and he’s back to looking like power personified, a vision in motion.

You have got it so bad.

It’s a hasty retreat to your room, and once the door’s shut behind you, you’re panting like you had run on the treadmill and lifted weights.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you hiss, discarding your things on the table beside your bed, kicking off your running shoes, then laying down and staring at the ceiling. He knows. He has to. Ghost’s whole job depends on him being observant, and he looked at you like he was reading a fucking book.

You groan and press your palms into your eyes until phosphenes appear, dancing around and shimmering like fireworks behind your eyelids. You’re going to have to leave the 141 out of pure mortification. You’ll have to go into some kind of witness protection, change your name, and move to the other side of the earth. Or if you stay, you’ll have to pretend Ghost doesn’t exist. You’ll hide behind walls, slinking through the building’s HVAC just to avoid him like you’re working on a heist. Maybe you can convince Soap or Gaz to accompany you everywhere so you can hide behind their bulk.

But then, your horrible brain reminds you of what you’ll miss out on. It runs through a greatest hits reel of your crush so far—Ghost’s eyes, his presence stretching long over you like a shadow, his massive frame, his arms. The tattoo, detailed enough to tell from a distance, and then the thought of running your fingers over it, tracing all the fine points and lines. And are those his only tattoos, or are there more?

And his voice. Jesus, you replay the few words you’ve heard him say over and over, savoring each syllable, each quirk of his accent. Even the last thing he said—

I wouldn’t mind it, though.

That makes you open your eyes again, widening them as you take in the pocks and scrapes on the ceiling. He wouldn’t mind what? Having company in the gym? Having you, specifically, as his company? You don’t know what to make of it, or what he meant by it. Honestly, you feel like you don’t know anything right now.

Except that you want him. That’s the only thing you’re sure of. You want to know how his hands feel on you, how they would run over your bare skin, what the callouses on his fingers would feel like on the most delicate and sensitive parts of your body. Your imagination leaps ahead of you, guiding your own hand down into your shorts and under the band of your panties. You tease yourself, just dipping your fingers into the wet heat, trailing them over your clit like a hint to yourself, coaxing your arousal out of your panic.

His hands would feel different. When you rub your index finger over your clit, you imagine his finger instead, pressing gently against you, building up friction slowly, making you ache. You wonder if he’d savor your reactions, watching you get worked up, grinding against his hand to seek any kind of relief.

“Easy, Ladybird,” you imagine him saying, the nickname now a tease. And he’d know your real name, the one hidden away in your file. He’d whisper it into your ear, breath hot on your neck, his whole body eclipsing yours.

Your pace quickens, fingers running urgently between your clit and opening, causing your core to tighten and your breath to come in short gasps and barely-concealed moans. Ghost would tell you to let them out, let the whole damn base hear how aroused he makes you, how badly you’ve wanted him.

You breathe his name into the small space of your room, a whisper in the still air broken only by the low hum of the forced air in the vents. When you finally plunge your fingers in, it takes every bit of self-control not to outright moan and let everyone nearby know what you’re doing. Normally, you can stay quiet when you get yourself off, but you’re damn near frantic with this, whatever it is Ghost has done to you.

His fingers in you, fucking you in long, languid strokes, drawing himself out and pushing back in—all the while, watching your reactions. When you rock your hips to the pace of your hand, you imagine his voice again, “That’s right. Fuck yourself on my hand. Let me see you.”

You’d show him. Hell, you’d soak his hand, and it would remind him that it’s his fault you’re like this.

The wet sounds of your hand on your cunt is lewd and loud. It’s almost too much, enough to make you stop at the apex of your pleasure, to hide yourself under the blankets in shame and pretend that none of this happened.

But the vision of Ghost keeps you going, keeps your fingers moving in and out, crooking them inside and forcing out a gasp as a white-hot shock of pleasure lances up your spine and settles warm in your belly. The pad of your thumb presses against your clit, and you multitask on yourself, building up that friction, bringing yourself to the precipice.

He’d take you there. He might even pull you back from the edge over and over, teasing you with the fall.

“Do you want it? How bad? Show me.”

God, you would. Any way he wanted, you would show him. You’d beg and plead if that’s what got him to finally make you come.

So you whisper, “Please,” into the night, to a man who is never going to be in your bed, never going to touch you like this, never going to see your pleasure through to the end. The Ghost in your imagination has to stay there, behind locked doors and bulkheads, secured and contained for good.

But until then, you chase your orgasm with him, hitting that divine height and going into a freefall. Blood rushes in your ears, muscles twitching, heart racing. Your head comes off the pillow, back arching, toes digging into the mattress, mouth open on a moan that you refuse to let loose. You come way harder than you ever have using your own hand, enough that when you finally lower yourself back onto the bed, you grimace at the feeling of a wet patch on the sheets.

“Fuck,” you say, very emphatically. To yourself, to Ghost, to the whole damn situation.

Groaning, you reach over and grab the towel, wiping your hand and tucking it under your ass before rolling onto your back again and wondering what the hell you’re going to do.

---

You’re going to hide from Ghost, that’s what.

Captain Price gives the team a few days off to rest up for the next mission, and you decide right then and there that you’re going to spend every second off base, as far away from the barracks as you can get. You’ll get a hotel, order a ridiculously expensive amount of room service, and marinate in your feelings for a couple days until it’s all out of your system. Maybe you’ll go to a bar or coffee shop and chat up some nice person who isn’t a tall, broad, terrifying British soldier. And maybe you’ll have a night of incredible passion and twisted sheets, and it’ll be so cathartic that when you come back to base, you’ll be a whole new person.

That plan holds until your phone goes off while you’re packing up.

It’s a text from Soap: ‘wyd?’

‘Going off radar for a couple days. Why?’

He sends a sad emoji, then two beer glasses clinking together, a soccer ball, and then a big red question mark. Apparently, Soap only knows how to speak in hieroglyphs.

You smile, and type back, ‘Sorry, need to go clear my head.’

Skull emoji. Question mark.

‘None of your beeswax,’ you send, followed by the soap emoji.

‘that sucks,’ he types back. There’s a short pause, and then he types again. ‘cause he was looking for u earlier’

Your heart damn near comes to a stop, and you very hesitantly respond, ‘Why?’

‘idk. think he wanted to ask u smth’

Nope. You’re not taking the bait. If Ghost wants to talk to you, he can come right up and—and you can walk off in the opposite direction and act like there’s something incredibly interesting that you need to see right that second.

You type a few variations of ‘Then he can come and talk to me himself,’ but none of them sound particularly nice. Ghost hasn’t done anything wrong, so there’s no reason for you to act like he has. And for that matter, you’re supposed to be hiding from Ghost, not encouraging him to find you. Instead, you send back a clipped, ‘Okay.’

Nothing.

For one hopeful second, you think Soap’s mercifully let the conversation go, allowing you to go in peace to your nice hotel and your overpriced room service food.

Instead, you get the sunglasses emoji, a wink face, and, ‘k i told him to come see u’.

‘WHAT’

The only response is the skull and the little running cloud dash emoji, suggesting that Ghost is making a beeline right to your room. Panic seizes you and you fling your phone on your bed like somehow it’s going to help. It bounces harmlessly, then lands screen up, emojis taunting you.

Quickly, you start shoving the rest of your clothes and toiletries in your bag without a care as to where everything goes, eager to book it out of there as fast as your legs can take you. Once your bag is zipped up and thrown over your shoulder, you think you might be in the clear. Mission nearly accomplished.

Nearly.

Two solid knocks on your door almost make you hit the ceiling. You hold still, using that Jurassic Park wisdom again: if you don’t move, he can’t see you.

That applies to fictional dinosaurs, not trained killers, and certainly not Ghost. He knocks again, then follows it up with, “Ladybird, it’s me.”

Yeah, you know. That’s the problem.

Briefly, you consider going out the window, shimmying out and potentially getting caught on a base security camera for someone to laugh at later. That doesn’t make the problem go away, though.

You can just tell him you’re in a hurry, that your ride is at the gate right now and you don’t want to keep them waiting. Whatever conversation he wants to have, it’ll have to wait until you get back. It’s a good response. Solid. Foolproof.

And it dissolves the second you open the door.

He’s there, not vanished in the disappearing act you were hoping for, and all that want flares up again the moment you see him. He’s in casual dress like what he wore to the club—boots, jeans, t-shirt, hoodie, balaclava. His posture’s more relaxed, one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other hanging at his side. You meet his eyes, and your regret mixes with desire welling up inside you.

It’s that intense gaze from the helo, the brief but incendiary look from Berlin, the thoughtful gaze from the gym. You’re drawn up in it immediately, and this time, there’s no possibility of looking away. Ghost has you locked in.

He takes in the sight of you, dressed in your civvies, backpack on your shoulders, and raises his brows. “Going somewhere?”

Your mouth is cotton-dry, and you’re proud of yourself for putting a little syntax together. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m headed out.”

Right now, you should say. I’m going out right this second and I cannot be stopped. Do not engage.

But you don’t say that. You leave the words as they are, hanging between the two of you. In that moment, you’re two opposing fronts of contradictions—you want him to go, stay, talk, stay silent, touch you, leave you alone.

Ghost seems to sense this, that you’re not making any move to either speak to him or push him away. He doesn’t get into your space, staying right where he is while looking at you with his head slightly tilted. “Can I come in a sec?”

No. “Yes.” Please.

You take a step back, allowing him to walk into your room. His presence seems to fill it, like there’s too much of him and too little space to contain it. He closes the door behind himself, then finds a spot against the wall (the rare section that isn’t covered by posters or mementos) and leans against it. Still, still giving you your space.

You’re all nerves, waiting for him to speak, yet feeling like you should say something—to get all your feelings out in the open, exposed and waiting for him to pick over and do with what he will. But your anxiety and silence wins out, and instead you fidget, trying to find a point in the room to fix your gaze. Ghost takes all your attention though, holding it in a firm, invisible grip that can’t be broken no matter what you do. You get now, more than ever, why people are so scared of him when they end up at the wrong end of his skill set—he immobilizes them, rendering them completely unable to do a damn thing.

He watches you for an agonizingly long moment, then sighs. “Look, I didn’t want to bother you if you were busy, but Soap said you were around,” he says. Ghost doesn’t trail off or leave a space in his words for you to fill in the blanks. It’s a good thing—no place for you to misinterpret him—but it suddenly leaves you terrified at the possibility of what he’s going to say.

“Just for a little bit,” you hear yourself say, voice subdued and small.

He nods. “Then I’ll just get it out now before you go. More or less a question.”

Fuck. You feel a strange, uncomfortably cold sensation curl up tight and tense in your stomach. The feeling of standing at the edge of a long drop, knowing you have no choice but to let go.

His eyes are locked on yours, unrelenting, pinning. And then he says, “Do you have feelings for me?”

Right. No way to misinterpret.

You suck in a breath—a gasp, jerking at the question even though you knew it was coming.

You could lie. It’d be easy to do, just a few movements of tongue, jaw, and lips. No, I don’t. Three easy words. You could say you appreciate him as a teammate, as a professional, as someone you can trust in tough situations. He has your back; you have his. Anything beyond that is too much, to far outside of the commanding officer-subordinate hierarchy.

But you can’t lie to him. He’ll know. He’s trained in looking for tells, for the slightest quirk to denote that you’re holding back the truth. That, and you don’t want to lie to him.

Instead, quietly, you say, “Yes,” and inwardly brace for impact. Any kind of dressing-down from your C.O. and reminder of responsibilities and duties; or on a personal level, that Ghost doesn’t do relationships. You’re tensed up, waiting for its inevitable blow and all the shrapnel that’s definitely going to land right in your heart.

“Oh,” he says.

Oh.

Just one syllable, said deceptively, uncharacteristically soft. It belies so many things—possibilities, dangers. This man is fucking complicated.

And then he takes a step toward you. Just one. Just enough to close the gap that many inches. You don’t back up, but you’re too afraid to walk to him, unsure of what’s coming next.

He’s looking down at you, gaze passive, calm, and strangely open. You’ve learned new and interesting ways to read his eyes since you fell for him, but this one has an unknown definition, a kinesic oddity that you can’t translate.

And for a moment, you let yourself hope.

Then, he says your name. Not Ladybird. Not your rank. Your name. The sound of it is a rush in your ears, in your whole head, through every artery, vein, and capillary. He takes another step, slower than the first, drawing in closer before he says, “Do you want this?”

You nod. There’s nothing else you can do. You take a step toward him, looking up into his eyes and trying to read everything there. “Do you?” you ask. You’re still waiting for the rejection, as though Ghost is the type of person to lure you in only to shut you down.

Rejection doesn’t come. Instead, he steps forward to close the gap, one of his hands finding your waist.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Holy shit.

You stare at him in surprise, and the look on your face must be ridiculously easy to read. His other hand goes up under your chin, tilting your face toward him. The touch of his fingers is exactly like you imagined, the callouses on his thumb brushing over the soft skin underneath your jaw, causing you to shiver.

Ghost leans in close to your left side, skull’s grin close to your ear, and whispers, “Thought you hated me. Every time I looked at you, you’d look away.”

A near-hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat, and comes out as a compressed, breathless giggle. All that time, you were so hopelessly in love with him, you couldn’t look at him without feeling like your heart was about to give out; and he interpreted that as dislike.

“God, no,” you say. “Total opposite.”

He laughs in your ear, and the sound chases out the remainder of that cold tension, replacing it with a newfound heat that feels good. “Wish I’d known sooner,” he says, and one of his hands goes up to push a strap of your backpack off your shoulder.

You ease out of it, dropping it to the floor, before reaching out and tentatively touching his waist in return. Through the fabric of his hoodie, you can feel how solid he is underneath, and you run your hand along his side in silent wonder.

Ghost moves back suddenly, and you only have a second to question why before the light goes out, leaving you in muted darkness permeated only by the bare sliver of sunlight filtering through your curtain. One hand finds your waist again, pulling you close, walking you toward your bed.

All you can think is no fucking way over and over, even as the back of your legs hit the side of the bed, and Ghost is lowering you down. Your back touches the mattress, head on the pillow, and Ghost is over the top of you, his hands bracketing your head. He looks down at you, mostly in shadow, only the bright white of the skull motif visible in the darkness. Then, his eyes flicker to his left, and he abruptly snorts.

You furrow your brow. “What?”

Wordlessly, his hand moves to the right of your head, and he picks up your phone.

Your phone which is still on, showing the emoji-heavy conversation with Soap. Ghost flips the phone to show you the last text he sent.

Skull emoji, kiss, black heart, red heart, ladybug, eggplant, peach, confetti ball, birthday cake.

“What the fuck, Soap?” you say under your breath, grabbing the phone from Ghost. You quickly turn it off and shove it onto your bedside table, groaning in embarrassment.

Ghost shakes his head, and unlike Soap, he doesn’t remark on it. Instead, he brings the situation right back on the rails with one hand going up under your shirt. Then, he says, “Close your eyes a second.”

You do, without question. You hear a faint rustle of fabric, and then his lips press against yours.

You gasp against his mouth, and that thrill you felt at hearing your name seems to rush back through you twofold at the thought that he took his mask off for you. He kisses you firmly, a guarantee that this is what he wants. You reach up with one hand, combing your fingers through his hair, nails scraping along his scalp and drawing out a quiet groan. He smells like standard-issue soap and laundry detergent, and the faint spice of cologne only just clinging to his skin. The feeling of kissing him is dizzying, entrancing, and the sound of it just hammers home that this is happening to you, in your room, with him.

He pulls back just a little, kissing a trail from the corner of your mouth down to your chin, then your jaw, and up to your ear. The sensation makes you shiver again, arching up into him involuntarily. You hear and feel an amused huff of breath, before he says, “What do you want?”

Good god, what don’t you want?

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Anything. Whatever you want.”

He nods against your neck, then tilts his head up to press a kiss to your temple. “Tell me if it’s too much, or if there’s something you don’t like. Communicate.”

You grin, mostly at the sotto voce version of his command voice. “Yes, sir.”

He huffs a laugh and continues kissing down your neck, down to the hemline of your shirt. Undressing comes as an easy next step, shoes off first (and they were on the bed, ugh), and then Ghost pulls your shirt up; you lift yourself enough to help him pull it over your head. In the darkness, he does the same, and you watch his silhouette remove his hoodie, then pull his shirt over his head and drop it off the side of the bed. You can’t see his face, but the faint beam of sunlight touches his hair and brings out a hint of pale gold. It feels like a secret shared between you, adding to that warmth building up inside.

He leans back down, kissing down your sternum to the upper hem of your sports bra. He starts to go lower, and you decide then that you’d like to take at least a little initiative.

“Wait,” you whisper. “Come back up here.”

He does, like he’s accustomed to obeying your orders rather than the other way around. You reach up and touch his chest, eager to feel this part of him, the one he typically buries under layers of clothing and gear. He sighs at your touch, head dropping down to rest on the pillow beside you.

He’s firm and toned with well-honed muscle earned through endless missions and exercise. At the same time, the skin of his chest is surprisingly soft—even the scattered network of scars and keloids that mark his body. You feel old and new wounds, some still raised as they heal, some concave with age. They’re long, short, thick, thin, orderly, and jagged. Starbursts of bullet wounds, hard lines of cuts, spatters of shrapnel, textured lines of old stitches. His whole torso tells a long, tragic story from cover to cover, chest to back.

But he leans into this read of him, letting you feel every scar, every painful moment. His breathing is steady in your ear, giving way to the occasional sigh as your fingers trail over his skin.

In turn, he touches you. You don’t have even a fraction of his scars, but you have a few he can note. You know when he touches them, by the way his touch lingers, learning each one. It feels reverential, or communal—the two of you engaging in a silent trust exercise. He doesn’t ask about them, and neither do you. All of that is for another time.

Ghost presses a kiss to your shoulder, then pushes up until he’s over top of you again. His free hand goes down to the waistline of your jeans, finger tracing teasingly over the zipper. “Can I?”

“Yeah,” you say, breathless. As if you’d say anything else.

He undoes the button, then the zipper, slowly pulling your jeans to your hips, then removing them entirely. He sits up on the edge of the bed for a moment, removing his boots, then his jeans. You lay there, watching him move, feeling your arousal start to grow and burn like a low flame.

When he touches you again, you silently agree that you wish you’d said or done something sooner. It’s bliss. He’s gentle with you, mindful even, in a way you’ve never experienced or anticipated from someone like him. He helps you out of your bra, letting you pull it all the way off before his hands palm your breasts in slow, deliberate movements. It’s an extension of his exploratory touches, learning your body inch by inch.

Your breathing quickens, and Ghost looks up at you in what you guess is concern. “Doing alright?” he asks.

Your face grows hot, and you nod, turning your head to kiss his cheek. “I’m fine,” you reply. “I just don’t know what to do.”

It’s not like you haven’t had sex before, but sex with him feels completely different, like it doesn’t belong in the same category. You’ve never wanted someone this badly, or had someone respond to you like this. It’s almost overwhelming, but Ghost reaches up and combs some of your hair away from your face before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Lie back a bit,” he instructs. “And tell me if you need me to stop.”

You do as he says, leaning up against the pillows as he moves down your body, leaving a trail of kisses down your torso to your hips. He’s a shadow moving over you, long and languid, and every touch just adds to the mounting heat. When his fingers touch the hem of your underwear, you shiver in anticipation, then arch your hips to give him a little leverage in removing them. In one motion, you’re exposed to him, even in the dark. Yet after touching him, and him touching you, you don’t feel as vulnerable. If anything, this feels safe. This feels right.

His hands go to your hips, then run slowly along the outer sides of your thighs. You think he might fulfill that fantasy from earlier, fingering you until you’re a mess, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure with his skilled hands.

Which is why it surprises the hell out of you when he goes lower, until his head is between your thighs, sunlight leaving gold stripes along his back.

“Ghost,” you gasp.

He looks up at you, and now more than ever, you wish you could see his face. You only see the faint shine of his eyes, but at that moment, it’s enough.

Then he spreads you, and licks a stripe from your opening to your clit.

If you were entertaining any thoughts before, any fantasies carefully curated in those rare hours of alone time, they flee in that single movement. Even the Ghost of your imagination never did this, tasting and savoring you in long, slow laps that make your whole brain short out like a blown fuse. The sound is goddamn obscene, especially as he leans in close and starts to lap at your clit. It’s a shock of sound in the silence, louder than even your own noises when you got yourself off.

Your right hand finds his head, fingers running through his hair as he licks you. He alternates between short laps and long strokes, tongue circling around your clit, teasing you, making you shudder and moan. It’s frustrating and fucking heavenly, the sensation of ebb and flow, receding and rushing waves of heat building up then flowing back.

Right when you think you can’t take the teasing anymore, he switches tactics. The teasing abruptly ends, and Ghost gets relentless.

You moan way too loud when he sucks at your clit, tongue swirling around it, the sound of his mouth on you loud as a gunshot. You swear they have to hear it down the hallway, or anywhere on base. At this point, though, you really don’t care who hears you, because they don’t have Ghost between their legs, getting them off in ways no deity ever intended.

Then his fingers join his mouth, index tracing circles around your entrance, dipping in slowly, tauntingly.

“Fuck.” The word is sharp in the air, as you arch at the sensation.

It’s too much; it’s not enough.

He tilts his head up a little, but when he speaks, you feel his warm breath ghost over your sex. “Let me hear you,” he says, words drawn straight out of your fantasies. Every door containing that imaginary version of Ghost is unlocked, every bulkhead breached—that Ghost and this one are one in the same.

And when he pushes that first finger into you, you follow his order to the letter.

It comes out as a broken wail, cut off when he starts thrusting and licking you in alternate strokes. His pace quickens, merciless, sharp eyes watching you from the shadows as your head rolls back on the pillow, chest heaving to catch a single solid breath. Your hands drop to your sides, fisting the sheets just to have something to hang onto, any kind of anchor as Ghost guides you through a tempest.

You moan his name, last consonant catching on a sob of pleasure when he starts to add a second finger. Only then does he pause, and the absence of his mouth is stark.

Then he says your name, temporarily drawing you out of the cumulonimbus of arousal you’re flying through, briefly bringing you back to earth.

You look down at him, the silhouette of his head, small locks of hair sticking up from where your fingers combed through. You see him tilt his head to rest his cheek against your inner thigh, and his voice rolls out like a dull roar of thunder in your ears. “It’s Simon,” he says. “I wanna hear you say it.”

Somehow, hearing his real name in the midst of all this is almost too much. Like the last little vestige of a play on stage falling away and revealing the inner workings of the backstage, all the ropes and pullies holding the show together. He’s more exposed now, more raw, more human.

You reach down, trembling hand brushing over his cheek, over stubble and scar tissue, and the soft skin of a very real face.

“Simon,” you whisper. It sounds like a confession.

He doesn’t reply, but you feel him smile against your hand, briefly turning his head to press a kiss against your palm. Then he’s lowering himself down again, coaxing you out of the eye of the storm and back into the maelstrom. Two fingers thrust and curl, filling you, leaving you empty, touching places that send bolts of pleasure through you.

Your pulse becomes the thunder of the helo’s blades, your body trembling with midair turbulence. Simon fucks you on his fingers, tongue lathing over your clit, mouth fucking worshiping you. He takes you to that precipice, the long fall, the drop through cloud cover to a faintly-marked point on the earth.

The step off the edge feels like perfect, natural progression.

Your orgasm sweeps through you from toe to tip, a roll of white-out pleasure shaking you, wringing a cry out of your mouth that makes Simon fuck you harder. His fingers don’t let up, working you through the tidal wave, taking you to shore on the other side.

You’re boneless at the end, slumping back on the pillow and panting, shivering, taking stock of your limbs and extremities as they each come back online after the outage. You only vaguely register the feeling of Simon moving on the bed, coming up to lay beside you.

He murmurs your name, then kisses you, and you can smell and taste yourself on him. Your hand goes up to run along his jawline, one rogue thought telling you, yeah, you can cut glass with it.

How everything gets so gentle afterwards is beyond you. Simon’s hand is on your face, thumb brushing the soft skin under your right eye. You can feel his erection against your leg, and somewhere in the back of your mind—still tingling with pleasure, shimmering bright and brilliant—you know how you’re going to take initiative.

You break the kiss just for a moment, delighting in the soft sigh of protest you hear and feel against your cheek. Then you lean in close, pitching your voice low like his, hoping it has the same effect on him.

“Hope you don’t have any plans this weekend,” you say, brushing your hand over his shoulder.

You feel him smile against your skin, and he shakes his head.

“Thought you were heading out,” he says.

“Only if you’re going with me.”

One arm goes around your waist, pulling you close as he nuzzles against your neck. “We have some time, though, right?” his voice slides over you, suggestion clear and presented like a gift.

God, yeah you do.

---

Somewhere in between rounds, your phone goes off on your bedside stand.

Once.

Twice.

You don’t hear it, and the short buzz is drowned out by moans and the soft slap of skin on skin. When Simon makes a move like he’s going to check on it, you hook him back in place with your leg around his waist, pulling him in close, then kissing him silent. He falls into it, all too happy to oblige.

So you miss the skull and ladybug emojis, then the volume symbol.

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x you #em dash and italics party is here to staaaay #can you believe this was going to be longer #am i super happy with it? not totally but it was p fun

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wolfy1298 · 10 months

Text

Don’t you ever wonder what kind of secrets and plot points Venti keeps hidden? He claims to be the weakest amongst the Seven-and that could be true given his whole 500 year slumber and poison and all- but he’s still a god. AND one of the original Seven. You gotta be good at SOMETHING to survive for this long…

He’s also the only archon so far that doesn’t have a second story quest so what is he hiding?! We have accounts of him literally shaping the land with ease from both the Golden Apple Archipelago events and his character stories. We know that he has close relationships with the Hexenzirkel and somehow managed to avoid conflict with them??? And there’s also the fact from the skyward sword series that he was originally a catalyst user before picking up the bow in honor of Amos. He’s pulling a Childe when it comes to weapons he currently uses and the ones he’s proficient in.

And don’t even get me started on his connection with Istharoth and Celestia! Mondstadt already has the Thousands Winds Temple AND the nameless island where both Venti and Istharoth were once worshipped. And from Before Sun and Moon, we know that the Thousand Winds (which Venti IS A PART OF) were once called the Thousand Winds of TIME, all of whom were created and controlled by Istharoth. AND THEN you have Venti suspiciously appearing in the right place at the right time again and again and again. He even self proclaimed knowing every song: past, present, and future. Hell he’s probably one of the only few beings in Teyvat who can naturally bypass Irminsul because of his songs: Nahida already shown it’s possible to save deleted info if rearranged into fiction so the same should work for songs and poetry. And there’s also what the hydro fungus in Nahida’s second story quest said about changing forms. That you need time for growth to occur. And Nahida - an ARCHON- had trouble maintaining her fungus form for even the short period of time. She was even told that to do so for longer, one would need to bypass time itself which is near impossible. AND YET VENTI CHANGED INTO THE FORM OF HIS FRIEND IMMEDIATELY AFTER RECEIVING HIS GNOSIS AND HAS YET TO CHANGE BACK OR TIRE FROM FATIGUE (as we know it). HOW STRONG IS HE. Sure, the yokai in Inazuma and Adepti in Liyue can all change into a human form, but we know in game that it takes a long time and steady energy to take on a human shape, and the Adepti all seem to have that ability naturally: there’s no bending the laws of nature if it’s already natural to them. So what’s Venti’s excuse?!

As for Celestia: there’s already written in the statue of Barbatos “the gateway to Celestia” and what not. And Khanreia! In the chasm AND in the Caribert quest, Barbatos and Mondstadt keep getting named dropped. According to Dainself, the city in the chasm is supposedly OLDER than Khanreia and possibly the Seven, yet BARBATOS of all beings is mentioned in the records you find??? And in Caribert, it’s a Mondstadtian woman who that one bloke had a child with. Never mind that Mondstadt is where Kaeya and Albedo - the two characters with confirmed Khanreian origins- end up! There’s also the fact that Khanreia seems to base its gods and names and whatever around Norse mythology….which has strong ties to GERMANIC HISTORY. WHICH MONDSTADT IS BASED OFF OF. And Enkanomiya, which was once ruled by Istaroth, is Greek origin. Suspicious considering all the connections to HERMES Venti keeps portraying. (And then there’s also a connection to all three places with the hexenzerkel with their Chinese names? Like I think I read somewhere that Alice is Aries(?)/Eris(?) and Nicole is actually Nike in the Chinese version? Which are very much based in Roman/Greek origins)

Oh and something I forgot to mention earlier with the whole Istharoth connection. Mondstadt’s saying “seeds of stories, brought by the wind, and cultivated through time”. SUSPICIOUS

Anyways, this has been my nonsensical Venti theory rant

And you’re stuck with me @worldsokayestmagicalgirl

#theory rant #seriously this is me typing whatever comes to mind #I have questions and Mihoyo needs to give me answers #this isn’t even everything #mutual lore rant kidnapping #Alyssa and I take turns with the conspiracy boards #genshin impact

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virgincels · 6 months

Text

ROTTEN LUCK !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. smut, kidnapping, leon is like mentally gone icl, references to past assault and trauma, non-con, manipulation, suicidal thoughts/reference to an attempt, general leon self destructive behaviour, physical abuse, power dynamics, throatfucking, choking, breath play, somno, 1 instance of drugging, unmentioned age gap, anal, he puts duct tape on your pussy ok just once promise it’s not bad, religious references, 1 mention of vomit and piss not in a sexual way, slight misogyny, panic attack

tumblr has started to remove fics that use tw non-con, tw incest and any nsfw tags in general. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags so i can have the same reach as other authors, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.

anyway, please ignore typos :3 rbs and feedback is very appreciated :3 my medical knowledge sucks, so keep in mind that all of this is off LMFAO crossposted to ao3 (user clitkiss)

two

Lucky. Leon hates that word. He wasn’t lucky to get out of Raccoon City, he was just barely capable, you have to be unlucky to get into that situation in the first place. You’re a lucky guy, Redfield had told him once, Chris not Claire. Claire isn’t daft. And Leon wonders what is so lucky about him. He’s forty-six and all he’s got is his trusty Matilda, his mother’s old Bible, and a failing liver. His luck is preordained by God and it’s a total sham.

Leon Kennedy’s the one who showed up to drill sessions smelling like sweat and cock. Kennedy’s the one that rolls over onto his front and takes it like a good doggy. Kennedy’s green behind the ears, pretty in the face, and that don’t fare well in a boot camp full of men twice his size. Kennedy’s the one brushing shoulders with the President, got the USA’s most prized dick in his mouth and everyone knows that he wouldn’t dare bite down. Golden boy Leon fucking Scott Kennedy would just go ahead and use his tongue to clean up Graham’s ballsack. And you’re calling that lucky? Bullshit.

The DSO’s modus operandi is strikingly similar to that of the BSAA. He is but a cog in a well oiled machine. There’s one difference, not a dog tag to his name. If he dies, then he’ll die nameless, and he’ll be cremated by something nuclear, and it’ll all be for nothing. Ain’t that just the luckiest thing you’ve ever heard?

He has tried to kill himself once or twice or thrice. He lost count after the fifth. The gun jammed once, a bad joke. Left Matilda rendered useless. Was meant to be him, not her. And if Leon’s being honest, every day is an avid attempt, as in the drinking and praying his liver gives out. Once he managed to get halfway there. Doesn’t remember a lot. Just blood. Lots of blood. Why couldn’t you be quiet about your grief, Leon? Claire’s expression had asked, how I am, how Chris is, how Jill is.

‘Cause he couldn’t. He had to go ahead and splatter his grief all over the linoleum floor. Maybe then someone would find him, and they’d mourn him, and they’d feel sorry for him ‘cause he’d pitied himself enough. Leon told her a joke, yapping away like one of those butterscotch lapdogs. Claire said that in South Korea you’re allowed to snip a dog's vocal cords to stop them from barking. Lucky I’m not in South Korea then. She handed him an orange prescription bottle with his name scrawled on it, and that was that. They didn’t speak for a few months.

Once upon a time Sherry needed him, now he needs her more. Needs her to laugh at his jokes, she’s the only one that does. And he needs her to tell him, I love you, Leon. She’s the only one that says that. No one puts up with him like Sherry does. She puts up with him in the way most women do their fathers. Love their dads unconditionally and nothing can ever fix that. Terrible illness that is. So, yeah, Leon Scott Kennedy is far from lucky. Lonely? Oh, for sure. God. He’s so lonely he feels sorry for himself. That’s one thing Leon has always been good at though. Lending himself a shoulder ‘cause no one else will.

His fingers brush yours in the record store. The hairs on the back of his neck stand. Jesus. Is it getting that bad? Leon’s been without a fuck for a few months and he’s already itching. That’s a new low. When Leon looks up to catch sight of who made his dick swell with their fingertips, he catches your eye briefly. A mousy little thing. Easily spooked it seems by the nervous smile you give him.

You’re on the phone, I don’t know what he likes anymore, dad, yeah—I’m trying to find it—Yes, I know who sang Sex and Candy, dad, Kurt Cobain right? Is that the one he likes? Dumbass. No, I’m not wrong, could you put mom on the phone—Hi mom, yes, I know he’s my brother, mom—Ever since he turned fifteen he stopped talking to me properly—I don’t know what she thinks, mom—

A mommy, daddy, a brother, a sister too he assumes. You’re what they call lucky. Nasty undertone you’re using with your parents. If Leon’s mom was still around he’d talk to her so sweet. She’d tell him to pray and Leon wouldn’t resist. Alright, Ma, Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus Tecum— then his voice would trail off, and he’d pretend to mouth the rest of the hymn ‘cause he remembers fuck all.

He wants to knock you around. Shake you till your brains scramble. Wants you to flinch even when he’s being nice. Leon’s nostrils flare when you raise your voice in the slightest, even if it’s playful, it’s plain rude. How dare you? He can’t even begin to fathom how incredibly lucky you are. The thought crosses Leon’s mind once, twice, thrice. Just how suicide did that day back in September. If you can kidnap the President’s daughter from her bustling college campus, throw her over your shoulder like salt, why can’t you kidnap Miss Nobody from a street corner in D.C?

Your figure is distinguished by a single, flickering street lamp. He sees your shadow. Recognises the silhouette by the shapely legs and how your belted coat flares out to create a dramatic hourglass, Leon’s got a good eye for detail. Oh, it’s kinda sexy watching you in the spotlight, like a makeshift cabaret show, go on babe, bust out the flapper dress, he knows his stuff, he read Gatsby back in high school. He listens out for the tap of your heeled boots, click-clack, click-clack, there you are, you don’t even know what’s about to happen, do you? And it really is that easy. Just like throwin’ salt over your shoulder.

Temazepam, loprazolam, lormetazepam, diazepam, nitrazepam. Some melatonin too. Magnesium’s supposed to help with insomnia. How’s he supposed to know what your body reacts to best? Leon’s not your fuckin’ GP. Chloroform does the trick for everyone. Should’ve invited you out for drinks and roofied you instead.

Leon had gone for an old-fashioned method, listen, he was desperate. He doesn’t usually resort to such bruteish tactics unlike the older Redfield, not that Chris would use a morsel of his strength to harm a lady, but it had to be done. Yes, he choked you out. No, he’s not proud of it. He’s actually pretty disappointed in his lack of preparation. Oh, cut yourself some slack, Kennedy, it’s your first time kidnapping someone, and it was a heat of the moment type thing. To Leon’s dismay, that doesn’t last long, duh, he should know better.

While you regain sluggish consciousness on his couch, Leon’s tearing through his kitchen cabinets for anything to settle you down. Ah. That’s right. Ketamine. Ain’t it horse tranquilliser? What’s that doing here? Honestly, he’s got to stop raiding the infirmary for all they’ve got. A high enough dosage will knock you out for sure. If it kills you, then so be it. Beer for guys, wine for the ladies, and Ketamine for random sluts he picks up on street corners.

You’re blinking to clear your hazy vision, feeling around your crushed windpipe to assess the damage, he leans over you like a nurse from hell. The needle breaks your skin easily, so tender, before you have the chance to kick up a fuss, your eyelids turn to lead and close like a toy babydoll’s do when you lean them back.

Fifteen to twenty minutes, google says. Leon gets down to business, strips you of your clothing, takes you to his room, throws you on the king-sized bed that’s warmed only by him. He kept your panties on. They’re light blue and sensible briefs. A buzzer rings out in his head, bzzzt, boring. A million bitches in D.C. and he picked out the most vanilla one. Just his Kennedy luck ain’t it.

One minute. Leon presses his nose to the fabric of your panties, sniffs like a pig does in its trough, isn’t that just the sweetest smell? Fresh cunt. He licks up the print of your pussy, tongue landing on the hardness of your clit.

Five minutes. With your panties soaked with Leon’s spit, he decides to move ‘em to the side, and he groans in delight when he parts your cushioned lips to find that you’re stickier than toffee pudding, drooly cunt reactive to the pads of his fingers, to the tip of his tongue. He pushes back the hood of your bud, gives it a kiss, then another.

Ten minutes. He’s opened you up, gaped you around three thick fingers, Jesus, you’re so tight. It’s like your cunt’s vacuum sealed. Leon’s fingers prod at the squishy opening of your cervix, his thumb circles your clit, presses down like a button and he’s rewarded with another gush of slick. Beer on tap.

You rouse from your forced slumber at fourteen minutes. Huh. He’ll have to up the dosage next time. “Hi there, sleepin’ beauty.” Leon says in a rather cloying voice, amping up the sweetness when in reality he is less than fond of you. The lucky girl. He strokes your head soothingly, hovers over you to keep you in place. The panic sets in almost immediately, flailing limbs, asinine attempts at sentences that crawl up your throat and spill over. Who are you, get off me, get off me, please. What did I do? I’m sorry, please, let me go, let me go, please, I’ll do anything. Albeit your words are slurred, Leon chooses not to hear you.

“Aintcha just the sweetest thing?” He cups your cheeks, gaze so gentle it’s disarming. “I opened you up, didn’t wanna break ya, just wanted you to wake up before we got it on, I’m a real gentleman, you see.” Before he rapes you, he makes sure to ask: you got a rubber by any chance, sweetheart? Oh, and you don’t like that, you really don’t. ‘Cause your face falls fast like a drop tower ride.

The chance to scream is lost on you when he shoves his fingers in your mouth, pushes them down your burning throat till you choke and drool in an unflattering manner. Your jaw is too lax to clamp down on him. Leon takes this opportunity to smear his leaky, fat tip over your folds, pushes past the barriers of resistance and slides into your pre-gaped cunt. Lucky bitch. Lucky fucking bitch. Getting yourself a piece of Leon S. Kennedy’s dick. He reserves that for only the finest ladies, aka any girl that has a nice set of tits and dark hair, greying roots are a new preference.

He’s fully sheathed inside of you, head rubbing painfully against your cervix. Bruising it from the look of discomfort on your face as you make stupid-sounding noises around his fingers. “Fuck, yeah, that hits the spot.” When’s the last time Leon had his way with a girl, wanton fucking, pulling hair, slapping— they all want it soft and sappy these days. And so did he up until a certain point. Up until he tried to kill himself maybe. Something must’ve flipped in his brain, now he’s overcome with the need to mess your pretty face up.

Leon’s forehead presses to your clammy one, your sweat is salty on his tongue when he kisses your cheek. Slightly sour scent, ugh, what’s he saying? Acting like he’s a fear-smelling B.O.W or some shit. Fuck off, Kennedy. His hips aim upwards when your body shifts due to the thrashing you’re doing, with each thrust he bottoms out with a wet squelch, rolls his hips into you at a force that knocks any chance of breath out of you.

“If you were a good girl,” Leon smiles, all teeth. They glint in the muddy darkness of his room, black-out curtains drawn so not even the moon gets to see what he’s doing to you, “then I’d be fuckin’ you real slow, real nice, rub that little clit till you came.” Your wrists are both cuffed within his grip, pinned over your head as he drives into you, as if his intention is to tear straight through you.

The heat in his gut uncoils, but he’s timed himself well enough, pulls out ‘cause god forbid he knocked you up. Knowing Leon’s luck he’d manage it. Then he puts his cock in your mouth, “I got some pliers out back.” He says in warning as he jerks the shaft and your lips hesitantly close around the tip when he gives you a mean look. Total lie by the way, no matter how abnormal Leon is he does not own a pair of tooth-pulling pliers. Shoots his load down your throat, you splutter and push at his abdomen to get him off.

He pulls out in his own time, lays beside you. All of his chakras are aligned. Apparently there’s seven, but Leon’s only got two. And they’re entirely dependent on whether he’s sucked and fucked till he’s thoroughly satisfied. By god he is. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, Et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. That’s the rest of it right. He remembers now. You might just be his saving grace, Lucky Girl. His very own Sancta Maria, Mater dei. Damn, you hear that, ma? Leon’s got it down to a T. Maybe some more pussy will get him singing out the rest of the prayer. He can get rid of that statuette on the mantle, swap it out with you.

He doesn't get a word out by the time you’re vomiting a vile mixture of acidic yellow and his seed down the front of your chest. Retching as you choke on the gift he’d given you.

Leon takes you to the bathroom, forces you into the shower cubicle as he sprays you down, not even waiting for the water to go warm. “Dry yourself off,” he gestures mildly to where there’s a few towels stored.

You don’t come back out of the bathroom for five minutes, then ten, then twenty. Don’t even answer when he knocks. Goddammit, Leon. Leave your kidnap victim alone in the room with all the razors, why don’t you? Fucking idiot. When he opens the door, you’re huddled in the corner by the toilet, dry heaving into the bowl and sitting in a puddle of your own piss. Stupid fucking baby. Is this what kids are like these days? When he was your age he made it out of Raccoon City alive, and no one made it out of there. No one lived to tell that story. And you’re here pissing your pants ‘cause he’s given you a nice, hard fucking? He pimp slaps you so hard your teeth clatter.

It takes two weeks for his Lucky Girl to be broken in. Not as long as he expected, so he’s pleased. And when Leon’s pleased, he’s nice. So today you get some screen time. You’re curled into his side, the way a baby bird does under its mother’s wing, squinting at his sixty-five inch TV, egregious really, who needs a screen that big? He’s flipping periodically through the channels whenever an ad break comes on. The 7.45PM news is on. He settles on that and you watch mindlessly, no objections.

The speech blurs like white noise to him, Leon’s not focused until your picture pops up on screen, and he just turns to you with this shit-eating grin. Graduation cap and robe on, all dolled up as you make eyes at him through the screen.

“Baby,” he grins wolfishly, ruffles your hair in a teasing manner, “you look so damn cute there!” Leon watches bright-eyed, suddenly enthralled, they list your name, your height, your weight, all stuff he actually didn’t know ‘bout you. Never bothered to ask. You don’t need a name, you’re just his Lucky Girl. “Don’t like the red lip on you,” he comments flippantly, “A red lip is for whores, don’t you think, baby?”

He was right. You got a daddy, a mommy, a brother and a sister. You’ve got it all. Lucky fucking Girl. A broken sob is torn from your throat, jagged and scratchy as you fling yourself halfway across the room, on your knees as you put your grubby fingers all over his shiny screen. Leon lets you. He finds it hilarious actually. Who’d you think you are? Carol Anne from Poltergeist? Like you’re gonna get sucked into the screen, crawling out the other end like Sadako, back into your daddy’s arms.

Our daughter—My girl, she had her whole life ahead of her—My sister wouldn’t do this—She was so excited to move on after graduation—She’s not the type to run away—My daughter—My sister—Our sister—

Your mother is a mess, barely able to get words out with the way she’s blubbering. “She’s layin’ it on a bit thick, don’t you think, babe?” Leon picks up his beer from the side table, slightly heated under the burn of the lamp. “You look like your daddy, cry pretty like your mama though.”

You stare at him horrified. Jaw hanging open as if it’s unhinged, not in the way a snake does when ready to swallow its prey whole. More in the way of a screaming corpse. When the rigor mortis has worn off, secondary flaccidity sets in, and the mandible drops open. Jeez, tough crowd tonight it seems. Don’t make him sew your mouth up, Lucky Girl. Leon wouldn’t dare, that mouth, that throat is precious to him.

CCTV footage plays on the screen, another sob racks your brittle frame, you didn’t know it was him that day, Leon realises. “Oh, baby, that’s where we met, ain’t that funny?” A blurry image of you on the phone, prattling away to your family like the Lucky Girl you are, he’s just out of shot.

We miss her—Please, if you know anything, if you find anything—Please—

“God, let me get my phone, darling, they look so upset I can’t stand it. I might have to call them up and turn myself in. Give ‘em an early Christmas gift, don’t you think?” If Leon went missing, who would look for him? Hunnigan with all her sharp edges, or Claire with her unwilling loyalty to him? Lucky Bitch. It’s making his temper flare, that’s enough TV time for today.

The screen fades out, goes black when he switches it off. “No, no, no,” you chant, “no, no, no, no, please, please—“

“I’m disappointed in you, baby.” Leon says honestly, sips his beer and laughs mirthlessly. “I thought you’d started to like me.”

You’re not listening, too busy fitting on the rug, grasping at the screen as if you can pluck your family out of it and reunite with them on his living room floor. Leon did think you were getting used to him though. Family’s family, blood is thicker than water. Cum is also thicker than water. And that’s what he’s pumped down your throat nightly in hopes of it clogging up your brain, so you think of nothing but him. Those dogs in South Korea, the ones Claire told him about, he’s got his own special method to take care of your vocal cords. No snipping, no surgery needed. Just the throat training method.

“C’mere, lucky girl.” He clicks his tongue as if he’s calling out for a dog. You lay unmoving, rocking back and forth, whispering to yourself like a crazy person. Bit creepy. Leon stands, he grabs you by the hair and drags you to sit at his feet near the couch. Simple and effective. Backhands you for good luck. He needs it. “Stop your cryin’ I’m getting sick of it.” Leon says, brows wrinkled as he lowers his sweats, brings your head down to rest on his thigh. Your tear-stained cheeks turn him on, the doleful eyes, runny nose. It’s hot. His sad little girl.

“Suck it.” Leon taps the tip against your pouty lips, swollen from his earlier kisses, coats them in his pearly pre, “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.” You open your mouth, take him like clockwork. He don’t like that attitude. So he pushes your head down on his cock, watches your throat bob, uncomfortably full. Leon pinches your nose, listens to how you panic so nice around a mouthful of dick, gagging in a way you never have before. Not a gag that indicates inexperience, but one that is full of sheer terror, nails leaving red marks on his thighs as you drag them down his skin. Ouch. He’s gotta trim those down.

“You get it now, babe?” Leon hums, he lets you off this time, “Do what I say and it’ll be fine, yeah?”

“Yes, yes, yes, Leon,” you nod furiously through gulps of air, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.” Fuck. Another one of your panic attacks. He’s not got the patience to deal with this. “I won’t—“ A wheeze, “ I won’t do it—“ A croak, “I won’t do it again.” You’ve learned to handle yourself. Rub your chest with your right hand, stare at the ceiling till you calm down. Leon’s dick is still rock hard. Ready to crack open a walnut.

“Good girl,” he nods, “then get on with it.”

There is nothing you’ve done in particular to set Leon off. He’s just had a bad day. Hunnigan’s senses are much too acute, she thought something was off with him. That put him on edge. So he’s like a ticking time bomb. Just waiting for you to make one wrong move. And you do. You say no to him, pleadingly so, shaking your head as you look at him with your fairytale fawn eyes. Meekly admit that you’re sore and achy and it hurts.

“That’s not your decision to make, sweetheart.” Leon informs you, he grabs a roll of duct tape from the kitchen, nicks at the edge with his teeth and tears a strip off. You bristle, completely still, a thousand thoughts running through that pea-sized brain of yours. “But I’ll be nice today, been waitin’ to fuck your ass anyway.” He puts the strip on your cunt, over your chubby lips to hold them together, it feels strange and icky. The last thing Leon wants to see is blood. He sees enough of that daily. So he’s generous when it comes to prep, busts out the cherry-flavoured lube today, squirts a decent amount on his fingers, cock, and your tighter hole.

You squirm, he watches the unreadable expression on your face carefully, the rise and fall of your chest. You’re nervous, but you’re wet, and that makes his chest swell in pride. Lucky Girl finally gets it. One finger slips past the ring of tight muscle, Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, there’s one last line he’s missing. It’ll come to him. Two fingers in, he scissors you open, spits on it just ‘cause it turns him on to see it run down your crack.

That’s enough, Leon thinks when he fits the third. He wants to make it hurt a little. Wants to feel like a big, strong man. He sits back on his knees, flips you over onto your front, he likes you this way. Just takes you in, how your tits hang low, brushing against the mattress when Leon presses a hand down on your back to keep you from arching. He takes his dick in hand and in he goes, easier than he thought. He wonders if you can cum just like this, with his dick pounding your ass.

He fucks like an animal, you gasp and yelp below him, unable to handle it as his hips smack against yours. The duct tape is starting to peel ‘cause your pussy is fucking soaked. That alone makes his balls tighten as he turns you back over to do damage control, and ‘cause he wants to see your face while he fucks. You look like you’re lovin’ it. Alright. So you’re an anal slut. Got it. He pushes back into your ass, groans when you clench around him, the duct tape peeling at the corners, he can’t handle it. Et in hora mortis nostrae. Leon’s mind blanks when he cums, fills your ass and his limp cock slips out. Shit. A-fucking-men. That’s right, he remembers. That’s how you end a prayer.

You don’t cum. He tears the duct tape off clean. You let out a loud ‘Ow, Leon!’ and frown at him. Beads of arousal stick to the piece of tape, your pussy is pulsing, walls fluttering around nothing. Leon kisses your swollen clit, rubs it steadily till you cream on his tongue, sweeter than molasses his Lucky Girl is.

“Leon?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I love you.” You tell him shyly, gaze at him with this dumb fucking smile on your dollface that makes his heart squeeze. God, he’s gotta keep you around, his lucky charm.

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