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peachesofteal · 22 hours

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Deckhand Simon Riley / female reader 18+ mdni, dubcon. Simon is very no good terrible and kind of mean. Predator/prey. Excessive alcohol consumption, manipulation. Spitting, size, praise, a little bit of breeding/daddy - kink.

Simon arrives to town on the last summer wind.

It’s cold for the shoulder of the season. Not the coldest he’s ever felt, but cold enough his scars become rigid, inflexible swaths of skin littered across his body pinching at every hinge.

He can already feel the burn. The stretch and strain of his upper back, his arms, his legs. Can already feel the weight of the pots, sharp metal slamming and crashing, teeming with things that look more like creatures than they do delicacies.

Hook. String. Pull. Block.

The people stare at him, wide, wind whipped eyes peeking out underneath knit wool hems, gagged and confused, whispers passed back and forth like children with a lolly.

Did you see him?

Look at the size of ‘im-

Is that Ernest’s new deckhand?

Fucking monster of a man, I tell you.

He keeps his head down. Eyes fixed to the floor, old instinct still churning in his blood, shoulders stiff and squared. Captains are all the same, whether on land or at sea. Says “yes sir” as Ernest sizes him up, asks about his previous two seasons, and then sends him away with a perfunctory nod and a departure date.

The Old Man leaves in two weeks. See you then.

King crab fishing is the closest he’s felt to having a foot in the grave since he was actually in one. Opponents in a firefight are known, predictable. Monsters of their own kind, but ones he knows intimately. Minds of a killer, the lot of them, a certain subset of consciousness nearly shared.

The ocean shares its mind with no one. Its secrets are its own, buried in the briny deep, never to be revealed.

And the Bering-

The Bering is its own horror. Savage and cruel to those who would tempt it, willing to swallow anything offered and pull it down into fathomless black water. Cold enough to kill a man in seconds. Violent enough to toss them all to sea.

He’s seen it happen. More than once. The environment is uncontrollable, unpredictable, lethal, and the work is arduous.

The company is tolerable at best. The season is short, yet taxing. Deckhands live dozens of years, in a few short months. They stare off into nothing, watching the horizon, long gone look in their eye.

Still, he sees familiar flickers in them, same firelight he’s seen in the many men he’s killed, or worked alongside of.

At the base of it, these types of men, his kind, are all the same.

Rabid and dangerous in packs.

The cove is nearly derelict. The town spills up into white and black spruce, houses nestled in the grove of tree trunks twice Simon’s size, all doors facing the warped and tilted wooden slats of a long-loved dock.

There isn’t much here, a small grocery, a liquor store, a petrol station and of course-

A pub.

Aptly named The Wharf, the bar is as old hat as they come, seedy and sticky, sunken into the soft earth. It’s everything he’s come to expect in a fishing town this far up north, where the season is variable, and the money is too. Dark wood from floor to ceiling, over polished oak horseshoe, neglected stools and booths. Everything creaks, and The Wharf is no exception. The pub, the dock, the trees. Wind whistles and bark groans, a rasp you can only find here, in these places where time is too slow, and the world forgets.

There are rooms above the bar, usually rented to his ilk, deckhands biding their time, greenhorns rattling with excitement. They all filter in weeks before the season opens, and when he checks into his, he’s not surprised when the woman at the desk tells him he’s got the last one.

There are only ten, after all.

The Wharf’s side door swings open in a gust of blistering wind, yet not a single person turns their head.

None except him, though he doesn’t need to look to know it’s you.

He can smell you. Can feel you, clear across the floor. Sea salt and lavender, it whirls in your wake wherever you go, and when he lingers on the sidewalk outside of your little workshop, he swears he’s standing in a cloud of it.

“If y’need jackets, bibs mended from last season, there’s a place on the corner, next to The Wharf. She’ll get ‘em done before season.”

You’re the bloody seamstress. The tailor. Nimble fingers twisting and tying, threading and looping inside a faded light blue storefront, working into the small hours of the night. Your workspace is small, and overflowing with bright orange polyurethane covered clothes, long lengths of neoprene, socks, shirts, wristers. A mass of work, it seems, one that keeps your light on after all others have gone dark.

Except The Wharf’s.

It’s the second time he’s seen you here.

He doesn’t count the times he’s seen you without you realizing it. Doesn’t count the times he’s finished a cigarette on the street at the perfect angle, a solid perch to peer right in through your window. He doesn’t count the times he’s watched you from The Wharf’s one dark window, when you step outside to take a long breath of air, stretching your back and shaking your arms out, rolling your head in a circle-

and baring your throat for the slaughter.

The first was days ago, close to zero hundred, when you swung in to settle on a barstool with your back to the door. You look like you’re made from spools of silk, even underneath all of your winter layers, big coat, knit wool hat. There’s a coruscated dapple in your eye, one that manages to shimmer even in the darkest shadows of the bar, voice saccharine as he’s ever heard, dipping into a melody as you go back and forth with the bartender.

He hears it now when he closes his eyes at night, awash in a sea of bourbon, cigarette stench sunken into his skin. A gentle rhythm, a syrupy voice, saying his name.

Screaming it.

You catch his gaze across the bar. Catch him watching you, peeling you, picking you apart, but you say nothing. Blink a few times, glance down at your beer, pretend to busy yourself with something else. It’s not a flinch, but close enough to it.

He knows what you see. What you should see.

A monster. Licking his lips at a girl. A fire breather bearing down on top of a princess.

If he crossed this room right now and yanked you off that barstool, who would interrupt? Intervene? They’re all men of the same vein, born from different battlefields. The rules of engagement become status quo, regardless of whether you’re baptized by the Bering, or by fire.

Rabid, dangerous in packs.

Eleven days left, and he’s finally found something worthwhile to occupy his time, besides lurking in the dingy corners of The Wharf like an old, decrepit sailor.

You.

You live above the shop, an old fire escape leads to a wooden door with a big window, one covered by a curtain hung from the inside.

The Wharf’s rooms have a fire escape too. A metal catwalk.

Metal. Who’s the idiot who decided metal anything would be good in a place like this? Iron nearly turned red, rusted to all hell. One shift, and it all falls down.

He takes his watch there, at night. A gargoyle at his post, waiting for the flicker of your kitchen and bedroom lights, shapes and shadows dancing behind the thin drapes, a ballerina on stage for the masses.

For him.

He brings you his gear. Looms over you at the desk where your sewing machine is grinding out an industrial stitch thicker than what he’s seen on parachutes.

“H-hi.” Hi. Aren’t you cute? A little lamb, alone in the woods.

He nods. Stays silent. Enjoys watching his catch twist herself up on his hook.

You glance at the noxious orange pieces draped over his arm, and half timidly reach.

“Need those patched? Er, like… have any tears or rips?” Not really. He keeps his gear in good condition. Throws out his underclothes after every season- can never get the stench of fish out of em, but his outer gear is well cared for.

It almost pained him to rip them apart last night.

“Simon.” He gives it expectantly, jogging your manners to the forefront. You have the good grace to look embarrassed with how fast you spit out your own name.

“Bibs have a few holes. Big ones. Jacket’s got a rip under the armpit.” You reach, tiny little fingers stretching across the barren space between him and you, and he lashes down the urge to snatch your wrist out of midair and bring it to his teeth.

Do you taste like lavender? Sea salt? Is your cunt briny like the Bering, slicked sweet and brackish?

“Okay, well, I should have them done before-“

“You better.” You startle, eyes wide and confused, before they find your feet, cowed little girl before an awful man. “Jus’ need em, is all.” He softens the approach, not willing to cut you down just yet (that comes later), and you respond well, perfectly, pushing your glasses up onto the bridge of your nose with a genuine smile.

Live bait on the line. Set, cast, hook.

“Got it.”

His control is becoming a house of cards.

You’re in The Wharf earlier tonight, asking Jimmy for a double, whiskey over ice and nearly to the brim of a rocks glass. Just one, you say. Neck is sore as hell.

He maintains a distance. More inclined to watch you devolve, fascinated by the way you unravel with each sip. Lightweight. Figures.

You pull your glasses off and rub your temples, hopping off the bar stool with a quick word over your shoulder, a request for another drink. “Just goin’ to the bathroom.” You explain, walking away with a hardly detectable sway in your step-

directly into the side of the wall the bar juts out from.

Someone, a woman who never so much as looks up the entire time she’s here, furrows her brow at where you’re rubbing your forehead and tsks.

“Your glasses!” You turn, embarrassed, downright mortified, and sheepishly slide your fingers across the bar until you find them.

“Oh, right. Thanks Laurie.” Laurie, says nothing. Not until you’ve turned away and almost disappeared into the bathroom. Then, she mutters to herself, into her fresh pint.

“Damn girl is blind as bat without those things.”

He buys Laurie another round before he leaves for the night. An eventual thanks.

"Can I bum one?"

His neck nearly snaps. Where did you come from? You're timid in the mouth of the alley, lichen washed red brick flanking you on either side, your hands folded together at your navel.

"Little girls allowed to smoke 'round here?" Now your neck snaps.

"I- I'm not a little girl, thank you." It's like you're trying to turn your nose up at him, but he's a giant above, and it's hopeless.

"Sure you're not." He plucks the cigarette from his lips, and then holds it out to you. Your breath hitches, top teeth digging deep, an instigation, invitation. His hand whips forward, too fast for you to realize, gripping your chin, pressing his thumb into the flesh of your bottom lip. "Want a drag or not?"

"S-sure." He's got your cheeks squeezed together, just so, enough that the fat of them crowds your mouth and makes the s sound more like a whistle.

He doesn't let go as he feeds it to you, stopping just before the filter touches your teeth. "Go ‘head then." You draw, deep, eyes closing as that first hit of nicotine rushes your blood, undoubtedly making you light headed, and his cock thickens with dreams of his fat head pushing between your lips instead of this cigarette, dreams of you split open on him with a soaked pussy, neck bared for his teeth.

Hook. String. Pull.

He squeezes himself overtop his jeans, heavy weight pulsing between his legs, a dangerous affliction growing larger and larger with each second. He could rock against his palm, right here in front of you, and it would feel worlds better than the last measly meal he had, months and months ago. Nothing will compare to you, he already knows.

You see it all. Frozen like a deer in headlights, your lips part, transfixed, confused. Will you run? Will you shout? Will you tell?

"I uh, I better... get going. Have a lot of work t-to finish." Good girl. He nods, letting go of his aching cock, slipping the cigarette back in his mouth, searching for even a hint of lavender and sea salt lingering in the filter.

"Goodnight."

Four days left, and his gear is finished.

You leave a message for him, letting him know he can pick up whenever is convenient. During shop hours. Cash or card accepted. What a dutiful business owner.

You’re in the back when he arrives. It’s long past close, but no one locks their doors here. Anyone could walk right in.

“Be right out!” You yell, slightly muffled. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t opt to give himself away, just waits at the front desk, where a mug of fresh coffee sits, still hot, still steaming.

Desperation for claim, for possession, claws up his throat to his tongue, thrashing in a fit until saliva pools in his cheeks. He sucks through his teeth, rolling the pockets behind his molars forward, pulling as much as he can, his soul even, up and out, landing it in a glob on the surface of your evening caffeine fix.

It sits there, tiny bubbles and all, an island in endless ocean, unable to break apart or disappear. Blatant. Obvious.

So, he sticks his finger in it and gives a quick swirl. For good measure.

There’s rustling in the back, and then you pop through the doors, glasses sliding to your nose. “Hi! So sor-“

You grind to a halt, spine curling forward, as if you’re trying to protect your precious organs from his fingers, avoiding his grip around your ribs, his urge to rip you open and devour you whole.

He smirks. “Got a message my gear is done? Nick o’ time.”

“Yeah, it’s… it’s done. I’ve got it, one sec.” You fidget, gun shy and shuddering, flitting away on the turn of a heel, eager to escape where he hulks in front of your desk, no doubt.

When you come back, you’re a bit more put together. Polished. Glasses in their rightful place, you place his bib and jacket on the counter unceremoniously, lips pressed together. He hands you a wad of cash, and you count it carefully, keeping your eyes pinned on the bills as he inspects the stitching, taking stock in your sharp attention to detail. “Like new, great work. Thank you.”

You go doe eyed, demure, flattered, and then confused, trying to reconcile this man, this version with the one from last night. “T-thank you.”

It all comes to a head, two days out.

There’s a party of sorts, a gathering. Entire boat of deckhands crammed into The Wharf, plus others, town residents and even some from the next over.

Too many, for Simon’s tastes.

Too many, except for one.

You’re crammed between the wall and someone’s shoulder, occasionally saying hello, accepting thanks for work well done. You keep your idle hands busy, accepting drink after drink, a shot of tequila, another of rum.

You’re even dressed up, cute as a button. Sweet as cream, honey on the hive.

Your hiccups ring out from across the room directly to his ears, chest shaking with each one. The bar is at max volume, shouting, cheering, chattering, but he can hear you crystal clear. Can hear the high pitch echo of each one, can hear your throat bobbing, the long exhale singing from your nose after trying to hold your breath. “I need some air,” you say to your neighbor, “be right back.”

He downs the last of his bourbon, subtle fire in his throat, and then makes for the back door.

Your arms are crossed, leaning against the brick with your head tipped back, eyes closed. Wearing a knit sweater, a skirt, and wool leggings, for fucks sake. “Dangerous place to be, a little girl all alone.” Your eyes snap wide, startled.

“Simon,” you don’t stutter his name, liquor easing your nerves, sweetening you up to a slaughter like the little lamb you are. Your ability to assess risk is long gone, and when you peek over at him, head rolling, the usual skittish haunt of your gaze is nowhere to be found.

“Out for a smoke?”

“No, just some fresh air.”

“Poor lamb. Drink too much?” You shrug, steadying your balance against the wall. Trying to appear more with it than he knows you are.

He stalks closer, closer than you should be comfortable with, but you only sigh, wilted as the grass withered by the impending winter.

He tests. Probes. Brushes a hand against yours, watches how you tip a little to the side, his side, eyes glassy between hard blinks. “You’re so sweet, little lamb.”

“Oh,” you make an o with your lips when you say it, like you’re suprised. “T-thank you.”

“Do you taste sweet, you think?” You jolt, but he handles your hip like he’s afraid you’ll fall, though you have a better grasp on your balance than you think you do. “Hmm?”

“I’m… I’m not sure.” It’s a race now, one you’re desperate to catch up in, but falling behind faster and faster.

Hook. String. Pull.

“Open your mouth.” You do, on instinct, and he hums with approval. “Good girl.” He sticks his thumb inside, depressing your tongue, shoving back and to the side, hard enough he stretches the corner of your lip, and then tugs.

Hooked.

You’re too drunk to process it, not really. Enflamed with a rollercoaster of shock, shame and disgust. But beneath it all, something else rises, breaks at the surface for air. Desire.

He doesn’t waste the moment, hands splayed at your ribcage, shoving you back against the wall, your shoulders slamming into it. He’s on you, rabid, wolf at the throat of a lamb, tongue forcing its way between your teeth without permission. You jerk, tense, muscles shifting like you might put your arms up, but instead they fall limply to your sides, and you moan.

String.

The length of his torso, chest and stomach press against you, hold you in place, allowing him free rein to wrap his fingers into the fine fabric of your wool stockings and rip. The shocked little gasp falls from you as expected, but you’re too far gone to fight. Prize on the line, he tugs them aside and strokes over your folds, already wet for him, dipping into your cunt, tight and fluttering around his invasion.

“Si- Simon- stop.” You push at him shoulders, trying and failing, squirming and whining. He shoves deeper, one nearly too much, two an impossible fit.

“Why would I stop when you’re so wet f’me little girl?” He presses the swell of his cock against you, your walls clenching at the contact, and he chuckles darkly. “Gonna say you don’t want this, sweet lamb? Gonna lie when this little pussy is dripping all over my hand?” You’re scandalized. Ripped from your comfort and thrown ashore, a fish out of water, gasping on land. He breathes into your neck, biting and sucking his way back up to your mouth where he distracts you for a brief moment, long enough to tip your balance to the side, a stutter step disrupting your focus, and delivers an opportune strike to snatch your glasses off your face so fast you flinch backwards in the confusion. He manages to cup your head just in time and cushion its bounce against the brick.

Pull.

“My glasses.” Your voice trembles, and he’s surprised to feel a twinge of guilt. Don’t worry little one. He’ll pull you apart, but he’ll put you back together. Eventually. “Simon… my- my glasses, do you see my glasses?”

“No, sorry. It’s too dark, sweet thing.” You tear up, horrified, and they spill down your cheeks, fat and wet, leaving tracks all the way to your neck.

He licks them with glee.

“I need to-“ he pays you no mind, returning to his work, his meal, shoving your knee to the side and lifting you up the wall, until the smear of you cunt weeps all over his jeans. “I need-“

“Know what you need, little girl.” He shreds your leggings wider, tearing a hole big enough to expose your thighs, your lower belly. Later, when he has you pinned to his bed, he’ll eat you until you can’t speak or see, but for now, bludgeoning the entirety of his cock into this too tight space will have to do.

You hiccup again. It’s too sweet, rots his soul. He wonders if you’ll be here, when he gets back. If you’ll run, or if you’ll wait. Maybe he’ll give you something to remember him by, knock you up, nice and fat by summer, heavy with a piece of him. Maybe.

He slides his zipper now, pulling the weight of his cock free, sliding the head through your slit as you look down. You can’t see, how big, how thick, how impossible it looks, head trying to push into you, your body unyielding, spasming as he batters his way inside. You claw at his shoulders, spitting out a half moan, a half sob, and he taps his forehead to yours. “It’s too m-much, too- hurts-“

“Don’t fight it. You’ve got plenty of room, be good.” He soothes with a lie, probably. You’re so tight he can feel you in his bones, restricting, bearing down. He pushes, heat and slick closing in around him, making him dizzy, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Fuck- that’s it. Feel that?” He drags your hand to the root of his cock, splaying your fingers around the base. “Feel yourself splittin’ open on me?” You moan some nonsense, some sort of garbage mixed with a yes, and a no. “Perfect little pussy, stretchin’ for me, yeah?” Only for me.

He fucks you so hard you’re shoving higher and higher up the wall, cunt choking him with each thrust, your fingers twisted in his sweatshirt, clinging on for dear life, a sailor in a storm. Lost in the fuzzy, blurry world without your glasses, he gives you a port in the dark, a lighthouse calling you home. He spreads you wide, rolling over your clit, pinching, thumbing, finding the rhythm that makes your buzz, hips starting to jerk, swallow him up.

Unbelievably, you tighten up even more, eyes slamming shut, and he holds you steady at your hips, driving deep, mouth on your ear. “Gonna be good and cum? Gonna show daddy how good you can be and cum all over his cock?” You gasp, and he drags you to it, pushes you over, rolls your shoulders back against the brick when you curl forward, pussy so tight it tries to force him out. You scream with it, but he covers your mouth, palm to your tongue, elbow at your collarbone. He’s relentless now, shoving himself until there isn’t a space inside you not filled with him, as fast as possible, body like a ragdoll. When he’s on the edge, teetering so close, he pinches your cheeks. “Open up, little lamb.” Your brow furrows, but partially blind, you’re more trusting, and you do as you’re asked. His hips piston, a rough saw, chasing, sprinting towards the end, heat climbing down his spine and across every muscle until he’s shoved so deep inside you he thinks he’s in your belly, and rears back, sucking a glob of spit to his lips and launching it into your mouth, just as he floods your pussy with cum. He jerks inside you, slow strokes, and you hang limply against him, fucked out, still drunk, docile as a lamb.

You hiss when he pulls free and lurch forward against his chest, not able to stand on your own. “C’mon, let’s get you a bath.” He murmurs into your hair, and you protest weakly.

“My glasses.”

“I’ll find ‘em.” He vows, patting their safe spot in his front pocket. “Don’t worry.”

#peaches writes #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #writing about the ocean and ocean adjacent things really does it for me #and I wrote half of it on my phone so mind the mistakes thanks #simon spits in your drinks agenda #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #unedited

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shotmrmiller · 1 month

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soulmate au part 2

john price x f!reader (was feeling mad angsty yall, sorry)

You'd locked your tender heart in a cold, iron box. Sealed it shut, hoping, praying, that if you'd buried it deep enough, the ache would fade. The small key had lain heavy in your palm— disproportionate to its size— with words best left unspoken, with feelings that'll never be returned. Tossed it right into the sea with a shuddering breath that tasted of salt.

Of tears. Of mourning, of grief, loss.

(You told yourself you wouldn't cry yet here you are, eyes prickling, vision blurring. Hold it together, girl.)

And it'd gone well enough for a while. Avoiding him— the act of self-preservation— almost became second nature. You made your exit anytime he walked in, a quiet victory each time you successfully escaped the danger of his presence.

(Be still, your battered heart.)

But it'd only been a matter of time before you were forced into a situation where evasion was no longer a choice. Something that would threaten to shake loose the fragile composure of indifference you'd so carefully pieced together.

Your sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as you ran toward the LZ— the world around you losing its sharpness, smudging into a flurry of colors and fluorescent lights. Errant strands of hair whip across your face, sticking to your lips. Your breath comes in short, ragged, desperate bursts; lungs working overtime. The barking of orders from one of the other medics gives way to the roar of helicopter blades, a deafening sound that drowns out everything else.

Once the helo touches down, its doors slide open and the stark reality of war spills onto the ground. Your heart beats frantically against your ribcage once you drink in the macabre sight. Crimson stains their tattered uniform, their dirt-streaked skin, even the dull grey of the metal beast.

And they're dragging someone out, it's—

John.

His body is limp, the fight now left with the boys as they move him towards the medical team on standby, toward you. The kaleidoscope of colors that paint the world around you flicker, for a fleeting moment— a mere fraction of a second— like the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

Instinct takes over.

Time seems to stand still as you sprint to the ones carrying your soulmate and grab onto his vest— trembling fingers curling around the straps of it, pulling him urgently onto the ground with strength born out of desperation.

The gravel beneath him is hard, unforgiving. It digs into your unblemished knees painfully, a sharp pain that tethers you to reality. Grounding.

Focus.

You fumble around for a pulse, the sound of fabric tearing as you remove his scarf barely registering. Weakening by the second. Your focus is on the rise and fall of his chest, pointedly ignoring the blood bubbling on his lips, staining his mutton beard a vibrant red.

Clever fingers make quick work of the buckles on his vest and the velcro straps. You guide his head through the collar of it, every movement measured, and before it even hits the ground above him, the world drains of color. You look down at your shaky blood-slick hand— monochrome.

His lips, colorless. His hair, the color of rich earth, grey. Everything comes to a standstill. Your mind, once racing with urgency, settles into an empty silence. The type that robs you of your breath. It stretches for too long, a chasm that swallows your thoughts.

Until a violent nudge to your shoulder (ironically) pushes you past the paralysis of shock, and with both palms placed on his chest, you begin to fight for his life.

Your muscles burn with exertion, your forehead is beaded with sweat. Time seems to stretch thin, every second feeling like an eternity. You can feel panic start to bubble under your skin, fear furling like smoke around the edges of your consciousness, beginning to cloud your resolve.

"Take over, take over. I can't— I need—" you choke out, the words choppy due to the compressions. You need to breathe. You need to gather yourself. Immediately, another set of hands replace yours, continuing CPR, and you're jerking away from John, feeling hot tears roll down your cheeks.

You find yourself somewhere, still close enough to hear your colleagues, but far away enough to no longer smell the metallic tang of blood— although you can still taste it, like a penny on your tongue.

But there's no escaping the shades of grey, the somber world you're in. Not the tremors whispering through your anxious hands nor the vulnerability settling over your frayed nerves like a broken tooth, sharp and intrusive.

"I take it you're his other half," a rumbling voice says from behind you.

That in itself is a joke, you'd chuckle if you could. "No, that'd be his wife."

Heavy footsteps get closer and closer until the mountain of a man callsigned Ghost comes to stand in front of you whose stature demands a craned neck to meet his gaze. You pride yourself in not scuttling away from him, instead standing still. He makes you feel small— not just in size.

"You his soulmate?" Twisting the dagger in your chest, your heart.

"No. But he's mine." You look up at him then, only to see the same, colorless world mirrored back at you. He's got sunken eyes, like a corpse. Like the one whom you poured all of your strength into— both mental and physical.

There's no need to ask the imbecilic question of how he knew, knows. You practically shouted it from the rooftops with your panicked actions.

Mistake, so foolish of a mistake. Stupid, fucking girl. You'll get those pity stares, the grim looks. Treat you like some broken thing, a broken mirror barely pieced together, cracks still visible.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

"He'll come back. Stubborn, old man always does." His voice is rough as gravel as he attempts to give you some sliver of hope. Ghost gives you a small nod and an unprompted pat on your stiff shoulders and his mask bleeds white. The thin stripes on his UK patch a ruby red.

He must've noticed something change because he let out a deep, steadying breath and murmured, "Told ya. Even death doesn't want him."

No, but your treacherous heart does.

Tragic thing, that. Now to call his wife and tell her the bittersweet news.

#call of duty #cod mw2 #john price #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #soulmate au #captain john price #john price x f reader

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kneelingshadowsalome · 9 months

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FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Word count: 5.3 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Lol what now? König dual wields 2 swords, goes Mike Tyson on his enemies, teaches his captive girl constellations in German, cuddles her and feeds her grapes, buuut mainly just tries to get into her pants (which historically did not exist at the time) A bit of a slow burn, but don't worry, they'll bang eventually ^^

AD 90, somewhere in the untamed frontiers of the Roman Empire…

The end of the world is here.

Not only have the crops failed for two years in a row, making chieftains beggars and beggars food for the fish, but now there are rumours that the god of war has arrived to destroy the land. The accursed Romans had turned their eagle gaze back to your land after years of sending their troops elsewhere, making it seem like they were not interested in your distant land after all. Untamed, they called it, harsh and barren and therefore inferior – your lush, abundant, beautiful land. No doubt they spat on it in their war councils because your roads were not paved, because your crops and villages were modest, and the women sometimes fought alongside men. Their storytellers immortalized false tales about you, calling you barbarians, but the only barbarians you could think of were the Romans themselves – crude, filthy and boorish creatures, drowning in wine and shit in their cities.

Rumours started to get fat and distressed when the troops approached your village. They said there was a giant at the head of the army, that the Romans followed a Titan's son who loved to eat men, torture women and impale children. They said he didn't accept proper food but preferred to eat his fallen enemies, washed his weapons with the blood of children, and split captured women apart with his cock, as long and sharp as his sword. They told that the Titan ordered his soldiers to poison the wells and destroy the growing crops with salt and vinegar. The rumours said that his tent was bigger than any chieftain's house and that he still struggled to stand at full height inside it.

Even the land itself seemed to bow before him. Good weather followed his conquest wherever he went; ambushes failed, scouts got caught and tortured, exposing more villages to pillage and ruin. Your brother told you to flee the village, but how could you survive without your clansmen? You didn't know how to hunt; you barely knew how to fish. Your task in the village was to gather clams from the shore, dye wool and help the old Seer. How long could you survive on sorrels and clams alone?

. . .

The old woman calls you to see her on the brink of war, and tells you to prepare for a ceremonial offering. Two horses, black as night if possible, brown at the very least, to appease the Great Mother of the Earth and quench her thirst for blood. If the Mother is satisfied with your offering, She will perhaps stop the approaching army or convince the Titan to leave your village alone.

She does a small rite before you, and you need to stay with her through her visions. You hate the smell of the leaves she burns, and try to cover your nose with your tunic to prevent breathing in the bitter fumes. The seer looks like she’s just lying herself down to sleep, but it’s always a burden when the spirits arrive and she starts to talk. You turn your back on her to coax them to rise: a mortal stare annoys the chthonic ones. You nearly fall asleep too as you wait, wanting nothing more than to go back to your own hut and have a good night’s sleep. Perhaps because you’re lousy tonight, and less vigilant as you should be, the spirits arrive sooner than either of you thought.

“He’s strong,” the seer croaks from the earthen bed, and you fight the urge to turn around and peek at the old woman, currently in the clutches of spirits.

“Invincible… Hungry... The horses…won’t suffice…”

She drifts someplace else, and you try to memorize every word, every intonation, as cryptic or as simple as they are, for later interpretation.

“I see you,” she says in a slightly more cheerful tone, which is odd because the old woman is never happy or satisfied, no matter how bright the sun shines or how much food there is in the storages and pits.

“Me?” You dare to speak even though you’re not allowed to disturb the spirits. You could slap yourself for blurting out a single word, but luckily, the hungry ones don’t attack you for your insolence.

“You.. will be his downfall,” she speaks as if you are having a conversation here. “Be there. When he arrives.”

“...Be there? Why?” You dare to utter again, more concerned about what the Mother implies than the potential fury of some lowly earthen spirits. You haven’t got the faintest clue about what She might be suggesting. Why do you have to participate in the battle? How can you be there without getting killed? You’re not a warrior… The Mother has it all wrong.

Suddenly, you curse the night, you curse the whole day, knowing your brother’s late proposal was perhaps a warning, a hint from the gods to leave, and leave quickly.

The old woman laughs dryly on the ground - the throaty, outright sick cackle makes you flinch.

You don’t like this... You don’t like this at all.

“Mother. What must I do?” You demand to know, thinking about how all the gods, spirits, old women, and Titans should go to hell.

“Become a tree,” the old woman offers as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “A flower. Me...”

. . .

You become a marten first, then a bird. Then perhaps a tree.

You climb a spruce and wait there. You wait until the sunrise; you wait until noon. You wait until you see the glint of the Roman spearheads and hear the sound of their march.

You’ve dreamed of the Titan ever since you left the seer’s hut. You’ve dreamed of him slaying everyone in the village; you’ve dreamed of him driving a thick spear into the ground and grabbing you with an intent to raise you into the air and impale you on it. You’ve dreamed of him behind you, above you, inside you. You wake up one morning only to see that half of the people have left. You don’t know where they have gone, and you can’t follow them even if you did because the old woman waits for you in front of her hut and gives you a nod the instant you walk into another beautiful, sunny day.

That’s why you’ve turned into a branch in a tree, but for what purpose, you have no idea. You can’t understand why you must be here to witness the world’s end.

Your men scream and shout and roar as they crash into the thick forest of spears. The enemy is silent: it’s eerie, how the world burns and falls into ruin around you, people are screaming; everyone who has a soul and a heart is screaming for Mother as they die, but the men behind the Roman shields refuse to emit a sound. They don’t curse or shout or summon their gods; they simply stand their ground and pant mist into the air as wave after wave of men break on their shields and die before their feet. Somebody loses his spear because it gets stuck between your clansman’s ribs, but the Roman simply draws his sword in its stead: it’s the only sound among the pitched wails that cut through the forest – the cold, clear ring of a gladius being pulled from its sheath.

That is why you flinch at the sound of the first shout, a brutish command that sends all the shields to the side, only to present more shields: the Romans switch positions in their formation as if they’re not even human beings like the rest of you, just a single enormous creature made of iron and leather and bone, operating it's flat forest of weapons.

And then you see him: the giant of your dreams, the hungry titan everyone has told you about. He rises from the tide of helmets like a summoned god, concealed as one of the soldiers and only now revealing his true nature. He stands at least two heads taller than the rest, pushes his own soldiers to the side and breaks out of the formation these vicious Romans love so much. You knew he would be strong and big, but you didn't know he refused to show his face… You wonder what kind of a monster hides behind the black cloth with nothing but two eye holes ripped on it. As if this man needed the additional effort to stand out from other soldiers...

He's like a God of War, just like the survivors said: his armour is of Roman design, but the amount of metal that had to be scraped together to cover this man's shoulders and chest must've demanded a fortune in gold. He doesn't seem to care about the Roman ways, however: he throws his shield away as soon as he's out of the cumbersome formation as if he has carried it only as a decoration up until this point. He draws another sword in its stead – if any other man did such a stupid thing, traded his shield for a weapon, you would snort. But not now.

Standing between the Romans and your clansmen like a challenge, a threat, a deity, even the men possessed by the seer's blood spells hesitate to approach him. But when they do, the god unleashes carnage: the first warrior gets his stomach slashed open, and the two thick swords look like toothpicks when wielded by this man. A stomach wound is a gruesome, slow way to die - but just before the warrior's entrails spill to dangle between his feet, the brute grants him mercy by sweeping his head off with a single blow of his gladius.

A roar finally rises from your enemy: they cheer Death on as the head of your neighbour meets the mud next. The soil is already soaked in blood, but the Mother is hungry still. The forest booms with Her bloodlust as the god moves around like a slow tempest of muscle, metal and darkness: he breaks every Roman rule by fighting as his own man instead of demeaning himself as one of them, a lowly part of this odd metal beast before you. He sends a limb flying in the air with a swing of a sword; he uses the same weapon as a bludgeon to bash in someone's skull. He crushes a man's chest simply by sinking down onto one knee, breaking bone, tendon and flesh to splinters as a whole ribcage gets crushed under his massive weight.

Warriors flee before him, they fall under the combined wrath of the Mother and the Titan's sword. The dead seem to fall eternally, along with your heart, before meeting the ground with a hollow thud.

Your chieftain is among the last men standing, meeting this unstoppable foe with admirable courage. Not having succumbed to the spells of bloodlust in years, he meets his death as a seasoned but old warrior. With his fighting years behind him, your chief doesn't have a chance against this man, but you have to grant the beast a feather's worth of honour, because he recognizes your chieftain as the veteran he is and salutes him with his sword. Then he proceeds with the bloodbath: flinging your leader's sword and axe easily to the side, he walks straight into his arms like he would into a hug, grabs him by the waist, and raises him into the air like he's nothing but a child.

Your scream never leaves your lungs as you watch how the Titan raises the draping cloth from his face, just enough to sink his teeth into your beloved chieftain’s neck. The noise that erupts from your elder is not that of a man but a tortured animal. It’s not from this world, what you witness next: the giant tears a hunk of flesh from your chief like he’s a piece of roasted meat. Blood streams forth, his screams fade away all too slowly, and you hear your own weak wail in the air as the Titan lets go of the heap that used to be a strong male and a wise leader.

Your chieftain is dead; his essence spills to the earth in spurts to appease the God of War, who spits blood and flesh to the ground, making you gag into the cold spring air.

Then he raises his swords towards the sun, and the forest erupts into a roar with him: the thundering, ear-splitting cheer from his warriors makes the very earth quake beneath your tree. It seems to shake the branches of the forest, and before you know it, the giant’s howl of triumph breaks the one you’re curled around, and you fall, fall, fall into the mud beneath you.

You're not a tree anymore. No: you’re very much a human woman there in the dirt as the sound of shouting ceases like a distant dream.

And he turns.

Death turns.

Mother always said you were a curious creature, which is perhaps why you search for his eyes, even though you should be running. She also said you were a smart one, which is why you know that running is futile. Your limbs wouldn’t carry you far anyway. It is a cruel joke from the gods to have what little strength you have left pour out of you into the ground and up to the feet of the enemy who is already strong, both in body and in will.

The Titan looks at you with genuine wonder, a curiosity that surpasses your own. To your odd thrill, you find that his eyes are blue: the same blue of the sea which you used to collect delicious clams from.

The soldiers behind him shift with lust – their gear clinks as they devour you with unbridled hunger. The Titan is the only one who looks at you like you’re simply a cute little squirrel who happened to fall from a tree right there at his feet. Then his eyes drop to your breasts, and the familiar hunger that lives in men gives the ocean of his eyes a clouded look. When his stare finds yours again, he's a different man: the treacherous beast of your dreams.

You had hoped for a swift death… Violent but quick. But it’s clear that it’s not death he has in store for you as he takes a step towards you. It’s not a quick nor a slow death; it’s not death at all, because–

No.

You’d rather have your arms torn off and fed to the Romans rather than have him thrust the sword between his legs, his third weapon, inside you. If you’re going to die screaming, it will not happen on your back; you will not amuse this beast with your womanhood and tears.

You scramble forward to pick up something, anything: a bronze dirk from a fallen warrior. The giant’s eyes fall on the sad excuse of a weapon, then on the sorry excuse of you. He thinks you’re planning to fight him with that thing, and the corners of his eyes crease a little from the prospect of having to subdue you. You’re proving to be quite the entertainment, and you curse those eyes, looking so kind and lively when just moments ago, the same eyes were inhuman and possessed. His are the eyes of a wayfarer, a wanderer, not a soldier: you catch a hint of sadness in them and curse again.

He’s not human, you remind yourself and show him what actual humans are made of. What women are made of. You give him another name, Giant, because you’ve always feared giants and hated the stories about them. Dumb and reckless creatures they are, stupid destroyers who always place their trust in their size. You never meant to fight him, and he only catches up on it as you turn the dagger towards yourself and guide it to point straight at your heart.

You will be his downfall, just like the seer said.

“Nein–Warte,” the Giant speaks his first words, surprisingly soft to belong to a man like him.

The sorrow in his stare consumes you in full now. It gushes forth like a tide, causing your breath and hands to shake when they need to be stern. You straighten your spine, jut your chin forward, and call for Mother: you don’t even know if you’re yelling for your bearer, or the Great Mother, or the earth that gives life to all. Perhaps you call them all to gather around and witness your sacrifice, higher in price than any of the Titan’s offerings combined. The blood you’re about to spill onto the soil will surely appease the land and raise it to arms to finally fight against this beast.

He says something else just before you pull the blade back to strike it into your chest, and you curse for the third time in your mind: giants aren’t supposed to move that fast; they aren’t supposed to interfere in your last ritual.

But the worst of it is that even when he finally subdues you, even as he wrestles the blade away from you, he ends up drawing a large gash on his forearm… As if he is trying his best to protect you from accidentally cutting yourself.

. . .

You are brought to his tent, screaming.

It’s not as big as a chieftain’s house; it’s barely the size of yours. But it is larger than the tents you saw when you got carried there: as a spitting, screeching, hissing package of what these brutes would no doubt consider a true barbarian woman with uncivilized manners and a fuckable cunt. They will talk about you around their campfires tonight: about you getting broken in by their true commander. It’s enough to satisfy them for now: to imagine their champion to fuck you bloody and sore. And who knows: perhaps they’ll receive the scraps if the Titan gets tired of you.

The precious dagger is somewhere in the mud, probably trampled there like it’s nothing but a piece of worthless metal. Your own trampling is only about to begin as the Giant marches into his abode and sends the men away, giving you uneasy looks in the process, perhaps checking if any of them had enough time to have a go at you. Luckily for him, you’re in the same condition as he left you: legs together, safe and pretty, because he bound them with a rope along with your hands. You are nothing but a delivery, thrown on the floor of dirt and a few animal skins. He just nods at you, happy to acknowledge that you are untouched by the others, as if it would somehow be worse for you to be raped by ten of those petite men than be raped by him: a cruel, bloodthirsty Giant with a giant cock.

Your ankles and wrists get sore as you watch him doff his armour. He takes off the helmet, the belted straps, the segmented plates of his shoulder guards and the heavy Roman cuirass. The gods have truly favoured this man, not only gifting him tremendous height but insurmountable strength too. His muscles are large and lean and quiver with latent power as he moves; his back is so broad it almost competes with the wide mouth of the tent. He doesn’t seem to suffer from the cold either, but he keeps his mask on for whatever ghastly reason. Even if there is a monster under that mask, his body speaks of virility: he’s a man in his prime, a giant at his strongest, making you feel like an elf, a tiny little creature in the feet of this man who must be descended from titans indeed.

You continue to watch as he washes his hands in a small basin, cleans his mouth and neck, too. You reckon the water in that bowl is blood red and dark when he finally dries himself with a white cloth. He stands before you in nothing but his mask and the dark red tunic he had under the armour. He ties it from the waist with a simple leather belt, and it only now makes sense to you why Roman soldiers dye their clothes red: you’re pretty sure you can still see the darker spots on the hem of that tunic, the ones that used to be the lifeblood of your clansmen and kin.

He has the audacity to ask you - wordlessly - to clean his wound, the one you caused him. He sets you free from your bounds, and you are given fresh water and another cloth. He even opens a smallish wooden box of salve that has a familiar smell to it: pine tar and honey, used by your people to treat minor wounds and prevent bad spirits from getting into the wound. You wonder how he even knows about such a balm: is this warrior a Roman at all, or is he some odd creature hauled from the edges of the world to fight for them? You wonder if he has made the salve himself, extracted the tar from the pine and foraged the wax and honey himself, then cursed with his coarse language when he got stung by multiple bees…

You drive away the thoughts that threaten to make this brute human by snorting at his injury. The damage he gave to himself when he tried to guide the blade away from you at the price of his own blood.

It still troubles you that he did it. Even a tiny wound like this can bring any man down if it starts to fester. The cold winds and rains of spring can easily get into the gash and make it rot.

The idea of this giant being forced to his knees because of some filthy dagger wielded by a squirrel of a woman makes you smile inside. It would be a fitting fate for this man. But the vision also makes your heart sting. The thought of him dying of a simple flesh wound, alone and far away from his home, makes your heart grow kinder than it should.

You decide there is nothing you can do but treat his arm, strong and scarred from previous battles. He sits down while you get to stay on the ground, and you try to ignore it that your face is now level with his groin. He sits with a wide spread in those powerful thighs, and you wonder if it's because the rumours about his cock are true. You keep your eyes everywhere else except the hem of that tunic and what's going on under there. He purrs at your touch, making it clear that it doesn't need much more than your soft fingertips to get him hard after a triumphant day on the field of battle.

The wound is not deep, but you clean it carefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes seem to bore into you as you take care of him. Your hand is somewhat steady as you treat the damage with the nice-smelling salve, but you flinch as his hand suddenly meets your cheek. You look up at him, heart plummeting, thighs instinctively pressing together from the gentle way with which he cups your face.

“Schön,” he says, again with a tender voice and an adoring, almost worshipful stare. You don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but you know now for sure that it's not the tongue of the Romans he speaks. The scent of pines and bees lingers between you as he brushes a thumb over your lower lip. You are weak enough to give him a breath, a helpless, hot little exhale that meets his hand like a gift.

“Schön wie eine Fee,” he rumbles, sounding intoxicated or like he's under a spell of sleep.

“What the hell are you saying,” you whisper in your own tongue: just a meek little sputter, a tiny, horrified breath, but the giant’s eyes narrow with a smile.

“Sie redet,” he says happily, and your shoulders sink – you are on the verge of screaming from frustration alone. Whatever you do seems to only amuse this man, and you snap your mouth shut. Your cheeks heat up with recurring waves of odd fever. The ground beneath your shins is all but warm, and yet you feel warm all over: a dangerous sign, you know, and oddly tied to the peculiar bodings you have seen all week.

Because there have been many omens in the air lately.

It’s just that none of them were portents of war.

The cranes started to mate early this year, and you have found a lot of clams from the shore every day. Even your brother encountered a boar with nine piglets; everyone celebrated him as some holy man who had seen the Great Mother when he returned to the village that day. The wind started to blow from south soon after, and the moon has grown along with your womb: this morning, on the brink of war, you woke up wet and restless.

All the omens speak of fertility, of growth, of a new cycle and of birth: of spring and life. There’s nothing about death and decay, nothing except what the people have told you about… him. The death himself. The war god.

“König,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts and wishes to correct them. You look up and see he’s pointing to himself, or rather, holding his hand over his heart. You fight the urge to scoff at the gesture. As if this beast had a heart…

“König,” he repeats the word and pats his chest, and you realize he’s trying to tell you his name. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, and he smiles. It’s easy to tell when he does, even with the cloth that covers his face: you can see the joy clearly from his eyes, the boyish grin that must be occurring under that mask.

“Du?” He points at you next, inquisitive. He has an odd way of pointing: with two fingers, slightly crooked, and you understand very well what he’s asking of you. You refuse to tell him your name, however, settling for pouting a lip at him next. The smile in his eyes only deepens.

“Fee,” he pokes you gently on the shoulder and leans back in his odd Roman chair, seemingly content with having now named you.

And Mother was right: you are curious, so incredibly curious to know what this beast has chosen to call you and why. Are you a rat to him…? Some bird? Perhaps simply a girl?

He is so pleased with your conversation that he pours himself some wine and drinks the whole cup with one gulp. Great, you sigh inside your head, a beast and a drunkard. He pours another cup and tries to offer it to you, and when you don’t make a move to grab the clay mug, he brings it to your lips. You entertain him with a tiny sip: you’ve heard of wine and know that Romans are fond of it, but you have never tasted it yourself.

The tart, bitter flavour almost makes you cough. You thought wine was supposed to be sweet: everyone always describes it as something like milk or honey or juice from an overripe apple. It very much is not, and you almost choke on it and then make a wry face at your captor. He - König - only laughs. It’s another thing that catches you off guard: first those boyish, sad eyes and now this hearty, grown man’s laugh. You have proved to be such an amusement to him that he doesn’t force you to drink any more wine and enjoys the rest of it himself.

Then he rises and makes you shrink from him again, towers above you for a moment, and looks at you with that warm curiosity that makes your heart race.

“Müde?”

He tilts his head, the bag of darkness shifts, the blue eyes behold you fondly, and for some reason, you whimper an answer to yet another question you can’t even understand. He takes your little squeak as a yes and falls to crouch before you, then raises a massive hand to the leather strings that keep your demure little dress up.

To your horror, he pulls the knotted tangle open before you can stop him. Your dress falls from your shoulders and drops to pool around you, and you simply and verily stop breathing.

His eyes wash over you, he examines every little part of exposed skin like an entire treasure chest has suddenly opened before him. You pray to all the gods that he would find it in his heart to be gentle tonight. Your nipples perk up – from the cold or from his stare, you don’t know.

The rough callous of his palm meets your breast and encloses it in warm support. He cups you, weighs you like he would a fruit, and then he squeezes you, rather hard, too: a deliberate attempt to make you squeal again. He replies to your pathetic mewl with an approving rumble, and you look up at him with all the helpless tenderness of the Mother, hoping that Her gentle pleas might persuade this man not to hurt you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, and his eyes dart to your mouth, to your eyes, then back to your lips again. He immediately softens his touch. Then he lifts you from inside your poor dress, picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to his broad bed, the sturdiest you have ever seen.

This man feels like the strangest of fates, like a hopeless destiny, as he sets you on the skins and straw mattress, right next to your fluttering heart. Your insides ache as he undresses before you, entirely without shame. He’s hard under the tunic he rips off and tosses on the cold ground. Your eyes are glued to the legendary cock you’ve heard so much about, the cock that splits women apart: and it’s true that it's huge. It resembles the ones you’ve seen on horses, not on men, and your thighs are glued together as he comes next to you while that pale, monstrous cock sways long and heavy between his thighs. He moves you around a little, and you squeal from how weak you feel: weak as a mouse as he covers you with one of those rich furs he has in plenty on the bed. Then crawls under it too, right next to you.

Your heart almost wrenches itself out of your chest as a strong arm pulls you against him: the swell of your ass meets his thighs, solid and broad like treetrunks, and your lower back meets the hot, almost too hot horse cock. It starts to leak and throb against your skin the instant your flesh is pressed against his. You try not to whimper and moan as the Giant, König, curls around you like you two have always done this.

He takes a long, earnest inhale from your neck and hair, rumbles deeply and contently, and tightens his grip. Apparently, you smell and feel good…

You wait and wait to be plundered and raped, but König only settles for holding you tightly, like you’re a children’s toy made of the softest straw and purest undyed wool. You relax slowly, and he purrs against your back, starts to fondle your breasts, ardently, until your body betrays you and you find yourself wet again; he squeezes and squishes your teats slowly, approvingly, then pinches your nipple once before finally falling into a heavy, deep sleep.

…

Please forgive your author for any historical inaccuracies and other silly things you find facepalmable <3 During this time König would've probably spoken some form of Old Saxon but since I'm not a TOLKIEN we have to settle for modern-day German here. I don't have a taglist for this fic so please check my pinned masterlist for future updates.

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

#könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x you #könig #könig cod #konig x reader #könig smut #könig fluff #historical au #Roman soldier!König #könig x female reader

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astrolovecosmos · 9 months

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❤️‍🔥Venus & Mars❤️‍🔥

Written from the perspective of Venus representing femininity and Mars masculinity. Please take this with a grain of salt.

Aries Venus: Warrior Queen, hellfire eyes, won't take no for an answer, upfront, hungry for action, red petals and lips, all eyes on her, can leave a burn or scar.

Aries Mars: Ardent eyes and lips, fiery protector, a good competitor, rescuer, conquering libido, always at 100, hot days and unforgettable nights.

Taurus Venus: Irresistible charm or look, low-key seductive, enduring and magnetic, slow burn, dream weddings or dates, romantic touch, comforting and content, careful with hearts.

Taurus Mars: Caring hands, hedonistic attitudes, down-to-earth until they're not, things are always on their time, level-headed or stable assertiveness, smells good, shares with those they love their soft spot.

Gemini Venus: Shapeshifting enchantress, leading you astray or into ecstasy or both, bright feathers and dazzling wings, sharp talons and a sharper tongue, curious creature, get lost in her eyes, movements, or storms.

Gemini Mars: Lightning-fast energy but airy to be around, wins you over with humor, takes pride in his intellect, upbeat and always around a crowd or working one, bewitches with ease and passion.

Cancer Venus: Mysterious and soft glows, gentle and kind, a protective force of nature, messy and engulfing feelings, hard to fall but when they do they fall hard, can be others safety, gets her way.

Cancer Mars: Silent and strong type or insightful and tenderhearted, deep and sensitive, trustworthy vibes, that moody artist or introverted mystery, a wall or door people are tempted to investigate, a powerful guardian, never gives up.

Leo Venus: Strength and beauty of a goddess, instant connections and passion, object of adoration or desire, demands your attention, worship and heart, romance in their veins, she is the sun - center of your universe.

Leo Mars: Draws you in with his performance, wins, or adventures, brave in the bedroom, will risk it all, life of the party, maybe vain or selfish but always on top, a king, lust and power, feverish and flirty, are you his muse, trophy, or queen?

Virgo Venus: The answer to all your prayers or questions, devoted blood, sensuous and erotic, always has it together, earthy vibes and quiet affection, thoughtful, but may bite, will you grow with her or will she outgrow you?

Virgo Mars: Innocent eyes with a mischievous or know-it-all smirk, reliable arms, secret vitality but not-so secret intellect and wit, observational, appreciative, discerning in preferences and partners, will work hard for you but what will you do for them?

Libra Venus: You can't miss her when she walks into a room, candlelight and wine, charm, beauty, and brains, falls easily, likely has a line of admirers, elegance and grace, now you know why lust and love are seen as ✨magic✨.

Libra Mars: Knows how to make you happy or calm, secretly a hunting hound, hard to resist, if you're with him you're BEAUTIFUL, affectionate and chivalrous, charismatic one minute and introverted the next, can you figure him out?

Scorpio Venus: THE seductress, passionate and dramatic temptation and lust, says forever and means it, rapacious lover, deep and hypnotic, a heart-stopping and mystic medusa, jealous and unforgiving but will give you everything.

Scorpio Mars: Eyes that look into your soul, the dark and edgy type, sex-appeal is their weapon along with mystery or secrecy, an intense enigma, sensitive yet powerfully assertive, an unstoppable force, may be obsessive or easily misunderstood but knows you more intimately than anyone else.

Sagittarius Venus: For true adventurers only, free spirit and a rebellious heart, more independent than you, the most fun you've ever had, a huntress, lucky in love, desire + lust + companionship, can you handle her honesty?

Sagittarius Mars: Always taking their shot, will explore and challenge you, a wild ride, infectious and attractive optimism, humor, or even clumsiness or awkwardness, chronically adaptable and energetic - can you keep up?

Capricorn Venus: Ice you want to melt, respect or admiration are the only options, reliable and grounded, always in control, you know when she's approaching, true faithfulness, hard to satisfy, she's the authority.

Capricorn Mars: Relentless and calculated pursuit, private and cool-headed, #relationshipgoals, provider vibes, an underrated smooth talker, powerful influence and drive, all about longevity...

Aquarius Venus: Magnetic sorceress, intellectual babe, sparkling and different, always keeping you on your toes, can do it all on her own but likes your company, unconventional relationships, falling in slow motion or fast-forwarding into love at high speed.

Aquarius Mars: Visionary wizard with enticing charisma, pushing boundaries, special aurora and bedroom moves, erratic and strong-willed, sees the best in you, channeling passion into each other's minds and bodies.

Pisces Venus: Sensational siren, dreamy and karmic, elusive moments, drowning in feeling, flip a coin for love or lust - throw it in the fountain for both, making your dreams and/or nightmares come true.

Pisces Mars: That hopeless romantic, sweet and sensitive, imaginative moves and touch, will give you their heart and soul, captivating and addicting, your fantasy lover.

#venus #mars #venus sign #mars sign #astrology #zodiac #aries #taurus #gemini #cancer #leo #virgo #libra #scorpio #sagittarius #capricorn #aquarius #pisces

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tarjapearce · 10 days

Text

Like Me (Pt. 3)

Art by Rendraws21 on X

WARNINGS: Emotional distress, Masturbation (M! receiving), a hint of angst, body injuries, no proofread, no use of Y/N, non graphic canon character's death, Character background.

Summary: As your bond with Miguel rises, your time runs short.

A/N: Thanks for the wait lovelies! Hope you like! <3. Reblogs and feedback much appreciated. Btw, Happy Pride Month! <3

"Mama!"

The young boy held on his mother's skirt as he watched the flames roar through the carcass of a sinking ship.

"Hold on tight, Miguel." Conchata mumbled as she tinkered with the escape boat's lever.

Both hers and Miguel's weight dropped the boat to the sea and Miguel fell, but quickly scrambled to his feet as Conchata held him close.

"We'll be fine okay?"

Conchata instructed to his seven year old boy to take a paddle and move it. Not long after, Tyler jumped to the water and hopped on the careening boat, gasping for air while he watched his expedition and boat, the labor of so many years, going to the depths of the raging and unknown sea.

Miguel watched with fear, as thunders roared, lighting up the sky, the waves crashed against the boat he was in, menacing to tip it away just enough for him to fall down into the cold and unforgiving waters.

Ash, burning metal and salt filled in his lungs as he was taken away from the wreckage. The land before them wasn't any prettier, but it was better than nothing.

Mexico and Alchemax could wait. After all, Tyler headed to his partner's homeland to start a new HQ in it's capital. He wasn't married, yet he already had a son.

A boy that looked more like his mother than anything, little like him and held onto her skirt, watching the destruction with all the fear his little heart could handle.

----

Miguel helped in whatever thing he could. Their makeshift home sure provided the shelter they needed from the weather's and jungle's ruthless laws, where only the strongest survived.

Tyler's brain and brawn had provided a solid structure in a giant tree. Conchata was in charge of the food and Miguel as well. But in truth it was only a decoy to keep him busy, and not thinking about the uncertainty that cornered his parents deeper into fate's cold arms.

The boy could only watch in curiosity as his mother's womb grew larger and larger by each day. And despite the constant arguments and yelling, Tyler made sure Miguel understood his place in the top chain. He always encouraged his boy to not fear his surroundings, to not cry if there wasn't any reason to do so and to be brave. The only streak of parenthood he showed.

But as a boy, Miguel couldn't understand much. It didn't make sense as to why Tyler insisted him in being strong, despite his young age. Miguel didn't know why Conchata cried at night, and repeated over and over, what would they do, and asked when the rescuers would come.

Cause they were sure the telegraph system worked perfectly before the ship sunk, and hoped with all their might the message had gone through.

But five months later, they still remained stuck, stranded and forsaken by society. Hopelessness begun nesting in everyone's hearts and soon, it paved the way for desperation and death.

Conchata had put Miguel in the sturdiest of wooden boxes and begged him to be quiet. A spotted beast had trespassed the security systems Tyler, had put around the uncovered entrances, meaning a bunch of stuff clattering and making noise to spook away anything that dared to enter.

They had kept the monkeys away, but how on earth were they supposed to withstand the natural predators without guns? Or anything that held an actual resistance against them?

There wasn't.

And Tyler was the first in falling before it's hungry maws despite the man being the tallest many had known. The thunderous roars outside were kind enough to drown Conchata's panicked and agonizing screams, leaving Miguel afraid yet safe in the box. The jungle had claimed itself as the temporary victor over them all.

The rest, was a nightmare Miguel sometimes wished to forget. But it was a good reminder of how different he was from his pack. His family.

A family that despite taking him in as a kid, and nurtured him, felt completely strange. So not his, not belonging and away.

He knew he looked different from the rest. His body wasn't completely covered in fur, despite some areas teeming with it, yet it wasn't enough for him, neither his father. A silver back gorilla, the pack's chief.

Even if he imitated their walk, their manners, to the point of having his knuckles slowly rearranging into a holding posture, he wouldn't be one of them. And sometimes his back hurt as he tried to keep that position for too long. He wasn't made like them. His sense of belonging truly betrayed him some days.

But you...

You and the men that came along were like him. And how marveled he was by the variety of his own kind. Tall, lanky, strong and burly, round and short, a bit like him but smaller. And then you.

Not only you came with a lot of things and trinkets that piqued his curiosity, but the way you spoke, the child like wonder that appeared into your face as you discovered new things, made his brain tingle. His heart raced whenever you explained him something, to the point of getting infected with your excitement too.

He didn't know what he liked to see and admire the most. Your face, your body, your voice, your hair. But your hands were definitely his favorite.

Miguel could spend hours and hours watching you move that piece of wood that left a trace on the white sheets, even if his absence made his mother worried. And whenever you laughed, his heart was all stupid and pumping excitedly in his chest. You didn't hoot in excitement like he did, and when he learned how to laugh from you, the sound of his voice had you fascinated.

Deep, rich and oh so gorgeous to ignore, specially when he tripped over his own words, by trying to read a new sentence in the current book you had picked, cause it earned him a giggle out of you. He spent his days holed up with you in the makeshift projector room, learning new things and expanding his vocabulary, only to disappear before the sun sunk down.

You taught him about things his brain had long forgotten, as it was too busy to survive all those years ago on his own. The different images slid through, changing within the clicking sound of your fingers in the weird shaped control.

The planets, a man, a member of his family, many other animals, a woman, plants, food; tools, different scenarios mankind had created, structures that stood as majestic in the picture as they did in real life, everything that the tiny piece of technology could hold, was shown to him.

Each of the images were devoured with child like wonder and thrill by his eyes. He grunted happily whenever he saw things he was familiar with, and hissed at those that somehow still rendered a threat to his wellbeing, even if they couldn't harm him.

Much to your amazement, he was a fast learner. He devoured whatever you threw at him in matter of hours. And if an image called his attention, he'd show it to you, and wait for you to explain how it worked or what was it.

Much to your embarrassment, he had shown you a picture of a woman's anatomy, and pointed at your breast. It made you recall the little moment back up in the tree after you almost drowned.

That little tease had been enough to spark something rusty in your brain. Something that had been postponed over and over due to your research, to the point off simply evading you naturally from now on.

"I am a woman. You, a man. We are different, but still the same species."

"Different? You and me?" He shook his head with a borderline cute frown if it wasn't for him looking concerned, "No. You. Me," He pointed between you both, "The Same."

He took your face in his calloused hands and once again pressed his thumbs against your lips, to pry then open. Rough pads of him caressed your wet muscle and explored gently your mouth and your cheeks burned.

Specially when he imitated to perfection the sounds of the animals you had drawn in the sketchbook. Birds and animals alike.

No matter how many times you explained, he always kept making sure you'd understand that you were like him. What surprised you the most was the utter gentleness he moved whenever his solid and well worked body was around you.

Miguel moved in his tiptoes and knuckles and followed you to the simplest of task, asking what you were doing and how it worked. Some things came easier to understand than others, but his intelligence always surprised you.

Peter sometimes joined you and the teaching, whenever he wasn't under Kraven's command to help him look for rare minerals. Just to make sure you were okay. Although Miguel wasn't harmful, that didn't mean he couldn't be a threat. Not when Peter recalled you telling him how the man before you killed a Jaguar with his bare hands.

And Miguel's attitude towards him, was mostly curious. You and Peter were the only ones Miguel truly approached.

Peter taught him his good share of things, like shaving. He helped Miguel to give him a more clean look on his face as the savage refused to have scissors or anything sharp around his body, but his facial hair made him uncomfortable. It scratched and the urge or tear them away only increased.

Peter was terrified to see the dangerous methods Miguel used to groom himself. Meaning a sharp stone and aloe slime smeared on his face. Undoubtedly, the geologist didn't want to learn the details of Miguel's routine. And so far, his new friend seemed comfortable enough with his razor around his neck.

In fact, as soon as his stubble grew, he dragged Peter from whatever task he was doing and asked him to trim it down for him.

"I believe you can learn how to do it on your own, pal." Peter grumbled as Miguel sniffed the shaving cream, then join you once again.

Sometimes you were concerned by the sudden scars that appeared in his body, like if Miguel had fought something. And refused to tell you. Instead he'd take your hands and stare your way as if memorizing every inch of your factions.

"Are you ok, Miguel?"

He'd grunt softly and look at his hands holding yours. You only broke the contact to clean his wounds.

----

"It's been almost two weeks since we arrived and we've seen nothing but animals that we can see at a fucking zoo."

Kraven grumbled after takin a long swallow of vodka and looked your way.

"It's been a week since your savage friend shows up, why he won't take us with his pack?!"

"I don't know! He refuses to-"

"Are you even teaching him useful things? We need to see gorillas, Dalhberg. Gorillas. Not how a fucking savage has the hots for you."

Your eyes rolled and a sigh came out.

"Look, he's refusing for a reason. Every time he shows up there is a new wound on him."

"Then find out what is it! Use the stupid attachment he has for you, in your favor! Do something! We're running out of time."

And that pulled a scowl on your face. How dared he even suggesting something as dishonest and disgusting as that? You knew Miguel was hiding something and his refusal for you to see the gorillas kept rooting deeper, to the point of making him upset. So you stopped asking, and helped to ease his troubled mind with other things and tasks instead.

"I try my best in doing my job, Sergei." You bit back and Peter stood next to you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Fucking try harder then! The other ship is picking us up in nine days. And we still have nothing. You have one more chance to get that brute to take us to see the fucking gorillas."

Kraven went to the entrance, "One more chance." He warned before leaving you and Peter on your own.

"Son of a bitch." you kicked a beer bottle out of your way and Peter sighed, annoyed.

"Im not liking where this is going. I don't like his insistence in the gorillas and the soil."

"You think I do?! I'm worried about Miguel. He seems off and snappier these days. And there is always a new cut or scratch on him."

"Remember he's grown up here, Dally. He knows his way around things. He ain't stupid. Probably is fighting for territory against a threat? Or cut in his way here. He's a big man, prone to accidents, mind you.

"Big or not, I still worry. Something is going on with him. And if honest? I'm getting uncomfortable with Sergei."

"Oh really?" Peter deadpanned and you slapped his arm.

"I mean it, you ass. Like... One thing is competing against Octavius and Osborn, but he's acting like a fucking collector. Have you seen how many new furs he has dried out in the sun lately?"

Peter rubbed his neck, trying to ease the tension building up.

"We don't even know if those creatures are in extinction or if they're a protected species, Parker. I know we signed a contract, but this is getting out of hand."

"Dally" He sighed and placed his hand on your shoulders, like every damn time he was about to lecture you and he'd end up being right.

"You know what happens to those people that mess with Kravinoff or any man with power enough to pay an expedition like this, right?"

You nodded and looked away while he rubbed some sense into you.

"I know you care about him and the animals here. But you know we can't do much about it. You know how Kraven is."

"Still, Peter, I-"

"I know you care. And that is what has brought you so far, but we gotta be careful. He nearly kills you the other day!"

He reasoned and you sat on a nearby stool, completely at lost on how to proceed. As usual and again, Peter was right.

"If it wasn't for Miguel, I'd be burying you by now."

"Then is only fair to protect him and his family, Pete. I'm well aware of the dangers this field implies, I just... can't let something happens to him." Your hands clasped and unclasped anxiously, "Like... Can you imagine the excitement he must feel to finally find people, humans like him, just to find out they only want his family for a zoo?"

Peter nodded and held your hands gently, trying to ease the inevitable heartbreak.

"I know. And I know you've done your best in keeping him distracted. But you can't shelter him forever from life, Dally."

"Is not that! I don't wanna feel like I'm betraying him, Pete."

Peter's heart sunk at your words. Sometimes your field required a cold heart, something yours was everything but.

"He's been nothing but kind to me, he has saved my life twice! And taken me to see things I only dreamed of. The least I can do is to warn him. Even if that means to not see him again."

"Don't say that. Now you're insulting him and the animals. You think he ain't smart enough to not know what is going on? Or the animals not strong enough?"

You sniffed and Peter offered you his handkerchief.

"He'll be fine. Same for the gorillas. I might not be a scientist, but I wouldn't be fool enough to mess with those beasts. Kraven thinks he can do it. Let him have that. Men like him don't have a good ending."

He hugged your trembling form, and rubbed your back gently. Like he always did.

Little did you know a pair of beady red eyes watched you both with a frown from a nearby thicket.

Miguel didn't show up for the next two days.

-----

Where is he?

Miguel's absence increased your worry tenfold, the first day you thought none of it, that maybe he had business or whatever he did, to attend. It sure raised more questions than answers. Where did he stay during the nights? Was he sleeping well? Had something happened?

Before your mind could take a sour you breathed and hopped over a tree trunk on the floor to get to the camp.

Once more you'd return with empty hands and the guard Sergei had assigned you seemed more than happy to forsake you in the jungle and return to the base.

But in truth, any other moment away would give you some peace and ease the nerves that Kraven's crew made sure to break and upset. Specially after you found them all gathered in the projector room, jeering and cheering at nothing else but a porn clip.

Some even had the guts to suggest you to get something, cause your pissy and irritable attitude haf started to get upsetting. And others offered their services for such thing as you turned the thing off.

Kraven could be an ass and many other things, but to your surprise a little decency remained in him. He warned his crew about consequences of anyone trying something with you.

You knew he only kept you alive for the sake of getting to Miguel.

With a sigh, you entered the camp, ignored the roll of eyes many gave you, and the withering glare from the leader and went straight to your tent.

Peter was busy with another motor the crew had gotten from the shore, he tinkered with the pieces, too busy to even acknowledge your presence.

Night rolled in, you had dinner and soon, you went to your tent to prepare another day of search, even if you had to do it on your own. Those two days of pure silence and no clues about Miguel's whereabouts weighted more than your backpack full of rare minerals.

You changed into your sleeping clothes, and soon headed for the projector room to update your finding log and journals.

To your surprise, the projector light was on. A frown came up your face once again, as you made your way towards the sturdy tent. Upon entering you saw none, but the screen turned on, and the lost signal title bouncing on the screen.

God, I'll tell Kraven to leave this thing off and-

A whimper.

Your eyes blinked at the sound as another came, it wasn't a regular one but the kind you heard the man doing in that clip.

You took a bottle, ready to strike the pervert that had remained behind to ease himself and use your tools for disgusting purposes. Only to find the ever familiar figure of Miguel, sprawled on the floor, behind the wooden boxes that acted as occasional seats.

"M-Miguel?"

He heaved and growled quietly, his muscles tensed when he heard you. Would you be mad at him for disappearing? He had seen your worried face, not really wanting to cause even more distraught in you, but the sensations in his body had been too good to be left alone.

A couple of books were sprawled on the floor, a little mess on the shelves as if someone had been looking for the projector's control. Which, laid at Miguel's feet, nearly broke in two.

The white dim light illuminated Miguel's silhouette and your eyes raked over his feet, to inspect if he wasn't injured then crept up his knees, past his thighs and

Oh...

Your cheeks grew impossibly flushed as your scrutinizing gaze stopped at Miguel's hips, more like what laid between them.

One of his strong, tan hands was wrapped on the base, with such viciousness it made you gulp with worry, as the other squeezed with the same force his broad tip. And then, you stopped at his face.

Angry, flustered, awash with need and frustration, mouth curled in a scowl at his new failure. Another whimper echoed, a pained one.

Your mind tried to keep itself focused on what might trouble him, and not the cock between his hands.

"Stop. You're..." You gulped as you pried his hands away from himself and he hissed, way too receptive and sensitive to your touch, "You're hurting yourself."

He craned his head enough to watch you as you kneeled besides him.

The sensations he provoked had made his mind a puddle and his whole frame a shivering and sensitive mess, too soon within such a short amount of time.

"H-Help" He pleaded, trying to reach for you.

Never in your life had you gotten such proposal, much less when he took your hand and placed it around his base and a shaky moan escaped his mouth.

Soft, velvety skin trembled under your hesitating fingers. Your heart thumped almost deafening in your ribcage as his hands enveloped yours while you held him.

"Please" He choked and pulled your head against his, his eyes darkening with something you knew all too well but was too busy to acknowledge. His solid and broad chest rising with erratic breaths as his cock twitched in your hands.

And it clicked in your mind. He was trying to see that video, meaning he had been around the whole time but was cautious to not approach since you were away.

But the video had demanded his attention, specially the way the man held and toyed with himself before plowing into the woman. His body was into a sudden need of that same sort of contact, the woman's cries and pleas had made his body react in such way that got him confused and panicky, specially when his groin grew uncomfortably tighter in his loincloth.

Miguel had tried to seek relief for himself, but only had managed to squeeze himself a bit too tight and set ablaze that fire that menaced to consume him whole. And now that you were here, you would teach him how to do it properly. Like the rest of things you've taught him.

He stroked harshly and your skin shuddered when he moaned into the crook of your neck.

"Miguel" You called and he breathed while looking into your eyes, "Breathe."

You inhaled and he followed, then exhaled and he closed his eyes as his mouth parted to let a shaky breath.

Oh god...

Despite the baffling still clinging to your brain, the pedagogic side of you thrived as you taught him how to properly please himself. It was fascinating to you.

"L-Lets do it slowly, okay?"

He grunted and tried to urge you to do it faster, but your free hand caressed his cheek, snapping his attention to you and the sudden touch.

"Slow. You'll hurt yourself."

A trembling hand held you by the nape as his eyes focused on your hand, stroking with gentleness up and down his warmth.

"See? Softly" You mumbled and he tightened his grip on your hand, a quiet beg for you to not let go.

"Video-" He choked and looked at the projected screen, still blank.

You shook your head softly and sat properly beside him, your other hand palmed and massaged both his hardened balls before squeezing gently, earning a delicious growl that made your skin crawl.

"You don't need that, focus on my voice, ok?"

He nodded and placed your forehead against his, panting and groaning softly, completely hypnotized by the way your hands performed your usual magic on him.

"Yes" He breathed when one of your hands circled on his veiny and thick base and the other one toyed with his tip.

His hips jerked as soon as you started to pump him in a slow but firm pace. Thrusting them into your hand, gaining as much friction as possible. Increasing that searing heat within.

"Does it feels good?" You focused on his tip, using his oozing precum as a lube to move your hand a bit faster, and his mouth gaped. His eyes nearly rolled back when you squeezed him in the way his hand had miserably failed.

"Good. Yes. Goo-" He choked when you palmed his balls again, and then wrapped him with both hands. Resuming your strokes in the same tempo you had marked before.

He whimpered your name in such a way none had ever done before, sending a sudden shudder straight to your clit.

The wet and soft sloshes of his skin against yours ignited that primal need engraved in his brain. The hand on your nape tightened on your hair, as if fearing you'd go away and stop teaching and giving him this gift.

The sharpness of his canines grazed on the joint of your neck and head, muffling his groans and obscene, choked whimpers as you kept pumping and stroking with right amount of pressure to make it heavenly. Way more delicious and arousing than any rush of adrenaline he experienced regularly.

Never occurred to him his body could produce such sensations, or someone else could provoke them. He had put his trusting the right place. You were teaching him the way he loved to learn. Practical, with hands on.

Without warning, he pulled you to crash his lips on yours, making his best to emulate the kissing in the video. And it was your turn to moan.

Be it the years spent on your own with nothing but your hands and rare hookups, or the sudden realization of having such a wonderful piece of man yearning for your touch, for your lips for you, made your knees weak and your insides shuddered.

The kiss turned even more urgent as soon as you increased the speed of your pumps, making him a twitching, trembling and panting mess, that mumbled your name over and over. His hand secured you by your waist next to him, refusing to even think to let you go.

You were grateful the projector room was away from the main base, and close to the river, ostracising all noise from the camp.

"I'm-" He whimpered and with a low, skin crawling growl, his jaw tightened as he came.

Sticky and hot spurts of himself scurried abundantly on the side of his cock, rolling to the back of your palm, spilling himself while his hips tensed and his head, like his eyes rolled back.

You had to breath to take in the sight before you. Erotism in it's utmost pureness.

The sweat clung to him, like a thin glistening layer, his chest rose up and down erratically, heaving all the remaining and clinging lust out of his system, some strands stuck on his flushed face, awash with relief. Every muscle rippled at the tempo of his breathings, contracting and releasing with enjoyment.

He pulled your hand towards his face and licked a dribble of himself and then kissed you. His taste was unexpectedly sweet. But his lips made it even sweeter.

When he broke it, his hand caressed your cheek, and delivered more of those initial licks and pecks that had your knees trembling. He panted and rubbed his nose against yours, as if grateful for the first pleasurable experience ever had. All his pent up tension was gone.

However his sudden question threw you off guard.

"You... with Peter too?"

Your head tilted in confusion and a brow quirked. He sighed, and stared deeply into your bewildered eyes as he rephrased what he meant as best as he could.

"This." He gestured, "With Peter."

Have you done this with Peter too?

You had to blink and laugh softly, finally understanding.

"No. Never."

"But, Peter hugs. I saw." He pressed with a moue on his lips.

Oh...

Was he jealous?

"Peter is family to me."

That eased his frown and grunted.

"I was worried. You... and family. Not safe."

"I... know."

You watched him with surprise. He had heard it all.

"I'm so sorry. I... I wanted to protect you but-"

His fingers shushed you, and that's when his fresh wounds on his forearm came into view. Those were definitely bites on his arm, but he seemed unbothered by it.

All those bites and scratches were earned as he fought other creatures that entered a territory where new mothers were in. Jaguars, panthers, even other monkeys.

"Are you ok?"

He nodded and his lips twitched into a sad smile.

"You leave soon?"

"I... Yeah. Nine days." You brought the count in your fingers.

He nodded with a frown, "But you, come back?" His hands gathered your face in his hands and watched you with pleading eyes.

Stay.

"I can't." The idea of leaving him alone again was gut wrenching. Cause you knew you couldn't survive like he did.

Your words earned a hitch of his breath.

"What... what if you come with me?"

"You and me, leave?"

You nodded enthusiastically.

"Hmm! I can teach you all those places you saw, there are so many people out there that would love to know you."

"Me and you, together?"

You nodded with a soft flush on your cheeks as you smeared antiseptic on him. "Yes. You and I, together."

"You and I, come back later?"

The excitement in your eyes died, and he pursed his lips.

"Oh... No. Miguel, if we leave, we... don't come back. Ever."

He seemed confused for a minute but just stood.

"I see."

"Wait, Miguel!"

Without much word and covering up, he left.

"I don't wanna go..."

Leaving you in the projector room alone, heart clenching in a turmoil. You didn't want to leave him. But you had to.

------

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charminglyantiquated · 2 years

Text

First: once you know something’s name you have power over it. This is an old, old rule. Be careful giving out your name, because if it can be given it can be taken, and you along with it.

Second: the fae love beautiful things, and they will steal what they love. Sometimes it is to keep the object of their affection pristine and unaging, unravaged by time; sometimes it is just for the sake of having it. (They don’t love in the same way we do.)

Third: a changeling is a replica created to hide a theft. Sometimes it is a fae creature fully alive and wearing a stolen face. Sometimes it is simply a bundle of branches wrapped in magic, meant to die a wasting death and leave mourners who never suspect the truth.

Last: our city was beautiful. It was known far and wide, and because of that had names spoken in many different tongues. But it was not so hard to gather them all, in the end.

The changeling city was built in a night. The elf-queen fell in love with it, the story goes, and she had to have it. The sun on the far side of the equinox rose to find our city had been stolen from under us, and an imperfect imitation left in its place. Those who had known it their whole life found it suddenly strange underfoot, unfamilar and uncanny. Something woven of branches wrapped in magic, meant to die a wasting death and leave mourners who never suspected the truth.

And yet. What does a changeling want? It exists to hide a theft and then to die. What does it want?

A city can die. A city can be dying. So a city must then also be able to live. A city grows and changes and devours itself to grow further. Cities are hungry. A city kept unaging and untouched will starve to death: it becomes its own mausoleum. (Our city, the stolen city, is pristine and unaging and unravaged by time, in the elf-queen’s land. It is also dead.)

Our city, the changeling city, was meant to die - and so it must have been living, and living things want to keep living. We want it to keep living. We tear down buildings and raise new ones, pave and repave old streets, dig deep into the earth below, coax the borders ever outward like creeping vines. The changes tear open the glamor. The cobweb-thick veil of magic bubbles and warps around new steel girders and road salts, the slow march forward of time and architecture and the tides of humanity. It is how we discover the theft. But even then our city, the changeling city, was already too much something-else to be sent back wholesale. We would not burn it.

Our city becomes stranger around each new rupture point. Marble crumbles into ancient seashells when we tear down old buildings for the stone. When we dig downward into what should be ancient, buried streets, ready to excavate and tunnel, we find untouched cave systems full of silver trees, perfect unmoving imitations of life. Sometimes the cobblestones shake loose and you can see tiles of lapis lazuli and bone laid below them. Some streets writhe like snakes, or unname themselves. In the oldest parts of the city, which we have altered the least, there are buildings that have electricity and running water and heat, even though there is nothing in the bundled-branch walls but kudzu.

This strangeness, the way it shifts and contorts as it grows into something new, is as much part of our city as the image of the stolen city is. The changeling city is a branch grafted into another tree, bearing the first blooms of something the roots were never meant to support. But bloom it does. There are people born in this city, now, who never knew the stolen one at all. People who will never, in all their lives and all the world, feel at home anywhere else, nor know another place half as well.

What does a changeling want? It exists to hide a theft, but what does it want? To be allowed to be. To grow beyond the image it was made in. This is not our city, the stolen city. And yet this is our city. Ever-changing and ravaged by time and alive, it is our city.

It has its own name by now, but you will never know it. We have lost, and learned, and love too dearly to lose this one.

#changeling city #my writing #stories #fae #one day i'll illustrate this #weird little whatever it is

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inkdrinkerworld · 11 months

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a spider!reader who gives off “sweet girl next door” vibes? she tries to bring miguel cookies with he’s working on something and he scares her, coming off more angry than intended, and ends up dropping them on the floor. (collect groan lmao)

contains minor spoilers to across the spider-verse pt 2

you’d been thinking all day after the whole fiasco of recruiting gwen that miguel needed cheering up.

margo warned you not to, said, ‘he’s a grump. let him grump.’

but you hadn’t been able to take that answer. there was something about miguel that didn’t just scream grump. something seemed tired about him.

so, you tried your hand at baking him something. you’d debated for a long time of chocolate chip cookies or oatmeal cookies were more his style.

you decided on chocolate chip.

you spent two days on them, using a recipe which required brown butter, overnight chilling and a lot of dark chocolate.

you got a lot of flour on you as you baked them, watching them rise and then spread out on the floor of the kitchen.

when they were done you packed them up in a cute purple box you snagged from the cafeteria.

your heart leapt to your throat as you turned down the corner to HQ, hoping that you wouldn’t catch miguel at a bad time.

that hope is decimated when you walk in and find him grumbling to his computer.

“um, miguel?” you’re bouncing on the balls of your feet as you stand in the archway.

“what? what do you need?” he huffs and you feel some of your momentum dry up.

“i brought something for you, but if you’re busy-“ it appears that was the wrong thing to say.

“of course i’m busy! i’m always busy trying to keep the stupid multi-verse from collapsing. maybe some other time we can chit chat.”

you’d never actually been on the receiving end of miguel’s upset, and maybe this wasn’t exactly for you but his tone and the way his arms are flailing around his body makes you feel small in a way that hasn’t happened for a long time.

“right,” you whisper, managing not to cry as you jolt and the box of cookies fall. “i’m sorry for bothering you.”

miguel watches as you don’t even bend to pick up the box. he watches you turn like you’re being remote controlled and he catches sight of your hands wiping at your eyes.

“great, you’ve made her cry casanova.” lyla appears suddenly, foot tapping in air as her arms cross over her chest.

“so now i’m the bad guy?” he asks, but it’s rhetorical. he feels like the bad guy. guilt and shame burn his throat and belly like he’s downed two tequila shots with no lime or salt.

lyla flits to the box, “she made you cookies.”

miguel sighs, hands scrubbing at his face as he steps off the platform to pick up the box. in your neat cursive he notices you’ve written, ‘a pick me from having to do all the hard stuff.’

he wants to smash something. of course he’d blow up at possibly the nicest spider-woman variant. of course he’d be the asshole to make you cry too.

“where is she?” he asks lyla as he sets the box on the desk and opens it to find the cookies all broken. they smell delicious - something close to that bakery you liked when you’d visited earth-2067 with him on a scouting mission.

you and miguel always make a great team on missions and he hates to admit it but he’s very fond of you and he knows you're fond of him too.

it’s why his chest is aching and he needs to find you. “lyla, where is she?”

“in her room, blasting music and cleaning. give the girl a moment alone before you barge in there and make it worse.”

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thesummerestsolstice · 4 months

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People seemed interested in Library Orc Blorbo so I decided to write down my headcanons about him:

His name is Garthaglir (it’s Sindarin for “poem keeper”)

He renamed himself after discovering a love for library sciences, shortly after he moved to the valley

Rivendell’s head librarian

Used to be an extremely dangerous warrior, now considers himself retired

Extremely tall and buff, blue skin, salt-and-pepper hair and a well-trimmed beard

Very distinguished, very polite

Has a tiny pair of spectacles he uses to read because he's farsighted

He doesn’t look like an old man but he is one deep in his heart

He was one of the first reformed orcs to end up in Rivendell, so he helps other orcs adjust to living there

Basically invented Middle Earth’s version of the Dewey Decimal system

Look, Rivendell’s library is like, unfathomably huge, there’s 6000+ years of books in there, someone had to organize it

He, Elrond, and Erestor are the only people who have keys to the part of the library where they keep the cursed books

The three of them also have a monthly book club

He holds a weekly story time for the kids

(Yes, he does do funny voices, no, you are not allowed to comment on it)

Has tracked people down at 3 AM before because “M’am? M’am you have an overdue book, here, I brought my library stamp would you mind just checking this out again? You can keep it out for another month that way. Just a moment, ah, yes thank you, I’ll be on my way now. Excellent choice in reading material.”

He has a fancy sunhat he wears outside during the day so the sun doesn’t burn him, it was a gift from small Arwen and he cherishes it

He has a library cat, her name is Mittens and he would die for her

Uses his free time to teach himself different languages; there are hundreds in Rivendell’s books

Enjoys recommending books to visitors, he’s gotten really good at getting a read on what people will like

Personally, when he’s in the mood for fiction, he prefers a good mystery

#silmarillion #elrond #elrond peredhel #erestor #arwen #rivendell #imladris #library orc #garthaglir

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with-my-calamitous-love · 4 days

Text

MY BELOVED GHOST AND ME

toya x reader

you and your complicated lover have an honest talk about the future.

angst, so so much angst, guys i was so sad when i wrote this, euphoria reference if you squint

a/n: the bridge for how did it end is actually poetry. go listen to it rn

a/n: hate and love feel like the same thing, we’re all confused

to mourn someone who is still with you.

mourning someone who is not just with you. who is next to you, cradling you in the arms. he is silent, a wall of solitude. he is a magnitude of grief joined together by burnt skin and piercings. he is waves of hurt and love with nowhere to go kissing your shoulder. he is a litany of fear and resentment tightening his arms around your waist, holding you against his warm body as you stare at the window of your shitty apartment.

his name is toya todoroki. he was hurt, scarred, vengeful, and already gone. his skin that screamed for salvation proved that. and you loved him.

your eyes stare hesitantly at the window. he holds you silently against his ribs, blue eyes watching you with an unreadable stare. he was taring your world apart from the roots down, and he knew it. he felt it your bones scream against him.

"i wanna burn this city to the ground." you sigh.

and you'd honestly do it. not for you, not for anyone else but him. you'd tear the soil up from the ground, wrath building up explosions from the oceans as the waters flood the ground, drowning the suffering of humanity. you'd set everything in your sight ablaze, watching as everything burns into embers, and then nothing. and in the end you'd salt the earth behind you. nothing would dare sprout on the earth toya todoroki once loved you on.

"i know." he says.

you bring his burnt palm to your face, pressing your lips to the mourning skin. he looks at you, not taking his eyes off of you for even a second. "i"m not scared of you, toya." you reassure him. hands that were known for destruction, known for the eruptions of blue flames that ravaged everything in his will. you kissed them. you'd kiss them a million times over. it was funny, how hands built for death held you so good.

he hums, his grip tightening around you. he knows you should be, that you should leave. if not out of fear, than out of hate. hate for who he his, hate for the pain that he has caused and will cause. because toya knew from the moment his marred body stared back at him in the mirror, was that he was going to go down in flames. he was going to destroy his father and everything he had done. he was going to die.

and you knew that. better than anyone.

so there you were. mourning someone who lay next to you, heart still beating, lungs still breathing.

"i'd destroy the whole world for you." you repeat.

toya looks at you, blue eyes staring intently at the way you lay in his embrace. "you're not supposed to, doll. thats my job, you're the good one." he mutters into your skin.

"i'm not as good as you think." you insist, still refusing to face your lover.

a sigh escapes his marred lips. "i know you're not perfect. but..." his fingers trace up and down the curves of your waist. "you're good for me. better."

you scoff.

"whats... whats gonna happen to us?"

you don't know what you feared more. silence, or the answer.

he paused for a moment, his hands wandering down to your thigh. his gave moved away from you as a pensive look came over his face, lips pursing as he thought of an answer. after a long moment of silence, his eyes returned to you, where his gaze belonged.

"do you really wanna know?"

"yeah, i do."

toya held your gaze for a moment, making sure his face stayed unreadable. his hand remained on your thigh, caressing your soft skin.

"this isn't gonna end well, doll. you and me.." he whispers breathlessly.

"i know." you nod solemnly.

"we're not gonna survive this. i'm not. the world... ain't gonna let us."

his actions betrayed his words, pulling you even closer to him. the look on his eyes screamed otherwise. they wanted something else, but his soul knew that his burnt hands were already out of reach.

"i figured." your voice was laced with bitterness. he wanted to protest, but what was there to argue against? he made up his mind.

"what am i to you?" you ask, eyes still gazing the emptiness of the outside world. your world laid right next to you, telling you that he wasn't going to stay.

"you're... everything." he utters, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

you wince. finally turning around. you needed him to see the hurt in your eyes. and you needed to find the hurt in his.

"what... what can i do to convince you? to stay?" your voice cracked when your words reached his ears. toya paused, a part of him wanting to be his usual asshole self- teasing you into making love with your body pressed against him, the physical pleasure making him forget about his troubles for a moment. but the look in your eyes told im to stop.

he lets out the slightest sigh before speaking.

"you can't." his voice was barely above a whisper.

your eyes dropped, staring out the window again. "i figured."

he felt a twinge of guilt erupt in his chest, piercing new burns through his heart. he hated seeing you this way, hated knowing he was the one who caused it.

"i'm not gonna apologize." he muttered quietly, his grip on your chin soft yet firm as he held your face. "i'm not gonna change my mind, either..."

"i didn't expect you to." you answer, tearing his hand off of your face.

toya felt his fingers reflexively tighten before reluctantly letting you remove his hand. a flicker of frustration bloomed across his burning blue eyes. he hated how accepting you were, how understanding you were. both of you felt the tension, both souls aware of the inevitable. his jaw clenched as he thought of his mission, knowing that it would finally cause his father pain, but you bring you down with it. it killed him more than the fire, than the smoke.

"i'm not apart of your plan." you sigh. "you don't have to be here."

toya let out the slightest scoff at your words. his eyebrows furrowing as he looked at you. his eyes hardened for a moment before he leaned in closer, whispering: "you think i'd choose to be anywhere else when i could be with you?"

"why do you stay here if you're just gonna die?"

"do i need a reason to stay with you, doll?"

"do you have one?"

both you and toya paused at your last question. his jaw clenched as you pressed his reasoning. he knew he couldn't tell you the truth. the truth that you were the one thing keeping him alive, the one thing that kept made staying seem like a reality. no, he couldn't tell you that. he couldn't give you hope.

"maybe, i just like being with you." he lies with a truth.

you sigh again, defeated as you lay your head on his chest like a soldier collapsing on the battle field. toya let out a low, content breath as his body welcomed you wholeheartedly in his embrace.

"so... i'm just gonna sit here.. and watch you kill yourself over some shitty revenge plan... i'm just gonna sit here and lose you..?"

toya pretends to not notice the way your voice cracks. he feels a wince of guilt at your quiet words, hating the way you suffered because of him. hated the way he could do absolutely nothing about it.

he took a deep breath before he spoke. "i didn't say you had to stay, doll... you're free to leave anytime you want." his words betrayed his feelings. he didn't want you to leave, selfishly. he rubs circles into your back, doing anything to comfort you.

"if i wanted to i would've left by now, idiot." you sigh, voice cracking once more.

he felt a familiar flicker of sadness run through his veins. this wasn't fair to you. not at all. he knew he was hurting you and he hated himself for it, more than anything else did. his grip on you tightened, calloused fingers running over your skin.

"you shouldn't stay." he muttered. "you should hate me. you should walk away and have nothing to do with me." toya tells you the truth and only the truth.

"i know." you whisper, defeated. "i really hate you right now, toya..." you cry, tightening your grip on his arm.

he feels his chest tighten as you cry. he knew he deserved your hatred, but he wished he didn't. his arm wrapped around you tighter, as if you'd disappear if he dare let you go. you had to be the one to let him go.

"i know you do, doll." he utters. "i think i hate myself too."

"good." you seethe, still holding onto him like a safety net.

he heard the anger in your voice, anger he knew all too well. he could feel the way your body trembled, the hurt and frustration locked inside of you evident. he absolutely hated himself for this. his thumb continued to trace patterns onto your back, thinking that maybe it'd take your pain away. "go ahead. scream at me, cry at me, hate me. you can do anything you want. i can take it."

but you don't scream or even yell. you just lay there, almost as lifeless as he was about to be soon. you sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, nothing could possibly console you right now.

"i fucking hate you right now, toya todoroki." you cried into him.

"i know doll, i know." he feels the hurt press against his lungs, and he takes it. he takes all of the darkness that comes from you to him and eats it, swallowing it whole. he knows he deserves it.

you cry and cry, your shaking body cradled into toya's embrace. he held onto you desperately, seeing the pieces of you shattered in his arms tear him apart from the inside out. he could tell by the way your broken hands hold him that you don't want him to go.

"i want you to want me to stay." you choke, messy sobs piercing your words. you hated how he let you go, how he told you you should walk away from him. you wanted the complete opposite- you wished he'd make a god damn fool out of himself, loving you and begging you to stay. but toya knew not to waste his breath.

"its not a matter of wanting you to stay." he utters. "god, i want you to stay... more than anything." he presses his face into the skin of your shoulder, trying to feel you, trying to feel if a part of you still loved him beneath all the hate.

but its not enough for you. "no i want you to tell me to stay! dont tell me i should hate you, or-or that i should leave- i want you to fucking want me to stay! fucking love me! love me like i love you!" you rip a scream from your chest, sitting up from his embrace and staring him straight into his eyes. he needs to know how much he's hurting you.

he winced, feeling his chest clench at your words. "i do love you." his words escape from his lips.

"bullshit." you declare.

you can see on his eyes that he's taken aback by your words. if theres one thing he knew for sure, it was that he loved you. "why won't you believe me?!"

"because you're letting me just watch you fucking die!" you scream.

he stands up, the hurt from your face infecting his own.

"you think i want to die!?" he snarls, an unwanted hint of vulnerability escaping with his words. "i'm not letting you watch anything. i didn't ask you to sit around and wait for me."

he immediately regrets his words.

a look of disgust contorts your face. you stand up, facing away from him fully. your completely speechless. what could you say?

toya felt his heart strings wither as he tried to rectify the situation. "thats not what i meant." he sighs, running a finger through his hair.

you cry on your own, away from toya's prying eyes. he feels his heart clench again, knowing he's the villain here. he places a hand on your shoulder.

"doll." he whispers. "turn around"

you sigh, looking up at the ceiling.

"i can't save you. i can't convince you to stay. yet i can't... leave. i can't get on my feet and leave you. i want to, but... i just can't." you admit your defeat, not bothering to fight back as toya pulls you against him, back into bed.

"i told you you were free to leave, free to walk away and never look back. not like i don't deserve it." he reminds you, pressing a somber kiss to your head.

"i want you to hold me back." you whisper, now facing him with tears pricking your eyes. "i want you to ask me to stay. but.. but you don't."

toya said nothing. he knew you were right, that he wasn't going to ask you to stay. not when he knew it was more than he deserved.

"i hate you." you mutter. toya accepted it, nodding as he gave you a firm squeeze.

"i know you do, doll." he utters.

"no, you don't." you sob. he could never know how much this hurt for you.

"you're the worst." you half heartedly laugh through your tears, tearing a dry chuckle from toya as he agrees with you. he was the worst. the absolute scum of the earth.

"you're an asshole." you trail off. "you're a fucking bastard. and i still love you." you whisper that last part.

"you shouldn't."

"you think i want to?"

he chuckles at that. you were always right.

"after you die, i might end up burning the entire world down after all." you sigh. toya's eyes widen at this.

"you won't." he warns, his voice lower. you scoff.

"you're not in it anymore. so now i can do it." your eyes and voice alike are devoid of any happiness as you speak. and it killed him. good.

"don't say that." toya utters, this sentiment corroding him more than anything else.

"why not?"

"because... you're better than that, doll." he states firmly. you scoff again.

"i'm really not." announce.

"thats not you.. you're not a a killer, you're not cruel. you're good. you're kind. you're... you're everything i'm not." he mutters, declarative in his words as he holds you. it broke him to think you'd throw away everything like that. but then again, he was throwing away everything to.

you sob even harder. "i wanna be like you. i wanna be angry, i wanna destroy everything because of it. god, i wanna hate everyone and hate you. i wanna hate and hate and hate for the rest of my life but i can't." you run out of breath on the cant, hopelessness lingering in your throat as you spoke.

"i know..." toya utters, speechless. he felt a wince of physical pain from his body, his burnt vessel screaming at him to finally end it all.

"i love you, doll. don't you dare forget that." he challenges you, embedding it into your skin with a kiss. he made it sound like a goodbye. it was a goodbye.

"i love you too, asshole." you utter, closing your eyes against the warmth of his chest. for the first time, ever, toya todoroki felt cold.

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thexsilentxwordsmith · 7 months

Text

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Author's Note: Yes I reworked this piece because I liked the concept of forbidden attraction, but wanted it slightly different cause I didn't like how I executed it the first time. I think this works much better! Also stay tuned for Tuesday, October 31st cause we have a real treat for Halloween coming!

Joining the 141 had one hard rule: no relationships of any kind between members, but that is something proving to be too much the closer you and Simon get.

You weren’t meant to be here, panting like an animal in heat, nearly naked in Simon’s bed as his fingers traced burning lines down your abdomen and over the curve of your hips to tug playfully at the seam of your panties. Yet that's exactly where you found yourself.

You were pure temptation, forbidden fruit, the most delicious type of sin; you were not supposed to be doing this, but from the moment you first met when you joined the task force as their medic he knew he had to have you and nothing could sate that growing, gnawing hunger in him until he possessed every last inch of you for his own.

It had started innocent enough: chaste glances whenever you came into contact, friendly quips and pleasantries, guiltless touches that never lingered more than need be… until that just wasn’t enough. That nagging ache was just too strong to hold off the closer you both got, the attraction clouding all judgment that told him this was wrong and that he should leave it alone; coworkers couldn't get involved, that was the one rule that was strictly upheld when you joined the task force.

This wasn't like him to risk his job, but he just couldn’t let these feelings go.

How could he when you made him feel alive for the first time in years? Even just being in your presence left him giddy like a fucking teenager again, full of raging hormones and excitement for days after. Why would he not want to have that all for himself?

You weren’t much better, not once you realized what was happening between you. “We’re just friends,” you’d repeat over and over as if the very utterance of the phrase could alter what was slowly creeping its way inside your mind, but the more Simon found reasons to come visit you in the infirmary, the more you knew what not nipping this in the bud would lead to.

And yet you didn’t want it to stop.

He was more than the stoic killer, the man cloaked in the face of death; he was passionate and smart and he looked at you as if he would burn everything to the fucking ground and salt the earth just to have you. To be coveted in such an all-consuming way, having never experienced something so intense before, that was euphoric. How could you possibly let that just walk away?

It was just drinks, it was just staying out a little later than usual, it was just a little crush that’ll pass; that was your excuses for him time and again. And yet you could not help the way you began to imagine coveting such intense passion for your own or what it would be like to have such a strong, virile man take you rough and exasperatedly. To belong to someone who was so obviously obsessed he could not help himself that he was willing to risk it all, put his entire life into jeopardy, it was hard not to get sucked in.

No, not just anyone. Simon. Only Simon.

So that was how you found yourself in his room after hours by some flimsy excuse made that you couldn’t even remember now. And the low light of the room, the tension permeating the space like a heavy fog, the closeness of that beast of a man as he looked down at you with those eyes that screamed he was being swallowed whole by his desire was enough to make things start.

Calloused fingertips sliding across your bare arm were then suddenly around your waist and then your hip. Not once did you try to swat his hand away; you didn’t want that feeling caused by his touch to stop, the one making your mind fuzzy.

Then his shirt was off along with your own and Simon found himself struggling to breathe. Inhaling deep and exhaling just as heavy, he could only stare back at all that soft, supple skin. “Goddamn,” he stammered out the breathless word as those fingers traced patterns on your palms hanging at your sides. “You’re more beautiful than I coulda fuckin’ imagined, sweetheart.”

You’d patched him up so many times, seen more of him than anyone else, and yet here and now it was like experiencing the sight of him bare before you for the first time. Pupils dilated, breaths hitched, nerve endings exploded to life and the overwhelming urge to explore each other until you both knew the other by touch alone filled the space between you.

Those same fingertips played with the button on your jeans, testing how far you were willing to let him go. At any second there was an unknown fear your hand would push his away and you would stop this right in its tracks, but as you gave him a nod and he undid your jeans and slid them down your legs, he allowed himself to hope that this wouldn’t end at all.

Suddenly he grabbed your hand and brought you over to his bed, sitting you down to sit beside you so close he was pressed into your side. Being this close, everything became so clear and even though the room was anything but cold, a shiver went up his spine a the weight of his decision.

"Take it off," he murmured near the side of your head as he filled his nostrils with your scent, that natural musk that was specific to only you, the one that made it near impossible to function whenever you were close. "The mask. I want ya to take it off."

You couldn't be stopped. With unsteady hands you reached up to his face, gently sliding your fingertips under the thin fabric covering his face and slowly you pulled it up and over until all of his visage was revealed to you. It wasn't the first time you'd seen him, but this time was so much more important.

Copper eyes sparkled now that they were released from the bounds of the mask, shifting colors in the pale light as they were so full with emotion. Lust, yes, desire, of course, but so much more and you were caught in their penetrating gaze.

His hand moved up to cup against your face, thumb rubbing back and forth across your cheek as his eyes flitted to your lips where he watched the moistened, full bits of flesh call him to embrace. Instead of connecting those yearning bits of flesh, his hand wandered to the back of your head to pull it towards him so that he could rest his forehead against yours.

"I need ya," he said, that gruff voice unable to hide the begging lilt in his tone, "so fuckin' bad."

“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” you whispered the half-hearted objection with eyes closed as he leaned in and ghosted his lips over your own, so close he could taste your muggy breath.

Risking more, your fingertips glided across the bulky muscles of his abdomen, called as if by a siren’s song to stroke along all that beautiful skin available for you alone. They danced over the sparse covering of hair that led down into his pants and the sound of him trying to gulp down air to fill his lungs as his breath got caught in his chest caught your attention.

The unbearable need to shove you down onto your back, spread your legs to slip in between, and fuck you until you were too exhausted to move flooded his veins; it was a monumental task to keep himself from giving in, but he had to be sure you wanted this just as bad, that he was not taking something that was not his to take.

That you were willing to accept the risk as well.

“Then tell me ta stop,” he breathed back onto your parted lips, rough fingers taking your chin firmly into his grasp to pull your head up so that he could place his lips along your jawline. Each caress of his mouth sent shivers down your spine, tiny pricks of electricity that had you reeling in agony for more.

Under your chin and down the side of your throat he went, scourging the flesh for anyone else that would dare come after him. “Shove me away, tell me to get the fuck out so ya can get dressed and leave,” he groaned into your skin. “Tell me ya don’t want this and we’ll never fuckin’ speak of it again. But…I want ya to stay; I'm tired of pretending you're not in my goddamn veins and that I don't dream 'bout all the ways ta make ya mine.”

You swallowed hard, sanity slipping violently away the longer his mouth left those euphoric trails of tingles down your neck until your cheeks flushed crimson while that damp heat continued to gather between your legs. Bodies molded into one another, desperately begging to become one in that lust-fueled connection that would send you both straight to hell, the air thick with unrequited desire that had built to its breaking point, you knew there was no way you could leave him now.

Your choice had already been made the moment you stepped inside his room and he shut the door.

Opening your eyes, you waited until he felt you move and pulled his head up so that you could look directly into those copper eyes nearly black now in the dim light. “No,” you shook your head, “I can’t leave, not now. I need you Simon; fuck, I need you so bad it hurts.”

What more was there to say to that? He had wanted to hear you say those words for so long now it almost didn’t feel real, as if at any moment he would wake up alone in his room with a wet spot staining his boxers and the cycle of agony would continue.

Harshly he moved his hand back to where it was wrapped around the back of your head and taking a deep breath he pulled your face to him to crash his yearning mouth onto yours. Fiery and aggressive he captured your lips over and over, greedy to make up for all the lost time he had spent pining for their embrace.

Simon needed you like air in his lungs, like a man dying of thirst needs water, and in that moment nothing existed in the entire world outside of that bed: not consequences or repercussions for his actions, not reprimands or disciplinary actions, not court-martials or anything else the higher ups could threaten him with. The ecstasy of you was worth all the goddamn bullshit he may face for the crime of needing you.

Advancing on top of you, he pushed you down onto your back until you were pressed into his mattress beneath him, his body buzzing from the high of finally unleashing the monster that had kept him suffering. Torsos pressed firmly together so that you could hardly breathe, limbs intertwined as he easily slid between your thighs, hips grinding into one another, he completely lost himself.

“Never thought I’d hear ya say those words,” he groaned into your mouth, making you swallow down his desperation. “Needed ya for so fuckin’ long, thought I was gonna lose my goddamn mind, luv. It’s been so hard tryin’ to keep distance between us. I'm fuckin' dyin' wantin' you and not being able to do a damned thing 'bout it. I don't care what the fuck the rules say, I have ta have ya.”

“Then take me,” you moaned as your hands slipped between your burning bodies and rushed to his belt to loosen it so that you could undo his pants and pull them down. “Please, Simon. Please. I need to feel you inside me.”

Simon shimmied to help you until they hung around his ankles and he could kick them off, that same he did with his boxers, never letting up on his assault of your mouth. Fuck, he was so hard it was nearly painful and he hissed as the head of his cock brushed up against you. His large hands pulled at the crotch of your panties, sliding them to the side and out of the way.

The excitement of the moment had gotten to your body and what met his fingers was that sticky moistness that meant you were ready for him. Sitting up on his knees he aligned the tip of his cock so that he could slip through your delicate petals to coat himself in your juices, adding lubrication to make this easier.

You got the first feel of what he had to offer and fuck was more than you could have imagined as it throbbed and pulled near your aching hole. Grabbing onto your hips, he pressed his swollen tip directly onto your entrance and thrust until it slipped inside. Instantly you were filled with him, fuller than you had ever been before, and your head flew back as you mewled loudly at being stretched to capacity.

The agony was finally over.

"N-nh… mmm…" Simon groaned behind closed lips as he jerked. So fucking tight, so soft and warm and wet, it was more than anything he could have hoped for and he had to pause a second to collect himself.

Right and wrong didn't exist anymore, it was only you and him now, reveling in that thrill of experiencing each other for the first time in that most intimate way. As he began to thrust back and forth through your pussy, he knew he would do whatever it took to have you like this over and over again, fuck the rules.

And as his body meshed perfectly with yours as if you were created for one another, cock pounding into you to make the desperate moans escape your lips like quiet praises, you knew that from that moment on no matter what came you were his.

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