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getvalentined · 2 months

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Thinking about Sephiroth's motivations in Rebirth and getting super emotional because fuck, man, I get it. I get it. It doesn't excuse anything, but I get it in a way I can't even describe.

The Gi establish that those who aren't native to Gaia can't join the Lifestream basically at all, they're held separate entirely; the Gi have never been in it directly, their ghosts wander in a little liminal space they crafted for themselves. This is because they're entirely foreign—the Gi appear to be interdimensional travelers that were somehow marooned on Gaia at some point in ancient history, where they died and were left as ghosts, lingering forever unable to move on.

Sephiroth is slightly different in that he was born on Gaia and he does have human parents as well as Jenova, so he can force his way into the Lifestream as we saw in Lifestream Black and Advent Children, but he can't disseminate into it. He's still conscious and cognizant in some capacity even as the Lifestream fights to strip away the parts of him that belong on the planet, the parts of him that were human. This is, presumably, why his memory is all fucked up postcanon, whether we're talking novels or spinoffs; the Lifestream has been trying to take him but it can't, because there's too much Jenova in him, so the parts of him that have survived are just the parts that are the son of Jenova. He hasn't been fully worn down by the time the Crisis rolls around, likely because his body is still partially intact in the Northern Crater. (Again, see Lifestream Black, as well as the OG.)

And here's where everything starts to hurt.

He's alone. No matter what Sephiroth does, he's entirely, completely alone. There is nothing in the world like him, the planet won't accept him—it's not death, it's a homecoming, and Sephiroth has nowhere to go home to.

And he's done this before, this is a repeating timeline, he's been through this before over and over and over. And he's always alone in the end. He's always there at the edge of creation, the end of all things, the kindling of a new universe, and he's still there. All alone.

So this time he's calling for the ultimate Reunion. He's not just calling his Clones home, he's pulling all of time and space together into a single planet, bolstered with the lingering Lifestream of hundreds, thousands of others, timelines where things fell apart and Gaia sat on the precipice of death before Sephiroth found her and tore the Lifestream loose to feed the timeline he's chosen as the most likely to survive.

Three friends go into battle. One is captured (Genesis, in Deepground), one flies away (Angeal, who chose his own death), and the one who remains becomes a hero.

Heroes save the world.

But it doesn't matter, does it? Because he's going to be alone. Zack asks how he could turn his back on everything, and he says "Easily." Aerith asks how he could possibly want an eternity alone—because she doesn't understand, that's what Sephiroth has waiting for him anyway. That's all he's ever had waiting for him.

Sephiroth is going to save a world that will never accept him, because that's what heroes do, and then he's going to be alone forever. But this time, for the first time in every timeline he's experienced, he's going to do it on his own terms. He knows what he is, he knows how this ends, he has no questions of that. But for once in his existence—and it's a long existence, unending, eternal in a way that neither human nor Cetra could never even comprehend—he's going to control exactly how that happens.

Sephiroth knows he can't control whether or not he ends up alone, but he can choose how it happens. He can do things right this time. Maybe if he saves the world it will be different. Maybe the planet will accept him. Maybe he won't be alone.

And if he is (and he knows he will be), at least it was on his own terms.

At least, for once in the whole of creation, Sephiroth had a single flicker of control over his own existence. For once in the entirety of existence, Sephiroth made a decision for himself.

He'll have to live with that decision, alone, for eternity—but it was his.

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lady-phasma · 30 days

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In the fading light

Daemon Targaryen x fem Dornish!reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, but I was going for soft!Daemon so I don't think there are that many warnings this time.

Summary: Daemon comes to visit you at Godsgrace, the seat of House Allyrion, in Dorne. Kind of an AU in the sense that Rhaenyra isn't the object of his love, nor his motivation for "ending his marriage" to Rhea. 2.6k words

From the request here - romantic Daemon inspired by the song "kalam eineh" (Words of his eyes) by Sherine. I was able to work in a few lyrics as well ("the one whose eyes the moon envied" and "get lost in his beauty").

a/n: Dorne is a very big place and all of the houses are as different as the Northern houses. So as I write more Dornish!reader fics I start to see them uniquely in my headcanon. Godgrace is on a river from what my research tells me, so I think it worked out perfectly that Sherine is Egyptian. I've dropped some Egyptian elements into Godsgrace and that's how it is in my head now. (If there was a face claim for a location think Thebes/Luxor landscape.)

A warm breeze wafted onto the balcony where you and Daemon sat. The sun sank low against the horizon. The river in the distance shone with golds and pinks. A falcon screeched nearby. You turned from the gorgeous view of the Godsgrace river oasis to look at your Prince. He sat, reclined, opposite you. You slid your toes up the inside of his leg, teasing him. He stroked the top of your foot, your ankle, up your shin. Your smooth skin reflected the light of the setting sun much as the river did. Daemon slipped his fingertips under the hem of your thin skirt. The contrast of his pale hand under the bronze fabric was delightful to you. This Northern prince, so accustomed to clouds and darkness. Such a dreary land he came from.

You watched him as he looked out over the Greenblood river. It would be so easy to get lost in his beauty. His hair, his eyes, his mouth, everything about him was entrancing to you. You glanced back out at the river, the people going about their evening paying no attention to the lords and ladies so high above them. Birds circled above fishing boats as the nets were pulled in. Lights began to flicker in windows across the city. You smelled roasted meat and fresh baked bread on the warm air. You would have to dress for the evening meal, if you didn’t request it in your quarters.

“Did you come only because the fool Prince Martell forbade it?” You were genuinely curious. “Or because of your brother?”

“You know that is not the reason,” he spoke softly and continued to stroke your leg. “Their approval means less to me than you think.”

“You risk much coming to Godsgrace.” You wiggled your toes against his thigh.

“It is a fair price,” Daemon replied.

“Surely you are quite rested now, my love,” you goaded. “It is a long journey up the Greenblood, but not so tiring that you would ignore me.” You flashed your eyes at him. They were nearly the color of burnt umber in the fading light. Soon your maids would light torches and candles in your chambers. You would hear them through the diaphanous curtains that hung in the entry of the balcony. Though they would never dare to disturb you, even if you had your Targaryen on the floor in front of them.

Daemon turned his violet eyes toward you, finally pulled from his thoughts. Gods, you thought, even the moon could envy those eyes! The last pink of the sunset caught on his silver hair as it swung freely about his face, tendrils caught in the breeze.

“Quite rested,” he smirked as he spoke. He slipped his hand behind your knee and, reaching forward, grabbed your other leg and pulled you, bodily, to him. Your chair legs screeched against the stone floor as you threw your head back and laughed. When he had you where he wanted you, he smoothed his palms up the inside of your thighs. You rested your bare feet on the seat of his chair on either side of his legs. He pushed your skirt all the way up to your waist as he stared into your eyes. His thumbs grazed the creases of your thighs and you sighed.

“The journey was too long, but certain hindrances are now resolved,” his voice was low and quiet. “I am no longer married.”

You raised an eyebrow at these words. You trailed your fingertips down one of his forearms.

“I hope that it was painless, my prince,” you both knew the mocking of his title was not malicious. He was not your prince and you enjoyed reminding him of that. “You know, you could have stayed in Godsgrace and I could have sent one of my women to dispatch the issue quickly.” Your grin was knowing, yet seductive. Daemon’s response to Northern morality was curious to you. He didn’t want his wife, but could not bring himself to have another while she lived.

“I did not say I did the deed,” he tried not to smile. “Only that it was resolved.” Oh, he was deliciously vile when it suited him. You chuckled at this.

“Well, I had no trouble with the situation,” you grazed his thigh with one foot. “I needed only your devotion, not your marriage.”

“That you will always have, my lady,” he replied as he sank to his knees in front of you. You moved your foot to his shoulder, the other still in his chair, as you languidly spread your legs to make room for him. He looked up at you again, catching your eyes with his as he kissed your thigh, then your belly. You stroked one hand over his silky head as he lowered it and kissed the dark hair between your legs. You heard him inhale, smelling you, and you became even wetter.

Daemon licked the full length of your slit and paused at your pearl. He circled it with the tip of his tongue and you gripped the arms of your chair. He slid an arm around one thigh to steady you. Then he grazed a finger through your folds, finding your entrance quickly, as if he knew your geography by heart. He teased and didn’t slide inside you yet. He used two fingers to circle your opening, almost matching the rhythm of his tongue on your clit. Your hips rocked. You tried, and failed, to get his fingers inside. He stilled you as much as he could and continued for a moment that felt like an eternity.

When he finally slipped his fingers into your wet heat he sucked on your clit and your hands flew to the back of his head. You moaned and pushed against his mouth. You thought you felt him chuckle. You didn’t care. You ground your hips on his mouth and fingers.

“Daemon,” you whispered, as that was as loud as you could manage. “That’s it, just there. Please.”

He rubbed his fingertips against the spot that drove you wild, fighting against your clenching muscles. His tongue resumed its circling movements, but with a slightly quicker pace. Your breathing was becoming shallow and the sounds you made came deep from your chest. He pumped his fingers harder into you, knowing the pressure you needed to reach your climax. Your toes curled on his shoulder. You let go of his head, gripped the arms of your chair again, and your body curled forward as your climax overwhelmed you. You yelled his name, moaned incoherently, and then laughed. He hadn’t stopped, tongue still lapping causing your thighs to twitch. You playfully pushed at his forehead to give you peace.

You leaned forward and cupped his face in your hands. His expression wasn’t playful, as yours was. The look was full of something akin to admiration. You kissed him, roughly. You licked yourself from his lips, his tongue, and moaned into his mouth. He reached up and tangled his fingers into your hair at the nape of your neck, letting some of it loose from the pins that held it in place. Without much grace, he blindly began to release your hair from its confines.

Daemon broke your kiss and began to stand up. You let your fingers trail down his body as he did. You grazed your fingers over his pants, deliberately avoiding the hardness straining the fabric. He pulled pins and a comb from your hair, tossing them on the floor with abandon. You looked up at him, a playfully displeased look on your face for the carelessness he showed for your jewelry, and shook out your hair. It fell in near-black waves down your shoulders and back.

“I need you,” Daemon breathed. His eyes were dark with lust. Still looking up at him from your chair, you pressed your palm over his erection. His eyes nearly closed. His chest rose and fell, trying to maintain his composure. You pressed just a little harder. He grabbed your wrists. It didn’t hurt but made it evident that he couldn’t be teased this evening. You stood, your wrists still in his hands. You raised to tiptoes and pulled at his bottom lip with your teeth. Your eyes narrowed in defiance against being so restrained.

“That’s enough!” He threw you over his shoulder. You squealed and laughed, kicking your feet and pounding your fists lightly against his back. Your laughter bounced off the stone walls as he carried you through the curtains into your chambers. You pushed against him, raising your head to look at the two startled maids, and laughed harder.

“Let me go!” You giggled and kicked your feet but he only held your ankles as he walked you to the bed. You heard the two girls scamper from the room, giggling and twittering.

Daemon dropped you lightly on the bed. You were breathless from laughing. He smiled down at you, but that look was back. What had changed since he had gone North? Your laughter faded into giggles, which in turn faded into quick breaths as he knelt on the bed and kissed his way up your feet, calves, and thighs. He began to unfasten the ties of your skirt at your waist and you helped him with the small buttons of your delicate top.

He licked and kissed the curves of your exposed belly. He nuzzled his nose between your breasts, then kissed each of your nipples. You played with his silky hair, enjoying watching him worship you. When he reached your neck and jaw you began tugging on his shirt, pulling it toward his shoulders. He straightened long enough pull it over his head, then bent down to your mouth again. You kissed him back, hands gripping his neck, stroking his shoulders, down his biceps.

Daemon moved with you, still kissing, as you began to sit up. You gently pressed his shoulders back and guided him to lay down. You straddled his thighs and began pulling at the laces of his pants. He groaned at the pressure of your fingers. You stroked his freed cock, watching your hands move slowly. You enjoyed making him wait but you couldn’t wait any longer. You released him and begin to remove his breeches. Once you had both struggled with that for a moment, you trying not to giggle during the endeavor, you climbed up him and placed yourself on his belly. You could feel his cock pressing against your buttocks. You leaned forward and kissed him and he cupped both of your breasts in his hands.

You lifted your hips enough to reach between you and guide him into your wetness. He growled and squeezed your breasts a bit harder. Slowly, you took him inside you. You raised up, allowing him to keep his hands on you, and pressed your hands against his stomach as you rocked your hips. You took his cock as deep as you could. Gradually, at first, then setting a gentle pace that brought sweet sounds from Daemon’s lips. You leaned forward slightly, finding the angle you needed. He moved his hands, one to your neck, one to your hip. As you settled on a rhythm, he began to match you, thrusting upward slightly each time you rocked back on his cock.

You let your head fall forward, you hair sweeping forward, framing your face and his. Your fingers curled against his chest. You kept this pace as long as you could before your cunt began to ache with the beginnings of your climax. You slowed and Daemon took over. Gripping both of your hips, he fucked up into you, harder than you had been able to manage. His grunts made you squeeze around his cock. They were wonderful sounds that only increased your need for him.

You rested your face against his, pressing your cheeks together. Neither of you could stay quiet. Your name fell from his lips as fluidly as the curses he uttered. His fingers dug into your hips as he pulled you down onto each of his upward thrusts. The sound of flesh against flesh, lewd and satisfying. Your bodies glistened with sweat in the torch light. You wanted to open your eyes and look at him but the pleasure was too great.

“Yes, please, Daemon,” you whined in his ear. Your lips drug across his cheek as you searched for his mouth. You tried to kiss him. Instead you panted and moaned against his mouth. As your climax began the wave that would drown you, you heard his voice, much calmer than yours could have been in that moment.

“Look at me.” You did. He didn’t stop fucking you, but he held your gaze with those perfect eyes. “I love you. I would kill for you. I would kill anyone who kept us apart.”

Something in his eyes, not just his words, was your undoing. Your climax spread over you at the same time as it curled up inside you. You squeezed your thighs against his hips, almost stopping his movements entirely. You bent to him and kissed him, moaning and sighing, as you came.

Suddenly Daemon’s large arms encircled you and in your delirium you could hardly notice that he was moving you. You clung to his shoulders as he somehow, and gracefully, managed to lay you on your back. He had not pulled out. You wrapped your legs around his hips and ran your hands into his hair.

Daemon fucked you without restraint. You were coming down from your climax but your cunt gripped him tight and he grunted with each deep thrust. He shifted his weight to one hand and deftly scooped one of your legs into the crook of his arm. You bit your lower lip and looked up at him. He was watching you.

“Touch yourself,” he panted. “Come on my cock again.” His smile was enough to convince you, if his words hadn’t been.

So you did. You rubbed your fingers quickly, and in time with his strokes. When you were close again, you arched under him, head thrown back, Daemon’s mouth on your exposed neck. Then he pressed his hips against you as hard as he could. His cock buried completely inside you as he came. Your cunt spasmed around him and you both felt his seed fill you as your climax peaked. He cursed and tried to gently lower your leg. Your body shook and you were unable to help him. He chuckled and kissed your forehead.

As he slowly pulled out and away from you, you mewled and groaned, closing your thighs and squeezing them together. Daemon lowered himself down next to you, on his side. He rested his head on your chest. You smoothed his hair away from his forehead in a long stroke down to his back and sighed. You let your hand rest on his shoulder. He held you close to him.

The cool night breeze wicked the sweat off your skin. The torches guttered slightly. You wrapped one leg over Daemon’s. You wanted every part of your body touching his. You breathed in his smell mixed with your own and the dusty sweetness of Godsgrace coming in through the curtains.

“No one will come between us,” Daemon whispered against you.

“I know, my love, my dragon” you replied, lips brushing against the top of his head.

The sun had set and, perhaps, the dark was what he needed. In the light of day The Rogue Prince was rakish and disreputable. But at night, with you, he could shed that facade.

Masterlist

Tags: @black-dread

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axelsagewrites · 1 year

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Hii, I had a request...Robb and Jon having a crush on the same girl, maybe she could be the Bannerman daughter or something, just lots of teasing and rivalry and angst :)

Robb Stark and Jon Snow*Share

Pairing: Jon x f!reader, Robb x f!reader

Platonic: Sansa x reader

Word count: 3975

This is part one. Part two will be the smut.... (this was just too long to make into one part)

Masterlist Here

A/N: This is set with Sansa as being 15 and Robb, Jon, and the reader being 18. We’re also gonna pretend Westeros is still in a chill time with King Robert drinking away their money with Ned still alive and safe in Winterfell.

Robb and Jon were used to random Lords and Ladies staying at Winterfell for periods of time but when they saw their newest guest both had the same though. Gods she’s pretty. Your family where Bannerman’s of House Stark, ever loyal to Lord Eddard. Sansa had recently started whining, much to her brother’s dismay since it was all she talked about, that she had no need to be cared for by Septas or wet nurses any longer. She was determined she was old enough to not need to be constantly watched. However, when Catelyn suggested a lady in waiting Sansa jumped at the idea.

This was how you now stood in the courtyard at Winterfell, preparing to start your new journey. It was an honour for your house when you got the raven. Sansa was slightly younger than you, but you had remembered meeting her before at feasts and balls. You had also met Robb and Jon at these events but neither one had taken notice of you till now.

Robb slapped Jons shoulder to get his attention when he noticed you climbing out your carriage. “Is that (Y/N)?” he asked his half brother who looked up from where he was plucking arrows out the target he had just been practising with.

Jons eyebrows scrunched as he looked at the now woman who climbed out the carriage, “She did not look like that last time,” he said with a low voice.

“Tell me about it. Wait is she Sansa’s lady in waiting then?” he said, eyes not leaving the lady who was now being greeted in a hug by his mother.

“Your mother told us that last night,” Jon said rolling his eyes before glancing at the woman who was now merrily chatting with his half-sister, “Do you ever pay attention?”

“Not really,” Robb said with a chuckle as he took the bow from Jon, “Maybe I should from now on,” he joked. Robb did not attempt to hide his glances like Jon did. After all Jon was a bastard whereas Robb was used to the attention of the Northern ladies. However, this one had yet to look at either boy. “C’mon give me some arrows,” Robb said

“You hate archery,” Jon said despite handing him one of the arrows he had just plucked from the target. He moved back to allow Robb to line himself up with the target but couldn’t help noticing the glances he kept firing at (Y/N) while he began to load the bow. “Oh, gods you’re trying to woo her with your shit archery?” Jon smirked at his half-brother.

Robb shot Jon a glare, “Will you shut it?” he hissed glancing over to see if she had heard, which of course she had not, “Besides im not shit,”

“You’re not good,”

“Fuck you,”

“No thanks,”

“Fuck off Snow,”

Their scawbling however did get them noticed “Boys!” Catelyn called across the courtyard with a sharp look before turning back to the girls.

While Jon smirked Robb had noticed you looking over at him, a faint smile ghosting your lips that made him even more determined to show Jon he was wrong. Robbs eyes kept flickering back to you as he knocked his arrow and drew the string back. He enjoyed the feeling of your eyes on him as he did so. He finally turned his attention to the target. Taking a deep breath and rolling his shoulders back, he lined up his shot, breathed in then. Release.

The arrow hit the second inner ring of the target. Robb grinned to himself, knowing secretly that Jon was right about his shooting skills. But when he looked back, he realised you were no longer there. He sighed but when Jon began to laugh, he felt his skin grow hot. “Fuck up,” he said, shoving the bow back into Jons hands.

“You tried to woo her with archery, and she didn’t even stay to watch,” Jon couldn’t control his laughter. He had noticed you walking away as soon as Robb turned his attention to the target but did not say anything as he wanted to enjoy the view of you undisturbed. The bonus was of course his brother’s ego being knocked off its high horse.

“Please like you could do any better,” Robb grumbled as he retrieved the arrow.

“I could,” Jon said, chest puffed, and shoulders raised, “Girls like me,”

“What girls?” It was Robbs turn to laugh, “I can’t even imagine you flirting,”

“You tried to flirt with an arrow,” Jon shot back.

Robb rolled his eyes, “Mate trust me,” Robb said, putting a hand on Jons shoulder which he quickly shrugged off, “She likes me,”

“She’s been here for two minutes,” Jon rolled his eyes.

“We’ll see,”

“Yeah. We will,”

“Fine,”

“Good,”

“Whatever,”

Theon walked over to the bickering duo, “What are you two on about now?”

“Nothing,” The brothers said in unison before storming off in separate directions.

----

What did Robb know about girls anyway? Jon wondered as he walked the halls of Winterfell. Sure, he had girls’ attention because of his position but that doesn’t count. Besides Jon knew how to flirt. All be it he didn’t do it very often, but he was sure in theory he would do just fine. Why did Robb deserve you more than him anyway?

His mind soon went from frustration to thinking of you and suddenly his problems began to melt away. When he had noticed you, it was like all the air had been knocked out his lungs. Out of all the ladies he had seen you were by far the prettiest. The wide smile you wore when greeting his sister had warmed his heart from all the Norths cold. All he had been able to see was your hair and face due to the large clock you had been wearing but as his mind wandered, he couldn’t help but wondering what you looked like beneath it.

Jon was quickly snapped out his thoughts when he felt someone clash against his chest. His arm shoots out to grab the persons arm to steady them. “Apologies my- “Jon looked up to the person he had literally ran into and he felt his cheeks flush. “My lady I did not see you,” he stuttered, eyes flickering away from you in embarrassment.

“Jon?” You asked and he could hear the smile in your voice, “I hardly recognised you. It has been so long,” Jon couldn’t help the smile that spread on his face when he saw your wide grin. “You’ve grown,”

“As have you,” he said before his face fell, “not like that well like not in a bad way my lady- “

“It’s okay,” you laughed, “I know what you mean Jon. You have never been anything kind to me,”

Jon cleared his throat as he tried to stand tall, pretending he hadn’t made a complete arse of himself in front of you, “Are you off anywhere particular this evening my lady?”

“So formal,” you laughed hitting your shoulder as you continued your walk, Jon quickly turning to follow, “I was going to sneak to the kitchens to try squeeze a snack in before dinner. Mother forgot to pack us any food for our travels,”

“You don’t have to sneak my lady. You are a guest im sure lord stark would be more than happy to see you fed,”

“But is it not so much more fun this way?” you said in a low teasing voice, “I remember how we used to sneak away with Robb during feasts. Don’t act like you don’t like it this way,” Jon blushed at your words as a completely different potential scenario flashed across his mind, “Perhaps you could escort me to the kitchens?” your voice snapped him back to reality.

Jon cleared his throat, “Of course my lady,” Jon said as he took your arm you had outstretched to him.

You rolled your eyes as your arms linked, “You don’t need to be so formal Jon. No ones listening anyway. Besides we have so much caught up to do,” Jon had almost forgotten how chatty you had been but was glad to see the quality had not gone away.

Jon laughed along in your conversation, and grinned when his own jokes made loud laughs come from your mouth. Within minutes he was already so comfortable beside you like he had spent a lifetime by your side. However what Jon hadn’t noticed was Robb Starks icy glare when he spotted the two sneaking down the kitchen stairway.

---

When dinner time had rolled around you were informed by Sansa you would be joining the Starks at their table, which you found out included Jon which you were secretly pleased about. When you walked in the room the only ones at the table were Catelyn and Robb who grinned when you entered. You tried to hide your blush when you noticed his perfect smile. Robb had also changed from when you last saw him, and he had grown at least a head in height.

At both ends of the table sat a larger chair, one of which Catelyn was currently occupying. Three chairs ran down one side of the table, four on the other. Robb sat beside his mother on the side with three chairs, leaving two left. “Lady (y/n),” he greeted when you entered, “I hadn’t known you were joining us my lady,” he had. He had asked his mother who shot him a silent questioning look, “Allow me,” he said as he pulled the chair next to him out for you.

You laughed lightly as you took your seat, Robb pushing it in for you with a smile before taking his own chair. Sansa rolled her eyes at her brothers’ antics as she sat beside you, “She’s my friend not yours,” she grumbled.

“Sansa!” Catelyn said sharply, “She is our guest as much as she is your lady,” you did your best to not laugh but a small smile graced your lips, “Sorry about that (Y/N),” she said with a sorry smile.

“Its okay Lady Catelyn,” you said.

“Call me Cat,” she said with a smile, but the conversation was interrupted as the youngest three Starks sprinted into the room. “Behave you lot,” Cat said as she helped the youngest Rickon into the chair beside her. Bran and Arya took the two closest chairs to the empty one at the head of the table, leaving the one across from you free. Robb mentally scowled at his siblings but figured sitting beside you had the far superior advantage.

When Jon arrived, their father was with him and as the two took their seats the food was brought out. The way you and Jon smiled at each other made Robb wanna roll his eyes, but he resisted as he acted the perfect gentleman. As dinner went on Sansa kept stealing your attention which Robb figured was at least better than Jon doing so. He thought he would never get to talk to you.

Until that is you turned to him, “Don’t you think so too Robb?” your voice brought him back from his daydreaming about you. he hummed in response as he came out his daze, “I was saying to Sansa how she should go horse riding more often. Riding can be so thrilling after all,” Robb tried not to blush when he thought of what he would rather you be riding. “You do still enjoy horse riding?” you said with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh yeah of course,” he said quickly, “Sorry my mind has been preoccupied lately,” he said causing Jon to roll his eyes, “but Sansa trust her there are few things better than it. (Y/N) always knew how to have fun,” he said with a smile which made you blush and quickly turn to face Sansa, but Robb had saw it. he looked at Jon with a slight smirk which only made the boy roll his eyes and look away. When Robb heard Sansa and you discussing plans to go riding tomorrow, he had a plan.

-----

Robb wasn’t being weird by being close by the stables around the time he knew you would be coming by. He just was tending to his own horse. Definitely of course, a complete accident that he was there when you appeared with Sansa in tow laughing about something. “Robb,” you exclaimed when you noticed him, “Are you joining us?” you said glancing at Sansa.

Sansa quickly shook her head saying a firm no. Robb rolled his eyes at his little sister, “I was just tending to my horse my lady,”

“That’s sweet,” you said as Sansa went off to retrieve her mother’s horse which she had said she could borrow before they decided to get her one of her own, “So many lords just toss their reigns aside when they’re done,”

Robb chuckled as he stepped away from his horse and followed you to yours, “Do you ride often my lady?”

“I try to at least go a few times a week,” you said as you took you went to saddle your horse only for Robb to step in.

“Allow me,” he said as he readied your horse for you.

You laughed gently, stepping back to allow him to do so, “Thanks Robbie,” you said as he did up the leather and clasped.

Robb couldn’t help his blush at the nickname you had been using with him since childhood, “Its no problem,” he assured before stepping back from the horse, “That’s you all set,”

“Help me up?” you asked as you stepped closer to the horse. Robb couldn’t help but notice your slight smirk when you had asked and with a quick inhale and a sudden wave of confidence, he stepped forward to pick you up by your hips and place you on your horse. You giggled as he did so and quickly steady yourself on the saddle, “I didn’t realise how strong you had got,”

Robb grinned at your comment, “Thank you my lady. Sometimes I don’t notice my own strength,”

“Then I feel bad for whoever ends up at the other end of your sword,” you laughed.

“You should watch me practise someday,” Robb said, “I do almost everyday at the training grounds,”

“I’ll have to stop by sometime,” you smiled down at him as Sansa trotted over on her horse. “Ready?” you asked the girl.

“I am if you stop flirting with my brother,” she smirked before riding out of the stable. Robb would’ve been embarrassed if he had not seen how your face had flushed and how you quickly rode after her. wait till Jon heard what you had been saying.

----

“You can’t just grab a ladies’ hips,” Jon said, wide eyed. The pair were in the training yard getting ready to practise some sparring.

Robb smirked, “Really? Cause I did,” he said as he grabbed his practise sword off the rack, “Good hips by the way,” Jon rolled his eyes at his brothers’ antics, “You’re just mad that she likes me,”

“Maybe she was blushing because she was so embarrassed at the idea of flirting with you,” Jon said making Robb grumble, “At least she thinks im funny,” he added while he took his stance across from Robb.

Robb struck first. “Funny looking,” he said as their swords clashed.

“Fuck up,” he snapped, and Robb grinned. The grin fell when Jon took his own strike, quicker than Robb and harder too, “Are you really gonna let a girl come between us?”

As soon as Robb caught up to his brother’s speed, he replied, “If you won’t admit she likes me and not you then yeah,” Robb smirked only making his brother groan and knock Robb hard enough to drop his sword.

Robb cursed under his breath as he picked it up and took stance again. However, as he was doing this Robb happened to notice a certain someone walking into the training yard, arms linked with his sister. Robbs jaw almost dropped as he saw the new dress you must have recently made that was far more form showing than any of your other cloaks had been. He could see your curves even under the thick fabric and it made him strike his next blow even harder.

Jon was almost caught off guard at his brother’s seriousness however he had sparred with Robb long enough to know he only fought like this when he was angry. While he didn’t see the anger in his eyes, he knew how he would mess up. Jon only had to spar another few blows with the Tully boy before his footing got sloppy and Jon was able to knock his legs out from under neath him. “Cheap shot,” Robb spat as he pulled himself up from the hard ground.

Soft claps rang out over the training ground and Jon spun to see what had caused his brothers sudden intensity. And gods did he understand when he saw the smile perched on your lips as you clapped for him. Jon turned back to his brother with a smirk, “You’re just made she likes me,” he said emulating his previous words.

Robbs sword moved before Jon even had a chance to raise his own causing him to need to duck to dodge the blow. Sansa had never seen her brothers practise with such intensity or for any of their sparring to last so long. she glanced at you who was watching the pair intently and suddenly seemed to realise her brothers’ peculiar actions for the past week. “We should go,” she said softly.

At this point Robb had just managed to knock Jon to his feet. Again, you clapped before reluctantly drawing your eyes away and continuing your walk with Sansa. You couldn’t resist waving to the pair however as you were walking past. You smiled at the dopey grins on their faces as they waved back.

----

For the next few weeks, the pair continued their relentless bickering and it turned into a competition of sorts. Every time one managed a private moment alone with you the other was around the corner to get the same. Jon would go out of his way to escort you to places you already knew the way to such as the kitchens or gods wood, but you never complained, enjoying his jokes along the way. Robb began to escort you and his sisters horse rides, much to Sansa’s annoyance, and suddenly took far more of an interest in the library after he noticed your frequent visits. One of Robbs favourite sights was watching as you curled up with a book in an armchair by the fire in the library. He thought you didn’t notice his shameless stares and gazes, but you had.

You had also noticed the way Jons cheeks tinged pink each time you laughed at his joke or touched his arm. Robb did not blush the way Jon did, but you began to notice his lingering touches when he helps you on your horse or past you a book off the top shelf. The attention was something you had grown rather fond of and weren’t about to complain about.

Sansa however was a different story. She was sick of her brothers bickering, something all the Starks agreed upon but only she had noticed why. She was also sick of her brothers both crashing her talks with you or stealing you away. “You do realise they’re both totally in love with you?” she asked as you sat with her in her chambers doing some embroidery, the one place they wouldn’t disturb you.

You blushed at her words, “I wouldn’t say they’re in love,”

“Okay but you do know that they like you like you,” she clarified rolling her eyes. You had grown fond of the admittedly sassy Sansa Stark, “They’re gonna end up killing each other,”

“That’d be no fun,” you fake pouted before laughing as she rolled her eyes, “What do you want me to do? I didn’t ask them to fight over me,” even as you said it the words felt silly. Sansa sat her threads down, giving you the classic Sansa face you had grown to hate and love all at once. “Fine, I’ll talk to them,”

“Thank you,” she smirked before turning back to her threads, “Maybe they’ll finally give us some peace,” she said and all you could do was laugh at the irony of her demanding your attention while being upset about her brothers doing the same.

---

You hadn’t expected to talk to the boys as soon as you left but as you were walking from Sansa’s chambers to go find them you paused when you heard Robbs voice around the corner. “Maybe you should just back off,”

“Why do I need to back of?” When you heard Jons voice you slowly crept closer to the corner, pressing yourself against the wall just before the bend to hear properly, “Not everything is about you Stark,”

“Same for you Snow,” the venom was practically dripping off their voices. It would be concerning if the sound hadn’t sent a shiver up your spine at the hotness of the situation. The two most handsome men in Winterfell arguing over you? how could you complain?

“Well maybe we let her choose,” Jon said.

“Maybe we should,” Robb spat back.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to reveal yourself as you walked round the corner. Jons eyes grew wide when he saw you emerge and Robb quickly spun on his heels, his jaw slackening slightly at the sight. “My lady- “he began to stutter.

You held your hands up and he quickly stopped. You took a deep breath as you glanced around the corridors, “I think its time we had a little talk,” you said to the boys as you walked closer. The two almost hung their heads in shame, “Let’s go somewhere more private,” you said as you brushed past them and began to walk to your chambers.

The pair followed silently, tails between their legs when they realised, they had been caught. “This is your fault,” Robb mumbled but he groaned when Jon stuck his elbow into his side.

Luckily your room was not far, and you were soon ushering the pair in, latching the door behind you before facing them with your back pressed against the door. “What exactly am I supposed to be choosing?” you asked, eyebrow raised with a secret idea toying in your mind.

“My lady we can explain,” Jon began to stammer, cheeks going that cute shade of pink again, “Robb and I well we- “

“We both have an affection for you,” Robb continued trying to sound confident, but his voice failed him, “And we have been uh debating,” Robb said causing you to laugh.

“Debating?” you questioned, “It sounded more like an argument,” this time it was Robbs turn to blush.

Jon continued for his brother, “We just were trying to figure out which one of us you liked. Assuming you do like one of us,”

“I might,” you said with a slight smirk causing both boys heads to snap up, their eyes watching you intently.

“Well, which one of us is it?” Robb asked with eager eyes. He was internally praying to the gods to give him some luck or at least to have him swallowed up by the grounds if he was wrong about your affection. Jon was silently thinking the same.

You couldn’t help but laugh a little, “Who said it was one of you?” you said with a slight smirk. Both boys looked confused at your words. Pushing yourself off the door, you walked closer to the pair, “Would it be so bad if I didn’t choose? Were you not taught how to share?”

Part Two Here - Competition

Game of Thrones Taglist: @clairacassidy @nyotamalfoy

#robb stark angst #robb stark fluff #robb stark x reader #robb stark imagine #robb stark #robb stark smut #jon snow x reader #jon snow imagine #jon snow angst #jon snow #jon snow smut #jon snow fluff #game of thrones smut #game of thrones #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones x reader

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wbicepuppy · 10 months

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Acrylics paintings! Disregard the northern flicker, it's sandwiched between some of my best work ever... (California condor was a comission!)

#my art #bird art

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tadpolesonalgae · 2 months

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Fear of the Dark

Dark!Ghost!Azriel x reader

synopsis: after escaping from the Shadowsinger, the High Lord provides you with a new home, in a location entirely of your own choosing. One that just so happens to be frequently visited by window-rattling blizzards, and snow so heavy you’ll often find yourself trapped within the supposedly safe haven. But when things begin moving on their own, and shadows stalk your well-lit halls, you begin to think maybe the Spymaster somehow eluded death, too.

warnings: references to implied noncon, dark!az, paranormal events, nonconsensual touching (shoulders, mouth, hip)

a/n: dedicating this to @azrielhours , and inspired by her wonderful Company of Phantoms🧡💛

want to know more?

word count: 1,963

-Fear of the Cold-

It’s been six months since he died in the fire.

Six months of roaring screams echoing through the desolate hallways.

Half a year.

It goes by quickly when swallowed by delusion. Of persistent psychosis.

Of imagined shadows stalking your corridors. Of dragging footsteps just outside your chambers. Of the windows rattling, and not from the sudden blizzards that sometimes hit—seemingly out of nowhere. Unpredictable, and haunting.

Some days you’ll wake up, greeted by the barren landscape or grey skies and greyer rock, and others all that lays there is white. Blinding, dominating white, like a blanket smothering the harsh, unforgiving terrain.

You know why you picked here to be your place of refuge. For complete isolation.

The rocky landscape means no one could stumble upon your house without intention, tucked up in the sides of the rugged mountain, weathered by icy rain and lashing winds that could make the blood in your fingertips recoil in the space of a breath. Cold so penetrating it could snatch the air from your lungs.

Few understand the true horror of the cold.

Absolute, inescapable cold.

Nature’s blade, that could cleave glaciers in two.

With the stormy skies, there is no access by air. Winged creatures staying clear of your northern-facing home. And yet, despite the utter isolation, you’re faced with company.

After not even a week in your new house, the hairs had been rising at the back of your neck. Unexplainable drafts ghosting up your spine, or kissing the length of your throat. Doors clicking shut during the grey hours of limited daylight. Books that fall from low shelves, the chandeliers that swing softly when you enter a room, plates that appear where they hadn’t been left.

It’s rarely dark in your house, but the weight is smothering. Every corner is kept clear of shadow, flame purging the darkness with a quiet conviction that feels almost reassuring. But there’s nothing reassuring about your new home. Forearms almost constantly littered in goosebumps, hairs rising, skin prickling.

Even at night, candles burn away at the dark, eating at every shadow that tries to crawl in from the cold. But it feels like lighting a fire in the barren wasteland of the frozen tundra. Flame blazing with superficial strength, until it melts the snow bowing the branches far above, ice slipping free, and smothering the fire in one smooth avalanche.

The glass is rattling again, deathly cold wind whipping, icy rain lashing down as you try to lower yourself into sleep. But every time you near that precipice, something pulls you back: the groan of heavy wooden beams that creak through your house, flame flickering with dwindling light as if blown by a ghostly breath, a strange coldness rising from the foot of your bed. That seeps into your blankets first, then spreads to your feet. Slowly crawling up your body, until you’re wrapped in the haunting embrace of long-dead arms.

Even fire can’t always clear his kind of dark.

Dark that smothers, and festers. That concentrates in the hollow space beneath your bed, that hides in the softness of your pillow, that lurks in the pits of your pupils.

He found a way inside, and now he’s sunk his claws in. Like hooked blades that disembowel when they’re extracted. You’d have to empty your brains out into a bucket to be free of him.

Even then, your body would remember. His touch memorised into the tissue of skin, his terror embedded in the sinew of flesh.

The window spiderwebs, the distinct sound of fracturing glass dumping icy water over your near sleeping form. Hauling you up from the pit of an ocean, wrapped in seaweed to face the stormy grit of the blizzard outside.

Instead, your attention is sucked in by the ever-shifting shadow at the foot of your bed, chilling wind pouring in through the glass, candles winking out. Swallowed in darkness.

The air is pulled from your lungs faster than the cold can snatch it, sat bolt upright in your still-cooling bed.

The darkness holds no recognisable form, simply clustered together as a writhing mass of overwhelming shadow, but there’s no mistaking who it is. Who lurks beneath those suffocatingly concentrated umbras. Inky and undulating.

You’re frozen to your mattress, an icicle thawing out far above as it drips cold sweat down onto your brow, every breath biting at your lungs, making your throat raw.

It’s dark, and you have no protection as he looms so tauntingly before you, hands trembling as they try to grip the freezing sheets. But you can hardly move.

Air chokes in your throat as the shadowy mass expands forward, encroaching toward the foot of your bed. Your eyes widen with terror, watching as talons of darkness spider-crawl onto your duvet, feet recoiling like hot blood against the cold, knees pulling up to your chest, back pressed against the headboard.

“You’re dead,” you breathe out, air thin and slippery between your lips. “You’re dead. You can’t hurt me.”

Your stomach seizes, lurching as the shadowy tendrils stutter in their movements, like shoulders shaking with silent mirth. You get the feeling he’s laughing. Crawling closer still.

He reaches past your feet, darkness swarming over your knees, and within the cloying night you can feel the weight of hands. Of heavy, corporeal touch. One that sinks into your bones as they tremble with old fear.

“You can’t be here,” you whisper, pressing tight into the cold cushioning of the headboard, head tucking into your shoulders as you try to pull away from his overwhelming darkness, writhing throughout the deathly cold room, his touch like ice. “Leave me…” you breathe, voice breaking.

The weight of a palm weighs into the mattress, beside your hip, tying you in place as the living night, faceless and dominating, swells above you.

Your hand reaches sharply for your bedside table, viciously shaking fingers fumbling with the box of matches, sliding the cardboard out with a last trembling hope. Again the darkness stutters, a shadowy laugh whispering beside your ear, an icy draft kissing up the length of your throat.

The match strikes…once…twice…three time before sizzling into a small lick of flame.

In the few seconds of light you’re afforded, shadow easily melts away, pulling out instead hauntingly dark hazel eyes, piercing as the flame sharpens them. The cold, dead mouth that had once hungrily claimed your own, teeth dragging and prominent as they bit you into pieces. The eerily pale tones of his face, warmth vacant from the smooth planes.

You choke on a breath.

Soft, cruel lips curve at the edge, eyes twinkling with the reflection of your match, before his weight shifts over the bed and scarred, calloused fingers pinch out the flame. Skin that remembers its burn now extinguishing it without thought, freed from its sizzling agony.

You scream into the darkness, sinking down into the false safety of your duvet, hauling it over your head as you tuck yourself tight, trembling violently despite desperate attempts to still yourself. A cry breaks from your lips as you feel himself lower over you, directly atop you, trapped beneath his bulk. A cannonball shackled to your ankle, pulling you beneath a frozen lake, blood icing in your veins.

He shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be alive.

You heard him die, watched as the flesh slid from his bones, muscle melting beneath the blazing inferno of the house fire.

You smelled it. Could taste it in the smokey air.

“Come out…come out…,” the shadow rasps mirthfully, weight brushing atop the blanket, stroking down your arm, drifting to your hip. Touch biting into bone. “Come out…and play…”

“Go away,” you beg under your breath, squeezing yourself tight, tears burning as they drip over the bridge of your nose, sliding off your face. “Leave me alone…”

The darkness laughs, and your stomach seizes as the duvet is slowly pulled back, dragged firmly from your grip. Numbed fingers try to grapple with the sheets, but he’s so much stronger than you. Just as he’s always been.

“Stop it…” you beg, trying to turn to the side as the blanket is pulled away, revealing his swarming darkness that looms above, with a weight that should not be possible. A spectre should not be corporeal, should not have the right to touch the living. He should have lost that privilege upon passing.

Icy fingertips brush your cheek, and a small cry breaks from your lips, quiet and terrified, eyes squeezed shut in feeble attempts to keep him out as the storm rages.

He dips down, and chilly breath grazes the space beneath your jaw, a whimper pulling from your throat as a broad palm makes its way up your front, settling across your sternum heavily, pressing down on your chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“Please…” you whisper, crying now, “just leave me alone…”

His cold mouth opens over your neck, soft lips sealing over a patch of skin as he tastes you, tongue slowly licking over the junction between your shoulder and neck. Darkness shrouds your bedroom, encasing you in a perpetually cold bubble, sealing out the lashing wind and rain, but trapping you in mist. Thick and impenetrable.

The phantom pulls away, lips grazing your jaw, and even with your eyes closed you can feel his proximity. The piercing weight of his attention as it presses up against your skin.

“Call out for me,” he rasps, voice shadowy and shifting, as if speaking in multiple tones at once. “Call out for me,” he urges, coldness thumbing across your cheek, as if trying to coax your eyes to open. So he can feel their warmth, and their terror.

But you shake your head, teeth chattering as you shiver, shuddering beneath his touch. “Go away,” you beg, “leave me alone.”

A soft puff of breath ghosts over your lips, like a faint laugh, and you shrink back into the mattress while his shadows wrap closer around your body, squeezing like serpents. “Call out for me,” he repeats, his gaze roving over your mouth, parted for air despite its bite.

Hot tears scald your skin as they drip out, peeking open your eyes, as breath is again snatched from your body. A mountain of pressure sitting atop your chest.

He’s as haunting as you remember, cruelly carved beauty, hewn from an ice that tries to be soft, but will only end up flooding if it thaws. Drowning you in his deadly affection. Filling your lungs until they’re close to bursting with his poisonous infatuation.

Hazel eyes flicker as they greedily devour your own, overwhelming and immense as you’re submerged into his obsession. Saturated in his hunger. Starvation so deep it persists after death.

“Azriel…” you breathe, lips trembling around his name, feeling as though its the last line of an enchantment, solidifying his presence, binding him to your own mortality.

Soft lips curve at their edges, a spark of life stolen from your existence. Fed off of, until he’s permanently entwined with your being. Persistent and parasitical.

He hums lowly, approvingly, and you swallow. Fear making you feel sick.

Slowly, as if basking in the descent, he settles his mouth atop your own, snow-soft lips slanting against a frozen stiff set, applying gentle pressure as he savours the feeling.

He still moves with such grace, such innate refinement that between the two of you, you seem the more lifeless. With unmoving limbs, and vacant eyes, you are the more dead.

The shadows pull away, blood gingerly rising to where his touch had been.

“I’ll return,” he whispers, mouth still faintly curved into a soft deception of tenderness.

Flickering night morphs and shifts, dissolving along with the wind.

“Find me in the dark.”

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya

dark!az taglist: @honeyandhalfmoons

#azriel x reader #dark!azriel x reader #dark!azriel #ghost!azriel #dark!azriel x you #azriel fic #dark!azriel fic #fear of the dark

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nsharks · 1 year

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part five —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3.5k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. lowkey cannibalism implication. reader menstruates. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I’m really going for the slow burn sorry

The days are difficult to keep track of.

You don’t have a calendar. Instead, you begin making mental markers of events in your head. 29 days since you left your old camp. 22 days since Ghost nearly killed you. 10 days since your face became the potential meal for another human.

10 days since Blue disobeyed her skull-faced father.

He hasn’t sent you away yet. You figure the two of you are in the clear. Still, you have found yourself avoiding his dark stare even more than before.

“Don’t worry,” Blue had told you the second night she came to gently anoint your arm. “I was careful about it. I memorized the way the tube was in the kit, and I’m putting it back exaaaactly the same. I used to sneak some extra Nutella from our storage and Ghost only caught me in the beginning. I’ve gotten better at sneaking past him, okay?”

All you could do was cling to the little piece of trust you shared with her. Ten days later, the memory of it has now congealed into a thick, baby-pink scar, just like the one beneath your ribs. The pain has softened to tenderness. You used your knife to clip off the stitches.

This morning, the usual soft-tailed alarm wakes you up. A bright grin hovers above your head.

“Special day today,” Blue announces. Lazily, you rub your eyes. Yesterday was the first day you managed to kill a deer. You hung the meat up over a fire to smoke it for preservation. For once, the feeling of a stuffed stomach sang you into a deep sleep.

“What?” you ask, blinking away your slumber as you touch a hand over your abdomen. You can still feel where last night’s dinner is nestled.

“It’s my birthday,” she says. Grim flutters over your arm as she sits down beside you. Naturally, your legs move over to allow just the right amount of space for her. You’ve grown used to this guest in your shed.

“Your birthday?” You sit up. “What day is it today?”

“February 19th,” she recites. Of course. Ghost probably keeps track.

Then, her hand slips something into your palm. Something small, hard, and wrapped in plastic. You flicker your gaze to the smuggled good— a little sweet. When you look back at her, she sheepishly reveals to you the other three she has in her pocket.

“I’m only allowed to have four on my birthday,” she explains. “Thought you would want one to celebrate.”

“Thanks.” Your lips etch up at the corner. “Happy birthday.”

Even tiny offerings like this can make you nervous. They aren’t nearly as lucrative or important as antiseptic. In the hall where their bedroom doors and the bathroom are, you’ve spotted a fourth door at the end where they dip in and out for stored food. They have nonperishables. Their rabbits will always breed. Ghost can always hunt. But pharmacies won’t restock their shelves.

Still, you instinctively crane your head forward to peek out the door of your shed, searching for her father’s shadow.

Blue notices.

“He’s making breakfast. Don’t worry.” Then, under her breath, she adds: “Besides... it is mine to give if I want to."

You pop it in your mouth.

“Fuck— wow,” you sputter, and Blue giggles. The sugary taste is even stranger than the fullness in your gut. You can’t remember the last time you ate anything that wasn’t stale, foraged, or killed.

Here in the small shed, the two of you suck on your candies for a quiet moment before breakfast. The pretty snow outside has melted, but the Northern air remains cold and bleak. Bare soil and scattered twigs lay under your boots when you finally head to the cabin.

Despite your fat dinner from the night before, you indulge in an equally heavy breakfast of smoked venison. Your body still has some catching up to do. Ghost and Blue’s breakfast consists of Grim’s sister, apparently. She gives at least three apologies to him for it.

You’re not sure what Ghost manages for Blue’s birthday. You can’t recall how you celebrated that last birthday of yours - the one before the world ended. You never bothered celebrating anymore of them after that even though Paul used to keep his own calendar going. It seemed pointless. When your nephew was still alive, you tried putting effort into his. You’d find a twig for each of his years and stick them in the ground for him to blow the flames off of. You would make a little crown for him out of flowers. It was enough to make his eyes light up, even if only for a day.

But he died at age seven. Then, there were no more birthdays celebrated.

To your surprise, Ghost fishes something out of his pocket after breakfast. Metal that clanks and sings. Car keys.

So it really is a vehicle back there?

“C’mon, kid. Get your coat.”

“She’s coming, too, right?” Blue’s eyes flicker to you as she stands from the table.

Come where?

The masked joints of Ghost’s jaw clench with a spark of irritation. Avoiding him has been easy. He usually doesn’t talk to you, anyway. Your interactions have been kept to asking him for rags and soap to bathe with and him watching you braid Blue’s hair.

But now he gives you a brief stare and mumbles plainly, “Thought we might just put her in the trench while we’re gone.”

An audible, sharp breath floods your ribs.

“He doesn’t mean that,” Blue is quick to assure you with an uneasy smile before she gives him a pointed look. “It is my birthday and I am inviting her, okay?”

This is one where Ghost doesn’t put up a fight.

So it is today that you see what resides under the tarp behind their cabin. Ghost lifts it back to reveal a faded-black pickup truck. Your irritation from the sight only swells when you see that there is a kayak in the truck bed. Another part of his emergency plan, maybe? What doesn't he have?

Ghost opens the door, lowers the front seat, and sends you to the back. Blue gets the passenger side.

As her father wraps around the hood to get in, Blue looks over the seat and chimes, “Cool, huh?” You nod. “It’s only for emergencies, you know. But we go for little drives sometimes so it doesn’t stop working. Right, Ghost?”

He hums a low response as he sits in front of the wheel.

You touch your hands over the cracked leather seat beneath you. The inside smells like faded bourbon and ash. You notice an old cigarette tray in the front. This feels like a snapshot of Ghost’s old life, perhaps the one outside of the military. Maybe whatever version of him used to drive this car actually used his real name and wore an exposed face. Maybe he used to put an infant-version of Blue in a carseat in the back. For the first time, a small wonder of who else could have sat in here with the two of them - the parent that is missing - touches your brain, but you are quick to swallow it. That history isn’t worth the risk that could come from asking about it.

The engine awakens with a few coughs and you notice that the reader on the dash indicates that the fuel is just below full. What you are finally willing to pry about forms as a question under your breath.

“How did you get all this?”

Dark eyes flick to meet your gaze in the rear-view mirror. Swallowing, you hold his stare for only a moment before Blue is the one to answer you.

“Ghost knew about everything before the rest of the world,” she explains, furrowing her brows. “I thought I told you that already.”

“What?”

“You know,” she waves a hand around, “Military? Special Air Service? He knew.”

You didn’t even think of that. The rest of you knew nothing and suffered. Ghost knew ahead of time and could prepare.

He stops her from continuing by giving a gentle nudge to her shoulder. “Gonna pick out the music or am I doing it?”

You shake away the thoughts. Your ears perk up. Music?

“No.” Blue instantly flies her hands to the glove compartment where a small stash of CDs slips out. “I’m picking! It’s my birthday.”

It is almost dizzying, how unfamiliar this is to you. Adrenaline, hunger, grief— you understand these well. Listening to the CD that Blue pops in the tray as Ghost starts driving? This is weird. You don’t know what it is you feel. Loud drums and sharp guitars fill your ears along with the hum of the truck. The tires slowly snap over twigs on the ground. Blue merrily sings - screams, even - along to the song. Can you remember it? You search through the crevices of your brain. Of course. Nirvana.

It is a short drive.

Ghost’s gloved hand lazily steers the wheel through a routine path in the trees. He must follow the same one every time they do this. Blue rolls down the window and sticks her head out so the light wind can dance with her hair.

She feels safer to look at. She always does. She is the one who wants you here; he probably brought you only because he doesn’t trust you alone at their camp. So your eyes settle on Blue. Your fingers thoughtlessly slip under the sleeve of your shirt and pick at the healed scar on your arm. You watch her beam and act like the child she is. You listen to the music. You don’t know when you will ever get the chance to again.

The drive only lasts two songs. Ghost may have to get the car going a bit, but he is not willing to waste precious fuel. He goes in a few circles before driving to the pond. He helps Blue out. He almost forgets to lower the seat for you. Blue has to remind him with a hissed "Dad" and a tug on his hand.

The pond is quiet and all liquid now. There hasn’t been another growling visitor here since the one Ghost killed. You’re not sure what he did with the corpse of the man, but it was gone shortly after that day.

Ghost lifts Blue up into the truck bed, right next to the kayak. You find a tree stump to sit on a few paces away. He slips out two cans from his pockets— you squint and make out tuna and peaches. They must be favorites of hers saved for her birthday because she eats them all by herself.

“Eleven, huh?” Ghost leans against the side of the truck as she snacks. He pretends you aren’t there. He ruffles her hair. “Big year, kid. Feel different?”

“Not yet,” she says with her mouth full. Her porcelain cheeks flush as she looks at him. “Did you feel different at eleven?”

“Can’t remember,” Ghost mutters lowly, but you can hear him. You try not to look. “Long time ago.”

"Soooo long ago, huh?" she smirks. "Old man."

"Come off it," he says, but amusement hides under the gravel of his voice. "Don't call me that."

"Why?" she pokes further. There is room for it here. He is not scolding. Her voice turns hushed. "Do I have to respect my elders?"

"Bloody fuckin' hell," he groans.

He makes a move to take away her canned peaches. Blue holds it up and scoots away. Ghost could still get it if he wanted. He's not really trying.

You decide to look at the dirt before either of them catches your staring, but when their bickering ceases, Blue points a question in your direction.

“Hey... Do you remember being eleven?”

You lift your head up, suddenly thrown off. You feel two sets of eyes on you now as your brain searches for some answer, knowing well that it is one Ghost will hear.

You can barely remember what Nirvana sounds like. Age eleven? The memories are stored in fragments under all the mud. Your old school. Your sister. Your friends. That house in Norbury. The yard where you stopped playing in the dirt because you suddenly grew interested in boys, instead. You try to fit all the pieces together, but it doesn't feel like you who lived through it all.

“I remember…” you rub one hand over the dry knuckles of the other and fight the brief moisture that threatens your eyes. You are not willing for Ghost to see a tear slip.

“I do remember feeling different.”

That is all you say.

After some more of their banter and the quick drive back to camp, Blue stands up against the tree she likes to play in. You never noticed until now, but there are little knife marks in the bark— five of them. Ghost adds another. It is quite a bit higher than the previous year’s.

Along with her dinner that night, she sucks on the last two of her candies. You try to be present as she talks about the memories from her past five birthdays— all basically the same as today. She doesn’t mention any of the ones from her previous life.

But your mind drifts as you listen.

You keep thinking about Ghost’s truck. You think of all he has— their medicine, changes of clothes, guns and ammo. You don’t have these things. At your old camp, you had the bare necessities. Paul managed to get the most commonly-used antibiotics and some alcohol to clean wounds. But you didn’t have time to grab any of it during your escape.

You don’t know how long you will be here and you don’t know what the future looks like for you, but you know you can’t risk Blue sneaking you more medicine. Ghost might not notice a little ointment missing from a tube, but too much and he will. God forbid you ever need antibiotics. Taking pills from a bottle? He definitely has the exact numbers memorized.

It is not until his cockney accent rumbles low that you are grounded back in the present.

“Want your gift now?”

When Blue eagerly nods, he stands from the table and leaves, only to return with something in his hand covered in a scrap of cloth. Another bout of curiosity finds you. What could he possibly gift her? You watch Blue lift up the cloth to reveal a handmade, wooden figurine.

She exhales a smile. She doesn’t seem too surprised by it but is still elated, taking the gift in her hands and smoothing her finger over the whittled shape.

It’s a squirrel. You can see it better as she looks over it. A squirrel with two circles carved around the eyes. A pair of glasses?

“He’s perfect,” she tells her behemoth of a father, who bends down to her level and strokes her hair.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Just how I imagined him.”

This is the final tradition you learn about today. The wooden squirrel is part of a collection, she explains. You’ve never been inside Blue’s bedroom. You are not allowed, of course. But she shyly admits that she has her own village going on in there and that more wooden residents are added on each birthday and holiday. She seems hesitant to tell you too much about them in the same way she was hesitant for you to hear Ghost call her Baby Blue.

The eleven-year-old brave enough to rebel nibbles her lip as she speaks, clutching her gift.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you find yourself quietly saying, looking between her and Ghost. “We all have things we like to keep to ourselves. You don't have to tell me, you know."

You feel his thick presence, the way he seems to stifle the room even in the lull of these moments where the reality of your stay here can be ignored. You give a small smile, just for her, anyway.

“It sounds cool, though," you add.

She blushes and slips away to put the squirrel in her room.

And then the last piece of Blue’s birthday is not a tradition. Instead, it is all you have to offer to this girl who has your back.

You do her hair.

You try for something a little different this time.

Half-up with two smaller braids that join together.

As usual, dark eyes watch from the couch.

That whole deer feeds you for more than just a week.

Despite this, you decide to go out into the forest and practice your aim. You recall how your failed shot at that man’s head resulted in snarling teeth snapping at your flesh - you want to get better. Each day, a new tree stands victim to your practicing arrows. You have to carve some more of them with the knife Ghost gave you to replace the ones that break from penetrating the tough bark.

You feel like you own more strength now.

A pillow to sleep on, bountiful protein, and properly healed wounds have offered some back to you. You don’t feel so fatigued. Your thoughts seem easier to find. You have a new marker to make the days feel less blurred together— Blue's birthday.

It must be March 1st today, then.

When you decide your practice is done for the afternoon, you make it back to camp. You ask Ghost for a wash rag to clear your skin of the cold sweat that has collected. He is preoccupied with a game of Monopoly with Blue but begrudgingly retrieves one for you. Though, it is thoughtlessly tossed to your face. Blue apologizes on his behalf.

You don’t have it in you to care.

Because today is the first day your gaze doesn't pry away when it finds your reflection in the mirror. The face that stares back at you - the one he threw the rag at - is one you think you can recognize. The cheekbones do not stand as angular and lean. Your lips have some color and fat to them. Not as much as Blue’s rosy pink ones, but some.

It is also the first day that an old friend returns to you. When you glide the damp rag between your thighs, blood collects. Except for this time, it is not incited by a caltrop or knife. You don’t panic with the thought of how it will be patched up and stitched and kept clean. Rather, you almost groan with the realization of what you need to ask of Ghost.

The hunger and stress of fleeing led you to almost forget about it. Your period is definitely weeks late, but now it is here again. Perhaps, another piece of health your body has been given back.

With wet hair and your dirty clothes shucked back on, you find the two of them still on the rug. They have moved on to Battleship.

“Ghost.”

Both of them look at you. Shifting your weight from foot to foot, you dig your nails into your palms.

“I need another rag.”

“What for?” His voice arrives in an edged drawl. “Just bathed, didn’t you?”

“Are you okay?” chimes Blue, frowning. She sits up.

“I’m fine,” you say slowly. “I just need another one.” You meet the clouded eyes you prefer to renounce, set behind the more frightening skull this time. “A dry one.”

Although Blue’s nose remains scrunched in confusion, he seems to understand.

Wordlessly, Ghost finds you another. This rag is not offered to your face. Instead, he murmurs a “here” under his breath and gives it to your hands. In this brief exchange, you detect the familiar heat that is emitted from his brawny form. It is so different from the bucket of cold water you just bathed with.

Despite the enigma and tension, there is some of Ghost you understand. He is willing to give you small things. A rag for your period. A little bit of thread for your stitches. An outdoor shed to sleep in. A pillow and blanket they don’t even use.

What he is not willing to give is anything that he deems too valuable, and anything he decides poses a risk. His trust included.

This is why you must find a way to take care of yourself. So it is today, with your body showing you signs of its regained health, that you decide you finally need to figure out the journey to get supplies of your own.

taglist: @savagemistresss @morganvoorhees @dinsverdika @cated18 @lolszass @jeswiii @all-good-things-have-an-ending @alternatealt @uvoiid @underatreedrinkingtea @ramadiiiisme @crissteetee67 @lexi-zsy09 @spikespiegell @littlezarp @rebel-soldat @4headkissess @mckenzieriley69 @moxxiestar @palomaxaxaxa @msjaeger @galacticstxrdust @anubiseqq @l-0-v-3-r-z @kakashiislut @a-queen-blr @random0lover @hehatesmati @ghost-with-a-teacup @konigbabe

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod #ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #fanfiction #zombies

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thoseboysinblue · 2 months

Text

Be Mine

Christian Pulisic x reader

Christian plans a romantic Valentine's date for the two of you.

Wordcount: 3100+

Requested: No

Warnings: Swearing, smut

A/N: This is a follow up to the pairing from Mistletoe Magic. I had intended to post this before Valentine's but the days got away from me. Feedback is always appreciated.

You smile as the Milan players line up before the match. Christian searches for you in the crowd, a brief smile dances across his lips when his eyes meet yours. You can't deny the flutter of butterflies and flicker of heat that makes its way to your core at the sight of him in their new black kit.

Damn he looks good, you think to yourself as you chew on your bottom lip. It's been nearly two months since you first kissed under the mistletoe. During that time, you've both tried your best to see each other as much as possible. You'd already had several trips planned out, which made it more difficult to work your schedule around his, but you had changed some of your plans to bring you back to Milan when you could.

You had been friends for quite some time, so getting to know one another wasn't really an issue, but it had been nice speaking with him nearly daily to fill one another in on your day to day lives.

A few weeks ago, you met up with him and his parents when he had a few days off and chose to spend them exploring some of the areas in northern Italy. During that time, you realized that the feelings you had for him had completely bubbled to the surface.

Even though you have spent several nights together since that first kiss, you haven't taken the leap into anything sexual after deciding that both of you wanted to make sure this is right before completely throwing your friendship aside for something different, something more.

But seeing him in that kit, has you aching for him in a way you haven't quite felt before. You have nearly a full week with him now, planning to spend Valentine's Day together and watch his Europa League match prior to leaving for your next trip.

The stadium is electric for their win over Napoli. After the match, you find your way to the designated area for family and friends to wait for the players. Christian makes his way over to you and pulls you into a warm hug, placing a barely there kiss to your neck that sends a shiver up your spine before he intertwines his fingers with yours.

"You ready?" he grins at you once you've finished chatting with the handful of teammates of his you've met. You nod as he leads you towards the area where the players park.

Once inside his car he leans over the console and runs his hand along your jaw before pulling you towards him and kissing you. His tongue runs across the seam of your lips and he moans softly into your mouth when you allow him to deepen the kiss.

He pulls away from you naturally and whispers "hi" against your lips. You chuckle and whisper, "hey" back to him before pecking him again on the lips.

There is an undeniable tension between you as he drives you back to his house.

"You played well," you smile at him as he takes your hand and kisses the back of it before settling your intertwined fingers over your lap.

"Thank you, I'm glad you were there," he smiles back, keeping his eyes on the road.

"I like the new kit," you hum absentmindedly.

"Yeah?" he chuckles noticing the way you bite your bottom lip when you nod slightly.

You stop and grab some takeout before finishing the drive to his house. Once inside, he stops you at the door and places a kiss to your lips. "Wait here for a couple of minutes," he smiles sheepishly at you before disappearing down the hallway.

He returns a few moments later, "close your eyes" he grins as you do as he asks and he takes your hands and leads you into the kitchen. He settles himself behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Ok, you can open them," he whispers against your jaw placing a light kiss there.

Your breath hitches in your throat at the display in front of you, a large bouquet of red roses, candles flickering, and fresh Italian deserts.

"I know I'm a little early, but will you be my valentine?" he whispers against the shell of your ear.

You turn to face him and wrap your hands around the back of his neck and whisper "yes, of course," before kissing him slowly as he pulls you closer to him leaving no space between the two of you, a soft groan escaping his lips as his hardened cock presses against you.

Warmth spreads through your chest as you realize he wants you just as much as you want him. You break away from the kiss sharing a brief, shy smile before putting your take away meals on plates.

As you're eating dinner, he explains that he's made reservations at a restaurant in the city for Valentine's dinner and that was his reasoning for asking earlier, telling you that the two of you would need to go shopping for cocktail attire.

"Shopping in Milan sounds terrible," you grin at him.

"I asked Oli for suggestions of nice places to take you, so if it's terrible, blame him," he chuckles.

Your heart flutters at the effort he's gone to in plannng a nice evening for the two of you.

"Something tells me that Oli is probably solid in the romance department," you chuckle reaching over to lay your hand on top of his, "thank you," you whisper.

The tension between the two of you is palpable as you turn on some music and clean up the minimal mess from your meal.

Just as you are finishing cleaning up, "I Wanna be Yours" by the Arctic Monkeys begins to play. A shiver runs up your spine as Christian steps behind you and grips onto your hips. He runs his nose along the column of your neck, inhaling your sweet scent before turning you around and taking your hands and placing them behind his neck.

You dance slowly for a few moments as your heart races. He swallows dryly as he stares into your eyes praying that you are feeling the exact same way he is. You instinctively bite your bottom lip and he brings his thumb up to brush over it, pulling it gently from between your teeth before he kisses you tantalizingly slow until your breathing becomes ragged.

He kisses you like there is nothing else he would rather be doing and like he has all the time in the world. He lifts you up onto the counter and steps between your legs tucking your hair behind your ear before kissing you again.

"Be mine," he whispers against your lips.

Your eyes flutter open to be met with his dark, pleading eyes; two pools of perfectly dark amber that you could lose yourself in.

"I wanted to wait until Valentine's to ask you, but I can't stand it," he smiles softly at you.

You thread your fingers into the back of his hair, leaning in to kiss him again before kissing your way to his jaw and neck. After kissing over the freckle just below his ear and watching as his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows, you whisper "I'm yours" into his ear.

A flicker of a smile dresses his lips before he crashes them against yours. He grips your hips and pulls you closer to him as he swallows a soft moan from you.

When you wrap your legs around his waist he lifts you off of the counter and carries you to his room. He settles you onto your feet gently. Nipping at your bottom lip, "we don't have to do anything, y/n" he says quietly as he searches your features, "I was hoping to make this a bit more romantic you know," he chuckles.

"Christian," you sigh, reaching for the hem of his shirt, "romance is nice, but I don't need it, I just need you," you lift his shirt gently until he pulls it over his head.

He watches as your eyes shamelessly rake over his body. Of course you've see him shirtless before, but this is obviously different. "I'm all yours," he whispers as you use your fingertips to trace over the tattoo on his chest. He shivers in response when you kiss delicately over where his heart is hammering away.

He can't deny he's enjoying the way you're looking at him, your eyes filled with need.

"May I?" he questions lowly as he grips onto the bottom of the shirt you're wearing with his fingertips.

You nod and raise your arms over your head to allow him to slip your shirt off of you. "Fuck" he curses quietly as he glances down to the black lace bra you are wearing. You'd put it on hoping for that very reaction from him.

"So pretty," he mumbles as he dips his head to kiss over the tops of your breasts. He takes your bra off of you easing you towards his bed. He loosens his joggers letting them fall to the floor as you shimmy out of the jeans you are wearing leaving you only in your black lace thong.

He takes a moment to take you in, a quiet whimper escaping his lips as he shakes his head.

"You're unreal," he smiles softly at you as you both settle on the bed.

"You're not too bad, yourself" you grin at him as he hovers his body over yours leaning down to kiss you. You moan into his mouth as he brings one hand up to caress over your breast rubbing his thumb teasingly over your nipple before he drops his head to pull the sensitive flesh into his mouth.

He hums against you when you arch you back forcing more of your nipple into his mouth. He intertwines his fingers with your pressing one of your hands above your had as he switches to flick his tongue over your other nipple until you're panting and moaning his name.

"You sound so pretty moaning my name like that, baby," he says as he kisses a trail down the center of your abdomen until he reaches the top of your underwear.

"Let's see if we can make you moan it some more, huh?" he glances up to you waiting for your consent before you lift your hips so that he can slide your underwear down your legs.

He teasingly kisses from one ankle up to the top of your thigh before repeating the same up the other leg. Your hips buck involuntarily as he inches his way closer to where you desperately need him.

He chuckles against your thigh, "ok, ok, I get it" he grins at you, "I'm gonna take such good care of you, you don't even know."

He hums as he dips his tongue into your entrance and you gasp. "All this for me, baby?" he whispers against you as he teases your folds with his tongue, working in long and languid strokes, before sucking lightly on your clit.

"Fuck, Christian," you breathe out.

He wraps one arm around your thigh as you catch a glimpse of his tattoos before he uses that arm to hold you in place. Your back arches against him, your head rolling to the side on the pillows as you bring one hand to your mouth to try to quieten your moans.

"Don't you dare do that," he mumbles against you, "I want to hear every single one of them." He reaches up and pulls your hand from your face before sliding it down towards your breast.

"Touch yourself, y/n," his voice suddenly taking a commanding tone. You're almost shocked at how quickly you comply by rolling your nipple between your fingers, your other hand coming down to tangle into the short curls at the top of his head.

He slides two fingers into you, pumping them a few times before curling them against your g-spot.

"Chris, fuck, please, I need you," you pant out through your uneven breathing.

"I'm gonna make you cum first," he says quickly before latching back on to your clit.

"No, no, I want you, Christian, please," you groan.

He lifts his head to look into your eyes, "listen, I'm worried I'm not going to last more than a couple of strokes once I get inside of you, so I'm making you cum first," he blushes slightly.

"And they say romance is dead," you giggle.

He chuckles before flicking his tongue over you again, his fingers working in tandem to push you towards the edge. You clench around his fingers, and he lets out a guttural moan.

"I can't wait to feel you squeezing my cock like this," he breathes out as he continues what he's doing. He can tell by the way your fingers are gripping tighter into his hair and how you are thrashing against him that you are close.

"I've got you baby, let go for me," he says before sucking on your clit one more time and curling his fingers perfectly inside of you forcing you over the edge with a quiet moan of his name. Your legs nearly clamp around his head as he slows his movements and eases you through your high. He slowly uses his tongue to clean you up before pressing soft kisses to your thighs and over your pubic bone as you both work to steady your breathing.

He kisses his way up to your neck, his face there for a few moments. "You good?" he whispers, leaning his forehead against yours. You nod in response, closing your eyes as you take a few more deep breaths before pressing your lips against his.

You moan at the taste of yourself when he swirls his tongue around yours. You reach for the waistband of his boxers pushing at them, silently telling him you want him to take them off.

"You sure? There's no going back after this," he tilts his head back to make steady eye contact with you.

"Christian, there's no going back after what you just did to me with your tongue, so yeah, I'm sure," you giggle.

"You can have that whenever you want it," he grins at you.

"Take these fucking things off," you grin back at him as you tug at his boxers.

He chuckles as he slides them down his legs, kicking them off of the end of the bed. When he settles back between your legs you reach to wrap your hand around him and he groans at the sensation of your touch on his painfully hard cock.

You use your thumb to spread his precum over his tip before pumping your hand a few times, his dick thick and heavy in your hand. He drops his head against your shoulder and breathes raggedly before you line him up with your entrance.

You hook one leg over his hip and thread your fingers into the back of his hair, as he barely pushes his tip into you. "Please baby," you whisper against the side of his face.

He nods and intertwines his fingers with yours, pressing them into the mattress beside your head. He grips your hip with the other hand as he slowly pushes into you inch by inch.

"Shit," he whimpers in your ear once he's fully settled inside of you.

"Chris," you roll your hips against his.

"Oh fuck, god, don't do that, I'm fighting for my life up here," he groans.

You let out a quiet laugh before you tilt his head up and press your lips to his, "it's not funny," he mumbles against your lips, "you have no idea how good you feel."

"Mmm, no, but I know how good you feel," you clench around him as he slowly starts to move.

He kisses you again, both of you moaning into one another's mouths.

"I wasn't kidding about not lasting long," he breathes out as he picks up the pace a bit.

"Ok," you whisper against his lips before kissing him feverishly.

"Do you want me to pull out," he grinds out through clenched teeth.

"I'm on the pill, do whatever you want," you breathe, lifting your leg up higher over his hip and deepening the angle he's pushing into you at.

"Fuck" he curses as you feel him twitch, his movements sloppy before he stills himself, buried fully into you.

"Jesus, y/n" he whimpers before collapsing onto you with his forehead pressed against your shoulder as he catches his breath.

"I'm sorry" he mumbles against you as you trace your fingers up and down his back.

"For?" you question him knitting your eyebrows together.

"Blowing it faster than a 15-year-old virgin," he chuckles as he wraps his arms around behind you, pulling out of you and rolling both of you onto your sides at one time.

You scoot closer to him and press a gentle kiss to his lips. "As long as the foreplay is good, I don't mind," you wink at him, "it's kind of flattering actually," you giggle.

"I'm a fucking professional athlete, I've got stamina, just apparently not with you," he shakes his head.

"Also, I'm a bit mad at myself for not making a move sooner, because damn," he trails off.

"I think the timing is perfect, honestly, I'm at a good place with my business where I can take a few breaks and not feel bad, and you're in a much better place now. We've been friends for long enough that no one will get suspicious when they see us together, so we can keep this to ourselves for as long as we'd like," you nuzzle into his chest for a few more minutes before hopping out of the bed to clean yourself up.

When you return to his bed, he's still naked so you slip in beside him without worrying about grabbing some pajamas.

"Can I ask you a favor?" he says quietly as he pulls you closer to him.

"Anything," you whisper.

"Save some of the places you really want to travel to for me?" he whispers before kissing you on the forehead.

"Of course," you smile up at him, "we can look at my plans for the rest of the year tomorrow and decide which ones we want to do together."

"I'd like that," he mumbles against your lips before kissing you again.

"I was worried it might be weird," you confess to him out of the blue.

"Worried what would be weird?" he knits his eyebrows together in confusion.

"This, sleeping together," you motion between the two of you, "we've been friends for so long and I was afraid that taking things to this level might be awkward. I'm glad it's not. It feels right, this feels right."

"I'll never get enough," he whispers into your ear sending a shiver up your spine as he rolls on top of you and you feel his semi-hard cock rub against your leg.

"Me either," you giggle as you lift your leg over his hip.

Tag List:

@chilwellspulisic @neverinadream @pulisicsgirl @swimmingismywholelife @lovelynikol16 @nyctophilic0vitnir @lunamelona @tall-tanned-tattoo @lizzypotter14 @xjval @notsoattractivearenti @bracedes @landoslover

#christian pulisic #Christian pulisic x reader #christian pulisic fic #Christian pulisic imagine #christian pulisic smut

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argisthebulwark · 11 months

Text

Time Moves Slow - Cicero

sfw, gn reader, depiction of delusions/recurring nightmares Summary: After returning from Sovngarde the Dragonborn finds that a handful of hours for them has been years for those in Tamriel and reunites with their loved one. Others Linked: Vilkas, Brynjolf, Farkas, Teldryn, Miraak

Trudging through the endless sea of snow, you thought only of what awaited you at home. Northern winds whipped loose hair around your face and fat flakes of snow left speckles on your stained armor. You reminded yourself that the hardest part was over - Alduin and Sovngarde would be forgotten once you got into a steaming bath. All you had to do was make it back to the Sanctuary.

Luckily you were able to avoid trekking through Dawnstar. The Dragonborn showing up in shredded Dark Brotherhood armor would raise more questions than you could answer. The sea crashed at your side when you stomped along the frigid beach, sending a fresh blast of cold air through the rips in your armor. Ducking out of the storm you collapsed into the silence of home.

Sparse echoes revealed very few were in the Sanctuary - new recruits were on trial contracts and your fellow assassins were hard at work. Banners lining the Sanctuary's blank stone walls seemed worn, some patched in places you'd never noticed. You'd have to ask one of the others. Nazir would likely tease you for paying so little attention to your surroundings.

Hauling your broken body down the hallway the hairs on the back of your neck rose - something felt off. The voices floating through the stone halls were unfamiliar. The candles flickering on a nearby table smelled floral despite Cicero's preference for unscented. Strange cloaks were piled near the staircase.

Panic chilled your blood. Memories of the Penitus Oculatus came flooding back. Without thinking your blade was in your hand, heart racing as you stalked deeper into your home. Ears strained for any sign of battle you slid toward the central hub of the Sanctuary.

No one in the kitchens. No sign of danger in the main hall. A few calm murmurs behind closed doors were all you found when you slunk down the final corridor, the one home to each assassin's private chambers. That deep sense of dread was unshakable, gut sinking when you noted the unfamiliar names scrawled over previously empty rooms.

Thank the gods your chambers appeared untouched. Without alerting the rest of the Brotherhood you tiptoed into your bedroom, releasing a shaky breath after clicking the lock in place. Perhaps you'd simply forgotten the names of a few recruits. Nazir must've approved them in your absence. Nothing was wrong. You just needed a bath and a long nap.

"Listener?"

Mere steps from the bath you halted. Cicero's voice stopped you dead in your tracks. You hardly heard his movements when he sat up from your bed - you should've known. His own chambers hadn't been touched since the first night together, of course he'd wait in your bed. Separation wasn't his strong suit.

"Hello my love." Despite your attempt to quell the nervousness your voice sounded shrill. You didn't want to turn to him, didn't want him spotting the anxiety in your expression. It would only worry him further.

“Silly Listener, you’re teasing Cicero again.” His laugh was high pitched and dreamy, sending shivers down your spine. What had he meant by that? Again? “Stop being mean to your loyal Keeper.”

“What do you mean?”

“You always do this!” Any hint of his laughter was gone. Your blood chilled when the bed creaked, your only sign that he'd gotten to his feet. “You show up just to taunt and silly Cicero falls for it every time. Go on, say it and disappear! Leave poor Cicero alone!”

“Say what, Cicero?” Something was clearly off. Your heart ached for your poor, lonely Keeper. Turning toward the bed you tried to find him in the oppressive darkness, barely able to make out your beloved's frame through all the shadows.

It was all wrong. Cicero's wavy hair was cropped short, his familiar smile reduced to a mean smirk. The gash on his face you'd dabbed clean that morning was nothing but a nasty scar. His eyes pinned you in place when he stepped into the faint halo of candlelight. Your gut had been right - something had gone terribly wrong while you were in Sovngarde.

“What is a Keeper without a Listener?” His nose wrinkled, tone a taunting mockery of yours. It hurt to see his brows furrow, so clearly confused. "What is Cicero without his Listener?"

“What, my Cicero?” His shoulders sagged, all the rage disappearing as he sunk to your bed. Cicero’s watery eyes stared at your boots and you dared another step closer. The urge to touch him was overwhelming, to prove that you were really with him.

“Nothing.” His broken little whisper wrecked you. Swooping down before Cicero you heard him muttering, tears streaking down his cheeks. “The fool is nothing. Nothing.”

"You are my whole heart." Your voice wobbled with the immense weight of emotions threatening to reduce you to tears. You couldn't comprehend what he'd been through - visited by horrible visions in your absence. "How long has it been since we last met, my Keeper?"

"Years." His voice was flat, eyes tracking each of your movements. You couldn't push him. "Cicero let the real Listener go years and years ago."

"And what of the fake Listeners?"

"The real Listener would never talk to loyal Cicero like that."

"That's right." Stubborn arms wrapped around his middle, protecting himself from you. Cicero sniffled, staring down at the hands you kept in your lap. "Who do you think I am, my dear Cicero?"

Finally, he met your gaze. The unfathomable pain you found in his eyes knocked the breath from your lungs. Your absence had clearly wrecked him.

"My Listener?" The tiniest hint of hope resided in his words. You wanted to hug him, to tackle him onto your bed but you couldn't spook him. Tucking the messy hair away from your face you leaned closer, banishing any fear from your mind. No matter what had changed he was always your Keeper, your Cicero.

Tentative fingers brushed over your cheek. Cicero's hands shook when they cupped your face, wide eyes reflecting the lone candle. You took in every bit of him you could - the scars, the hair, he'd changed. You'd been gone years.

"My Listener." It was no longer a question. Needy hands dragged you closer, laughs blooming against your skin where Cicero smothered you in kisses. He murmured your title over and over as he came to terms with the fact that it was truly you, not some nightmare.

Nimble fingers made quick work ridding you of the ruined armor before his limbs enveloped you. Cicero's warmth and the soft mattress were wonderful under your aching bones. Humming happily Cicero draped a blanket over you, gentle touches roaming over your body as he confirmed your presence.

"I'm sorry for leaving, my love." You spoke into his skin, pressed firmly against him. "I'll never leave you again."

"My funny Listener." Cicero sighed, finally content. His hands stroked through your tangled hair and you heard a displeased grumble. "You made a lot of work for your Keeper. Laundry, mending, bathing."

"I'm sorry, my beloved." You mumbled, on the verge of sleep. You wanted to apologize for that and so much more.

"Loyal Cicero forgives you, Listener."

#cicero #skyrim #writing #cicero x reader #cicero x listener #cicero x ldb

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danytherelentless · 7 months

Text

The Godswood at Night

Robb Stark x fem implied!reader (kinda)

summary: you have a run in with a certain young Lord's direwolf at night

A heads up: this is not really edited. Maybe I’ll come back another time and do that. It’s also just another little practice piece that has been sitting in my drafts. I hope you like :)

It is the hour of the bat when you find yourself in the Godswood, a nameless feeling tugging you towards the sacred place of the keep with an urgent need to kneel before the bleeding face carved into the ancient tree.

The snow falls, damping your hair, a chill in the air freezing your breath, but there is a lack of wind tonight. A peaceful night, so rare for a snowy night in the North. Usually the wind is a vicious thing, even behind the wall of Winterfell, but tonight it is calm and deceptively nice, even if it is bitterly cold.

Your bare fingers wrap around your cloak, wrapped close to your body. You should have put more layers on but you'd decided against it as you tugged on your stockings and a thick woollen dress over your nightdress. It would be considered unladylike to be out of your rooms at night, in a foreign castle no less. There are many men on these grounds, men patrolling in the night, and yet you were stupid enough to leave the warm comforts of your chambers alone without guard nor chaperone. Your father would be enraged if he were to find out.

You place the flickering candle to the snowy ground, barely watched as it flickered out, as you kneeled in the darkness of the night before the Weirwood. You cannot see it, but you can feel it's presence, as you always do. Two of countless other eyes upon you.

The Godswood is silent, eerily so. There is something in the air that weighs hevily down upon your shoulders and chest and the ebbing feeling of panic suddenly makes you want to flee. But you don't, you remain vigil. For you can feel it in your bones that you are meant to be here. You hope you are not leading yourself to your own doom.

You hear rustling from your right, and turn quickly. There is nothing.

And then you hear it, a low gutteral grown and a pant, and you can just barely make out two glowing amber eyes. Greywind. The heirs wolf.

Your breath is trapped in your throat as you are faced so closely to the mammoth wolf, thought to have been extinct only a few mere years ago, only to bless the children of their current Lord Stark as their companions. The God's favoured. That is what your father told you, and you knew it to. For Direwolves accompanied the Kings of Winter for millennia until their disappearance, and now they had returned, one for each son and daughter, even the bastard.

You'd been intrigued of the beasts of course, always wanting to approach them, however never wanting to overstep any boundaries, for these were not lap dogs to coo over.

Leaves rustle and move as the great hunk of shadow behind glowing eyes moves forward, stalking toward you. You do hope that it won't eat you.

You remain locked in eye contact with the creature. He seems curious, despite his earlier growl which could have been of warning, and despite yourself and the very possible threat that you could possibly die, you slowly extend you left arm beyond your thick cloak and wait in wonder with bated breath. There is no hope in survival if this creature wants you dead, but perhaps right now you are inviting it close. Within his eyes, you swear you can see some form of awareness, and wonder if perhaps Lord Robb can see through him. Skingchanging was after all in the blood of all Northerners.

You feel it's wet snout against your own hand made wet from the snow as he sniffs at you, then a tentative lick and whine. And then, much to your surprise, the creature thumps to the ground and rolls over.

You gasp and then giggle in shock as you run your fingers through his soft fur, the predator panting and wiggling beneath your touch. All muscle and fur, a beast so strong and big as a pony, he could bring you down in his jaws with one bite before you could even scream, yet he is panting and whining like a pup beneath your touch.

He later leads you back to the keep, your hand tucked in his grey and white fur as he guides you through the depthless dark of the woods, and you are left to ponder if the Lord knew of your little dalliance with his companion.

don’t be a stranger, comments are appreciated :)

#robb stark #robb stark x you #robb stark x reader #greywind #asoiaf x reader #got x you #got x reader

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greetingfromthedead · 2 months

Text

Shepherd Story 1 (God!Knives x GN!Reader)

Plot: In a world where fallen gods live among you, there is the god of winter and death who leaves behind merciless blizzards and famine wherever he goes on his eternal search for his other half he fell for many millennia ago.

Series: Shepherd. Check out Story 2 (smut) and Story 3!

Pairing: God!Knives x GN!Reader

Raiting: Teen and up (some mild sexual/intimate content, no smut)

Tags: fantasy AU, no use of "y/n", gods, feathery plant, fated love, romance, legends, nature magic, reunion, intimacy, possessive behavior, tenderness, some fluff, body worship, implied smut

Word count: 4.2k

Author's Note: This story is heavily inspired by the incredible @triplesilverstar's god AU stories A so called God on a mountain top? Well, better then freezing to death and So its a tradition? Weird. These stories are just way too good for you to not go read them. So gogogo (unless you are underage or not into smut)...

In a world much different from our own, where fallen gods live among people, there is a story that spans over many millennia. In that world, there are countless higher beings, each with their own unique powers and abilities. They guide nature in the endless cycle of creation and destruction. Among them is a man more feared and despised than the rest, known as the god of winter and death. His icy touch is said to bring misery and despair to all who encounter him. None can escape his chilling grasp, as the harsh winters can last for years on end. Children are born within his icy domain; they live and die, never knowing the warmth of summer. But only a few know the curse put on this world by the jealous gods of ancient times.

The god of winter and death roams solemnly through the lands, bringing icy winds and blizzards in his wake. The soft steps of his bare feet on grassy fields spread frost, and the lakes get covered in ice as he passes by. He doesn't bring famine and illness, but they follow him like a shadow as he moves south on his endless search. This world has never seen a winter like this before; it has lasted for fifty years and brought the northern lands to their knees. Grain stores are empty, and people are starving. Yet the god moves further and further south with each passing day, leaving death in his wake. He is still looking, searching for the one who bears the curse.

Restlessness has sunken its claws into you as of late. It's like something's tugging at your soul. You have always felt lucky that you were born quite far in the south, away from the dark shadows of the north. You are a winter child, and never in your years have you seen the bountiful summers the elders speak of. However, you haven't been plagued by winter's chill either, and for that, you are grateful. But as of late, your dreams have frozen over, set against a backdrop of white fields and icy winds. You feel it seeping into your waking hours; the breeze hasn't been gentle for weeks; instead, it cuts like knives into your flesh, leaving you shivering.

The fire roars in your little house, but its warmth can't chase away the chill in your bones. You wrap yourself tighter in blankets, trying to hold onto the last bit of heat before the darkness of night takes over. You count the herbs in your collection; you need to make sure you have as much stock as possible if winter indeed is to claim your little corner of the world too. You know you can't afford to run out; you are the herbalist that the entire nearby village relies on for healing remedies. As you put away the jars of dried leaves, you wonder if you can sleep tonight or will you be tortured again by the dangerous desire luring you into the night.

The flickering light of the fireplace seems to dim, the dancing of the light more lazy, barely reaching your feet, let alone your workbench. You shiver, feeling a chill run down your spine as the shadows in the room grow darker and more sinister. You turn around to inspect whether you need to add more logs to the dwindling fire, but your attention is grabbed by the window to your side. Icy flowers begin to form on the glass, their sharp angles glistening in the fading rays of the day.

Are these the last remnants of your blissful life? You wonder how long it will take for the cold to overtake the countryside and turn it into an icy wasteland. How many people will die, and will you ever see summer? You shake your head, trying to dispel the dark thoughts, and raise your gaze over the forming ice, as beautiful as it might be. You look at the grassy field and see glittering snow start to descend from the sky. While frost isn't all that uncommon, you've never seen it snow quite like this. The delicate flakes twirl and dance in the air, casting a magical spell over the landscape. You're in awe, and rush to the door, pulling the blanket around your shoulders tighter before stepping outside into the freezing twilight. The air is so still, not even a whisper of wind dares disturb the enchanting scene, like nature itself is holding its breath in anticipation. The soft flakes brush against your cheeks, melting on contact and leaving a cold, damp feeling on your skin. You try to imagine your home being transformed into a winter wonderland, with snow covering every surface in sight. You know you should fear that image more than anything else, but there's a strange sense of peace that comes with it.

You glance over your little yard to the edge of the forest, and there you see a figure. Your eyes are caught by his icy gaze, and you can't see anything else beside his piercing blue irises. You feel a chill run along your spine, but not from the cold, but from the kind of terror you would feel while staring down a wild wolf.

"I found you at last, my sweet darling." The nearly emotionless words of the god of winter and death carry over the silent landscape, echoing in your ears like a haunting melody. The coldness in his face softens slightly, replaced by something akin to a gentle smile.

You are too stunned to speak or move; the knowledge of who you've come across freezes you in place. But it isn't all fear that has made your legs so heavy; the restlessness of your soul is rearing its head again, calling out to the unknown like it's an old friend. You stay quiet as you look into the eyes of the god before you, feeling a sense of both terror and excitement. He turns toward you and steps closer. Your eyes are released from the shackles of his gaze. As you look at the rest of the figure, you see the mass of wings behind him. They aren't made up of feathers, but of shards of ice that reflect the light in a dazzling display. His body is clad in a flowy white robe, partially revealing his pale skin, some of it covered by the icy shards, the same as the wings. His hair and eyelashes look like they are frosted over due to the cold that emanates from his very being. He is breathtaking as he approaches you, his bare feet make no sound as he walks along the path. The blades of grass freeze in his presence, the puddle of water forms jagged crystals on its surface like razors.

"It has been too long, my dear," he whispers, his voice low and level, the sound crossing the empty space between you effortlessly to caress your ears.

His expression is tender yet filled with a cold intensity. This is not how you imagined such an infamous god to look at a mortal being like yourself. His eyes seem to pierce your very soul, making you feel both terrified and strangely alive.

With every step he takes, the surrounding air gets colder. Every inhale stings your lungs, every exhale produces a white cloud. Your fingers grip the blanket tighter. You can't shake the feeling that he knows something about you that you don't. His eyes have never left your face as he finally stops at your doorstep.

"I am sorry for being so impossibly late," he says, holding out a hand to you, palm up. His voice has a cold edge to it.

"Am I going to die?" The words slip over your lips before you even realize you've spoken them.

"One day, darling, but hopefully not any time soon. I cannot bear to lose you again." A slight smile flickers on the corners of his lips. "Take my hand."

"What do you mean? What do you want from me?" You know you should be afraid of him, but your soul tells you to place your hand in his.

"You will remember, sweet Shepherd." He waits patiently. "Take my hand."

"I'm not a shepherd; I'm a herbalist. You must have confused me with someone else." Saying a god is wrong seems like a surefire way to die, yet you do it anyway. Your reaction paints a slightly more obvious smile on his face as he looks at you through his low eyebrows with amusement. Your heart tells you to reach for his fingers.

"I will recognize you in any life, with any face. I will always find you, as your soul calls out to me. Take my hand." His piercing blue eyes look into yours, and you know that he is the source of your restless nights. You take a deep breath and finally allow yourself to surrender to your heart and soul. Your right hand lets go of the blanket and reaches out into the freezing night air to rest on his open palm. His skin feels like marble against yours, but his touch is comforting and familiar.

"Wake up, my love." His words echo in your mind as you realize the meaning behind them. Hundreds of previous lives come flooding back to you with a sense of recognition and understanding.

"Nai!" Your eyes open wide as you remember who he truly is, "You found me!" The cycle of reincarnation finally feels familiar once again.

He shifts closer, leaning his cold forehead against yours, your hand pressed against his chest.

"Do you still have it?" he asks softly.

"Of course I do; it's been with me all this time," you reply as you shut your eyes. His cold fingers squeeze yours tighter, and he lifts his forehead, replacing it with his lips. A gentle kiss on your skin as his free hand caresses your cheek. You would be shivering if it weren't for the fire lit up inside you.

"Thank you, sweet Shepherd," he says, placing his cheek against yours as he speaks by your ear. "For keeping it safe all this time."

"It is yours after all," you say, keeping your eyes closed, savoring the moment.

"No, sweetling, it is yours," he replies, his voice warm and comforting. He doesn't quite sound like a god of winter and death, one that brings merciless cold and darkness wherever he goes. Instead, he is the guardian and lover of all your past lives, reaching back to the ancient times before you were cast out from the Higher Plane. He is the one who cradles you in his arms and whispers promises of love eternal. The freezing stares are saved for everyone else but you, for you are his chosen one.

"Why don't you come inside?" You smile as you turn your head slightly towards him, feeling the frigid air of his breath against your ear.

"I doubt I would make it through the door," his silky voice chuckles softly. "I've been searching for so long, I fear I myself have frozen."

You can see his massive, crystalline wings over his shoulder. It has never gone on so long that he himself starts to freeze as well. His body feels more rigid, and the softness of his flesh has turned to ice.

"I can fix that, my love," you say softly, reaching out to touch his frozen skin with warmth in your fingertips. The blanket that you released slides off your shoulders, exposing the goosebumps on your skin. The cold air bites at your uncovered flesh, but you don't mind; you are in love with winter. Your fingers slide along his jaw, turning his face toward you. Your breath escapes you as a white vapor before you close the gap between the two of you, capturing his lips with yours.

The kiss you share is deep, filled with a kind of longing that has been building up for many thousands of years. You feel his body warm up; the coldness of his skin no longer cuts you like knives; and your fingers get to press into the suppleness of his cheek. The quiet air is filled with a sound reminding you of delicate glass breaking. His hand that has been tracing the curve of your neck moves down to rest on the small of your back and pulls you closer, flush against his body. You feel his feathers brush against your skin as he wraps you up in his numerous wings, enveloping you in his embrace, protecting you from the frost he brings to the rest of the world.

You pull back to admire the sight you know you will find—the glowing markings etched into his eyes and skin, the pattern traveling along his body, gracing his face, and decorating his arms with intricate designs that seem to come alive in the dim light of nightfall. He is still pressing your hand against his chest, where you can start to feel the steady beat of his heart, a rhythm that matches the intensity of your own.

The frost in his hair is gone, his skin taking on a tone of warmth, a blush of cold darkening his cheeks and the tip of his nose. The marks still linger on him, pulsing lightly, and you are mesmerized by the blue eyes that no longer remind you of a dangerous beast but of a soul who carries too many burdens.

You lead him into the warmth of your cottage, but with every step he takes, the fire flickers, threatening to die down completely. A kind of darkness and cold emanate from him, yet it doesn't touch you anymore. His hand in yours is warm and comforting, a stark contrast to the atmosphere around him. You refuse to let it bother you as your heart is set ablaze. His hand slides out of yours and he takes a longer step forward to be right beside you. His hand moves onto your back, and with gentle pressure, he guides you to the seat by the window, where the silvery moonlight starts to creep in. With a rustle of feathers, he spreads his wings before sitting down on the soft cushion, pulling you with him. Not once has he averted his eyes, looking at you like you're a treasure of priceless value. The hand not resting on your lower back caresses up your arm, sending shivers through your body. This seems to amuse him as you see the curve of his lips in the dim light. You settle more comfortably into his lap, and his wings fold and reach over to you like a soft blanket.

"Tell me, Shepherd, do you remember it all now?" His knuckles brush gently over your cheek.

"I have lived so many mortal lives that I can hardly keep them all straight, so I'm still piecing it together." You rest your hand on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. "But I remember you in all of them, one way or another. Why do you keep calling me Shepherd, love?"

"I don't mean to be impatient with you, but I've been waiting to find you for so very long. I can call you by your new name if you would like me to." His fingers trace along your jaw and lips as he speaks. "But you are the Shepherd. My other half. I may be the god of death, but I need you to guide the souls of the deceased into the afterlife so they can be born again."

"What?" Your eyebrows move closer together in confusion. He takes your hand out of your lap to place kisses on your knuckles.

"I meant to find you sooner, my love. This winter was never meant to last so long. But it is over now. We are reunited. I have made you a lot of work. I am sorry. Some of these souls have been waiting for 50 years to move on. I reaped them from their earthly existence, I brought death, and now they need you so my brother can bring them life once again. To offer them a new beginning in spring so that my sister can fill them up with the joy of summer. Don't you remember?"

His eyes are solemn as they look into yours. Deep regret plagues them—a kind of hurt you don't remember seeing in them before. The pain is clearly etched in every line of his face.

"I will. Just keep holding me, and it will come back; it always has." You squeeze his fingers tightly, and his lips move to your wrist, brushing against your skin.

"You can ask me anything you want, love." His piercing eyes look into yours as he measures your forearm with his kisses. "Perhaps it will help."

"Your brother—he lives on a mountain, right?" You watch him carefully. "Why do you have to roam around and not him?"

"Because people don't pray for winter and only the desperate hope for death," he replies softly. His lips trail to your shoulder, and you can't see his eyes anymore. "But even if I had the power to dictate winter and death from just one little corner of the world, I still need you to put an end to it. I do not wish to turn this world into a wasteland because you still live in it. You alone can rein in the northern winds and calm the raging blizzards, for I only love you. You alone."

You feel his sharp teeth brush against the skin of your neck, and you lean back, letting out a deep sigh as you enjoy his touch. Your hand that's been resting on his chest moves to his head, your fingers lacing into his hair. You close your eyes and savor the moment, knowing that you are completely captivated by him.

"Why must gods be so cruel and jealous? To not only curse us but the whole world with it. All that because you gave your heart to me. How spiteful, they cannot kill me, so they force me into a mortal body to ensure I'm a slave to reincarnation until the end of time." Your quiet voice fills the room as you feel his mouth move to your ear.

"And I would wage another war and fall all over again just to rectify it," he whispers into your ear. "You just say the word, my sweetest love, and I will fight for an eternity, I will lay waste to everything. Until then, I will keep searching for you in each and every one of your lives."

His hand on your back pulls you tighter, and the cocoon of feathers surrounding you rustles softly as his breath gets heavy against your skin. His lips trail along your cheek until they reach yours. He moves softly, capturing your mouth with a gentle kiss that speaks of promises fulfilled and passion unleashed.

"You are so breathtakingly gorgeous," he whispers, his voice filled with love and desire, barely moving away from your lips. "No god of beauty could ever compare to you. To think you are mine... all mine."

You lean into him as his lips meet yours in a passionate kiss, knowing that this love has not dwindled over the passing millennia. Your souls date back to a time before this world was created, in the Higher Plane, among other gods, you had found each other, and now, in this mortal realm, your devotion continues to burn just as brightly. His hands trace along the curves of your body, exploring every dip and valley with a hunger that matches your own. The kisses of the winter god burn on your neck as his face presses into your skin. You lean back as his fingers undo the buttons on your blouse. The fabric falls away, revealing your bare chest as his lips map every inch of it.

"Open your eyes, my darling, look at me." You hear his insistent voice as a gap forms between your bodies, "I have been waiting for too long to see them glimmer in the moonlight, for they hold all that my soul yearns for."

The god of winter and death spends most of the night worshiping your mortal body. He kisses every mark and freckle that adorn your skin like stars. He whispers poems of adoration against the scars time has etched into you. He declares his unyielding love for you in every way two people can. He leaves trails of fire in his wake that burn with his passion. Every inch of your body is a canvas for him to paint upon. His love leaves marks where his teeth have been and where his lips have lingered. His desire leaves bruises on your skin, but you know he takes care not to break your human body.

You lay in his embrace, surrounded by the massive wings that shield you from the cold he brought with him into your home. Your fingers trace patterns into his skin, your body is exhausted, but you know that dawn is creeping ever closer and the time for him to leave is near. Your eyes remain on him as he strokes along your tingling skin. His sharp gaze catches yours.

"You're staring," you say with both amusement and slight awkwardness.

"I can't help it, you're beautiful." His low voice caresses your ears.

"Why must you leave?" The words escape you.

"Because I'm the god of winter and death, my passing alone brings calamity, I cannot linger for long," he says mournfully.

"Then can't I come with you?" You say hopefully, a glimmer appears in your eyes.

"Alas, you are chained to a mortal body, and I reside in the north, far beyond human settlements, where only demons roam the dead forests. Even if my presence alone wouldn't kill you, the merciless nature of my frozen hell would. It's no place for someone as precious as you, my sweetling." You feel a slight chuckle ripple in his body. "Yet every time you wake, you ask me that same question."

"Then when will you return?" Your voice gets quieter as you see the darkness behind your window retreat.

"An army of war gods wouldn't be able to keep us apart. They tried." His voice is soft, and he touches your cheek. "I will come back once it's my turn again, the year will be guided through its seasons, and now I know where to find you. Until my return, guide the ones I have reaped back into the circle of life, sweet Shepherd. Guide them well until we meet again."

"I hope it won't be this long again, for our sake and theirs. I don't want the humans to fear you as much as they do."

"I too wish to be apart from you for as little time as possible, yet I will engulf this world in eternal winter if it means I can return to you." His voice has a sharpness to it, his words are both a promise and a threat. "Their fear means nothing to me compared to your love."

Dawn arrives too soon, the first rays of light brushing the tops of the trees acting as a warning. Your time has run out, and your fated love must bid you farewell. His touch lingers longer, the fingers tracing the outline of your face as if etching it into his memory for eternity. His stern eyes can't hide the tender look of adoration they hold for you. His lips press against yours as the layers of wings peel away from you. Before the coolness of the outside air reaches you again, your love drapes a blanket around you, never breaking away from the kiss.

You want to reach out to him, but his long fingers catch your wrists into his grasp. He holds on tight, gripping your hands with his. He pulls away slightly and places a kiss on your cheek.

"I love you, my darling," his voice whispers in your ear. You feel another firm press of his lips on your forehead. "Keep it safe for me."

"Your heart is always safe with me. I will guard it, and I will warm it when you come again." You smile as you look up into his piercing blue eyes. "I love you in every life I live."

He releases your hands, his fingers lightly brushing your chin, before he turns to leave. He steps away from your door into the snow covered yard. His majestic wings unfurl into the still air, each feather seemingly stretching out.

"Until I see you again, my sweet Shepherd!" He doesn't show you his face, but you hear the warm smile in his voice.

"Until then, darling!"

The god's quiet footsteps lead him towards the forest again. The bare feet don't make a single noise, and the white robe emits only the slightest rustle. He might be leaving, but the world itself seems fundamentally different to you than it did yesterday. Even as he disappeared, leaving snow and ice behind and a coolness in your chambers, the dawn that came brought new colors with it you had never seen before in this lifetime.

This was originally going to be smut, but I got carried away and then it didn't seem right anymore. If my brainrot doesn't pack its bags in the next few days then I might make a part 2 that follows the original plan...

There is now a smutty Part 2.

And even a 3rd installment.

Did you like this? Go check out my MASTERLIST and drop a follow for any and all future projects!

#trigun #trigun stampede #tristamp #trigun 98 #trigun maximum #millions knives #knives x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #plant boi #writing #knivesxreader

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dear-indies · 5 months

Note

Hello! What are some of your favorite Pro-Palestine, Anti Zionist fc's you'd like to see used more? I want to make an OC and have zero ideas but I want to try to only use FC's that, like, aren't heartless pieces of shit, ya know?

Cherien Dabis (1976) Palestinian / Jordanian.

Michael Malarkey (1983) Palestinian, Italian-Maltese / Irish, German.

May Calamawy (1986) Jordanian, Palestinian / Egyptian.

Dina Shihabi (1989) Palestinian, Saudi Arabian / Norwegian, German and Haitian.

Nemahsis / Nemah Hasan (1994) Palestinian.

Noor Taher (1999) Palestinian and Lebanese.

Saint Levant (2000) Palestinian, Serbian / Algerian, French.

Josie Totah (2001) Palestinian / Lebanese, Italian, Irish, German - is a trans woman.

+ an entire masterlist of Palestinian fcs!

Also, since lots of people are asking here's a masterlist but PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS IS NOT COMPREHENSIVE LIST OF PEOPLE WHO HAVE POSTED AND/OR SPOKEN ABOUT PALESTINE!

Why I'm not adding people who have only asked for a ceasefire.

HERE is @leepacey's list.

I also have a private list you're welcome to DM me for, both also have people who support Isr*el for people to avoid.

Vanessa Redgrave (1937)

Miriam Margolyes (1941) Jewish.

Charles Dance (1946)

Patti Smith (1946)

Duke Erikson / Garbage (1951)

Annie Lennox (1954)

Butch Vig / Garbage (1955)

Juliet Stevenson (1956)

Steve Marker / Garbage (1959)

Hugo Weaving (1960)

Michael Stipe (1960)

Liam Cunningham (1961)

Sabrina Ferilli (1964)

Paco Tous (1964)

Robert Del Naja / Massive Attack (1965)

Björk (1965)

John Cusack (1966)

Shirley Manson / Garbage (1966)

Aasif Mandvi (1966) Indian.

Serj Tankian (1967) Armenian.

Tricky / Massive Attack (1968) Afro Jamaican / Anglo-Guyanese.

Kathleen Hanna (1968)

Benedict Wong (1971) Hongkonger.

Boots Riley (1971) African-American, one quarter Ashkenazi Jewish (maternal grandmother), small amounts of German, English, Scots-Irish/Northern Irish, Scottish, Wampanoag.

Ava DuVernay (1972) Louisiana Creole.

Poorna Jagannathan (1972) Indian.

Haifa Wehbe (1972) Egyptian / Lebanese.

Kimya Dawson (1972) African-American.

Ava DuVernay (1972) African-American.

Cat Power (1972)

Sarah Sophie Flicker (1973) Jewish.

Omar Metwally (1974) Egyptian / Dutch.

Maxine Peake (1974)

Itziar Ituño (1974)

Nelly Karim (1974) Egyptian / Russian.

Mahershala Ali (1974) African-American.

Sara Ramírez (1975) Mexican and some Irish - non-binary, queer and bisexual (they/them).

Carice van Houten (1976)

Karen Olivo (1976) Puerto Rican [Spanish, Indigenous, possibly other] / Dominican Republic, Chinese - is non-binary (they/them).

Haaz Sleiman (1976) Lebanese - is gay.

Antonio De Matteo (1978)

Joelle Mardinian (1977) Lebanese.

Alberto Ammann (1978) Argentinan.

Daniel Brühl (1978)

Max Collins / Eve 6 (1978)

Kayvan Novak (1978) Iranian.

Residente / René Pérez Joglar (1978) Puerto Rican.

Immortal Technique (1978) Amerindian, Spanish, French and African.

Hend Sabry (1979) Egyptian.

Luis Bordonada (1979) Mexican.

Ser Anzoategui (1979) Argentinian and Paraguayan - is non-binary (they/them).

Dorra Zarrouk (1980) Tunisian.

Amerie (1980) African-American / Korean.

Angelica Ross (1980) African-American - is trans.

Dargen D'Amico (1980)

Gustaf Skarsgård (1980)

Khalid Abdalla (1980) Egyptian.

Arian Moayed (1980) Iranian.

Massari (1980) Lebanese.

Tahar Rahim (1981) Algerian.

Kaan Urgancıoğlu (1981) Turkish.

Shawna Farmer / chubbycartwheels (1981)

Beth Ditto (1981) - is queer.

Morgan Spector (1981) Ashkenazi Jewish / Irish, German, some Scottish and English.

Jesse Williams (1981) African-American, Seminole / Swedish.

Amanda Seales (1981) African-American / Grenadian [African, at least one quarter European].

Riz Ahmed (1982) Pakistani.

Emel Mathlouthi (1982) Tunisian.

Rajshri Deshpande (1982) Indian.

Niamh McGrady (1982)

Yolanda Bonnell (1982) Ojibwe, White / Indian - is two-spirit and queer (she/they) - is open about having OCD and ADHD!

Macklemore (1983)

Luna Maya (1983) Indonesian.

Amir Eid (1983) Egyptian.

Aisling Bea (1984)

Mohamed Emam (1984) Egyptian.

Mahira Khan (1984) Pakistani.

Alex Meraz (1984) Mexican [Purepecha].

Sami Zayn (1984) Syrian.

Jena Malone (1984)

Siobhan Thompson (1984)

Ravyn Ariah Wngz (1984) Mohawk, Tanzanian, Afro-Bermudian - is a Two-Spirit trans woman (she/her).

Kristin Chirico (1984) - is questioning their gender, “encompassing a lot of things” but is not yet sure if she’s nonbinary or a gender non-confirming woman and uses they/her - openly bisexual and demisexual and have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, ADHD, dyslexia, and asthma.

Tamanna Roashan (1984) Indian / Afghani.

Asia Kate Dillon (1984) Ashkenazi Jewish / Unspecified - non-binary and pansexual (they/them).

Burak Özçivit (1984) Turkish.

Enjy Kiwan (1984) Egyptian.

Kid Cudi (1984) African-American.

Sepideh Moafi (1985) Iranian.

Lilan Bowden (1985) Taiwanese / English, Welsh.

Alex Meraz (1985) Mexican [Purépecha].

Aabria Iyengar (1985) African-American.

Rahul Kohli (1985) Punjabi Indian.

Marina Diamandis (1985)

Troian Bellisario (1985) American, Louisiana Creole [African, French, English] / White.

Sonam Kapoor (1985) Indian.

Carmen V. Ortega Baljian (1985)

Carsie Blanton (1985) Jewish.

Haley Webb (1985)

Yani Gellman (1985) Ashkenazi Jewish, possibly other.

Giulia Michelini (1985)

Lewis Hamilton (1985) Afro Grenadian / White.

Eréndira Ibarra (1985) Mexican - is bisexual.

Karim Kassem (1986) Egyptian / Egyptian Jewish.

Mihaela Drăgan (1986) Romani - is queer

Diane Guerrero (1986) Colombian.

Whitney Greyton (1986) Black South African / Namibian - is queer (she/they).

Fahriye Evcen (1986) Turkish.

Amber Riley (1986) African-American.

Ericka Hart (1986) African-American - is non-binary femme, queer, and polyamorous (she/they).

Lido Pimienta (1986) Colombian [Wayuu, Afro-Colombian] - is queer.

Mihaela Dragan (1986) Romani.

DJ Snake (1986) Algerian / French.

Alba Flores (1986) Romani, Spanish [including Andalusian] - is a lesbian.

Saagar Shaikh (1986) Pakistani.

Mustafa Ali (1986) Pakistani.

Lily Gladstone (1986) Kainai Blackfoot, Amskapi Pikuni Blackfoot, Nez Perce, Dutch, Cajun - she/they.

Pidgeon Pagonis (1986) Mexican and Greek - is intersex and non-binary (they/them).

Guz Khan (1986) Pakistani.

Eugene Lee Yang (1986) Korean - is gay.

Bob the Drag Queen (1986) African-American - is polyamorous, pansexual and non-binary (he/her).

Asim Chaudhry (1986/87) Pakistani.

Marwa Agrebi (1987) Tunisian.

Sasha Velour (1987) Russian Jewish / Ukrainian, other - is genderfluid (she/they when not in drag, she while in drag).

Susan Wokoma (1987) Nigerian.

Munroe Bergdorf (1987) Afro Jamaican / English - is trans.

Michael B. Jordan (1987) African-American.

Juliana Huxtable (1987) African-American - is trans.

Nicola Coughlan (1987)

Pearl Mackie (1987) West Indian / English - is bisexual.

Erika Ishii (1987) Japanese - is genderfluid (she/they/any) - also posted on Brennan’s post: “Thank you for always being thoughtful with your advocacy and direct in your action. From the river to the sea.”

Michaela Coel (1987) Ghanaian - is aromantic, boycotted the Sydney Festival 2022 for Palestine.

Carina Shero (1988)

Joe Cole (1988)

Elsa Hosk (1988)

Kendrick Sampson (1988) African-American / English, Scottish, German, Cajun/French, Danish, Norwegian.

Kelly Piquet (1988) Brazilian.

Navild Acosta (1988) African-American - is non-binary queer (he/him).

Brennan Lee Mulligan (1988)

Swara Bhasker (1988) Indian.

Aiysha Hart (1988) Saudi Arabian and English.

John Early (1988) - is gay.

Sabrina Dhowre Elba (1988) Somali.

Joel Kim Booster (1988) Korean - is gay and has bipolar disorder.

Gratiela Brancusi (1989) Romani and Greek Romanian.

Frank Waln (1989) Sicangu Oyate Lakota Sioux.

Rakeen Saad (1989) Jordadian.

Morfydd Clark (1989)

Mary Lambert (1989) - is a lesbian.

Dina Torkia (1989) Egyptian / English.

Laith Ashley (1989) Afro Dominican - is a trans man and asexual.

Shea Couleé / Jaren Kyei Merrell (1989) African-American - non-binary (they but she/her while in drag).

Emma Watson (1990)

Mitski (1990) Japanese / White.

Arrows Fitz (1990) African-American - is non-binary (he/they/she/it).

Shirine Boutella (1990) Algerian.

Luke Baines (1990)

Lolly Adefope (1990) Yoruba Nigerian.

Tabria Majors (1990) African-American.

Rosaline Elbay (1990) Egyptian.

Katie Findlay (1990) English, Hongkonger, Portuguese-Macanese, Scottish - is queer (they/them).

Poppy Liu (1990) Chinese - is non-binary (she/they).

Shareena Clanton (1990) Blackfoot, Cherokee, African-American, Wangkatha, Yamatji, Noongar, Gija.

Maren Morris (1990)

Kiowa Gordon (1990) Hualapai, White.

Leigh-Anne Pinnock (1991) Afro Barbadian and Jamaican.

Joe Alwyn (1991)

Emily Ratajkowski (1991)

Jari Jones (1991) African-American / Filipino - is trans.

Vico Ortiz (1991) Puerto Rican - non-binary (they/them).

Denée Benton (1991) African-American.

Dylan O'Brien (1991)

Bonnie Wright (1991)

Ramy Youssef (1991) Egyptian.

Ali Burak Ceylan (1991) Turkish.

Seychelle Gabriel (1991) French, Mexican / Italian, including Sicilian - also has Spoken up for Sudan.

Alexa Nikolas (1992)

Emma D’Arcy (1992) - is non-binary (they/them).

Jarvis Johnson (1992) Unspecified.

Tasha Cloud (1992) African-American - is a lesbian.

Jess Bush (1992)

Jade Thirlwall (1992) English, three eights Arab [Egyptian, Yemeni], small amount of Scottish.

Faia Younan (1992) Syrian.

Merhan Keller (1992) Egyptian.

Julien Solomita (1992)

Pauline Chalamet (1992) Ashkenazi Jewish / English, Scottish, Irish, French.

Hari Nef (1992) Ashkenazi Jewish - is a trans woman.

Paloma Elsesser (1992) African-American / Chilean-Swiss.

Katie Gavin / MUNA (1992) - is queer.

Rupi Kaur (1992) Punjabi Indian.

Joana Ribeiro (1992)

Conor Mason / Nothing But Thieves (1992)

Rose Matafeo (1992) Samoan / Scottish and Croatian.

Cailin Russo (1993)

Tara Emad (1993) Egyptian / Yugoslav Montenegrin.

Younes Bendjima (1993) Algerian.

Bobbi Salvör Menuez (1993) - is trans non-binary (they/them).

Stormzy (1993) Ghanaian.

Chance the Rapper (1993) African-American.

Raveena Aurora (1993) Punjabi Indian.

Naomi McPherson / MUNA (1993) West Indian and Irish - is queer and nonbinary (they/them).

Freddy Carter (1993)

Ghali (1993) Tunisian.

Jordan Alexander (1993) German, Irish, African-American.

Charlotte Day Wilson (1993)

Mia Khalifa (1993) Lebanese.

Maria Thattil (1993) Indian.

AJ Tracey (1994) Afro-Trinidadian / Welsh.

Ben Barlow (1994)

Asia Jackson (1994) Ibaloi Filipino and African American.

Isabella Roland (1994) Jewish.

Josette Maskin / MUNA (1994) Jewish - is queer and nonbinary (she/they).

Aimee Lou Wood (1994)

Rose Williams (1994)

Jasmin Savoy Brown (1994) African-American / English, German, one quarter Norwegian, some Scots-Irish/Northern Irish - is queer.

Theo Tiedemann (1994) Asian - is trans non-binary and gay (he/they).

Little Simz (1994) Yoruba Nigerian.

Huda Elmufti (1994) Egyptian.

Dylan Gelula (1994) Ashkenazi Jewish / Unspecified.

Arsema Thomas (1994) Nigerian / Ethiopian - is non-binary (she/they).

Earl Sweatshirt (1994) Black South African.

Kurtis Conner (1994)

Julien Baker (1995) - is a lesbian.

Kehlani (1995) African-American, French, Blackfoot, Cherokee, Spanish, Mexican, Filipino, Scottish, English, German, Scots-Irish/Northern Irish, Welsh, Cornish, Irish, Choctaw - non-binary womxn, lesbian and polyamorous - she/they.

Achraf Koutet (1995) Moroccan.

Lucy Dacus (1995) - is queer.

Daniel Caesar (1995) Afro Barbadian and Jamaican.

Jazzelle / Jazzeppi Zanaughtti (1995) Afircan-American.

Elvina Mohamad (1995) Malaysian.

Willow Pill (1995) - is trans femme, has cystinosis and is autistic.

Bree Kish (1996) ¼ Black.

Alessia Cara (1996)

Josefine Frida Pettersen (1996)

María Isabel (1996) Dominican.

Mustafa the Poet (1996) Sudanese.

Lorde (1996)

Florence Pugh (1996)

Lowkey (1986) Iraqi / English.

Denzel Curry (1995) Afro Bahamian and Unspecified Native American.

Brandon Soo Hoo (1995) Chinese.

Lily Gao (1995) Chinese.

Jessie Mei Li (1995) Hongkonger / English - is a gender non-conforming woman who uses she/they.

Grace Van Dien (1996)

Abdelhamid Sabiri (1996) Morrocan.

Lauren Jauregui (1996) Cuban [Spanish, possibly other], likely some Basque - is bisexual.

Ally Beardsley (1996) - is non-binary (they/them).

Thea Sofie Loch Naess (1996)

AURORA (1996)

Leo Sheng (1996) Chinese - is a trans man.

Imaan Hammam (1996) Moroccan / Egyptian.

Tavi Gevinson (1996) Ashkenazi Jewish / Norwegian [converted to Judaism].

Quintessa Swindell (1997) African-American / White - is non-binary (they/he).

070 Shake (1997) Dominican - doesn't like to put labels on her sexuality.

Zara Larsson (1997)

Faye Webster (1997)

Madeline Ford (1997)

Asa Butterfield (1997)

Scene Queen (1997)

Micheal Ward (1997) Afro Jamaican.

Xiran Jay Zhao (1997) Hui Chinese - is non-binary (they/them).

Lori Harvey (1997) African-American.

Mayan El Sayed (1997) Egyptian.

Hania Aamir (1997) Pakistani.

Sisi Stringer (1997) African Australian.

Omar Apollo (1997) Mexican - is gay.

Kaiit (1997) Papuan / Gunditjmara, Torres Strait Islander - is non-binary (she/he/they).

Piper Curda (1997) Korean / English, Scottish - is apsec.

Iman Meskini (1997) Tunisian / Norweigan - is pro Palestine!

Archie Renaux (1997) Punjabi Indian and Brtish.

Clara Nieblas (1997) Mexican.

Janella Salvador (1998) Bisaya Filipino.

Ethel Cain (1998) - is a trans bisexual woman.

Joanna Pincerato (1998) Mexican, Syrian. Swedish and Italian.

Joanna Arida (1998) Jordadian.

Chella Man (1998) Hongkonger and Jewish - is deaf, trans genderqueer and pansexual (he/they).

Benedetta Porcaroli (1998)

Gretta Ray (1998)

Clairo (1998) - is bisexual and has juvenile idiopathic arthritis.

SANTAN / Dave (1998) Edo Nigerian.

Salsabiela A. (1998) Unspecified.

Ariela Barer (1998) Mexican, Ashkenazi Jewish.

Celeste O'Connor (1998) Kenyan - is non-binary (they/them).

Wegz (1998) Egyptian.

Jessica Alexander (1999)

Rafaela Plastira (1999)

Minami Gessel (1999) Japanese / Ashkenazi Jewish.

Kenna Sharp (1999) - is queer.

Samara Joy (1999) African-American.

Sab Zada (1999) Chinese, Filipino, and Hispanic.

Zoe Terakes (2000) Greek Australian - trans masc non-binary guy (they/he).

Anthony Lexa (2000) - is a trans woman.

Marissa Bode (2000) African-American - is disabled.

Odessa A'zion (2000) Ashkenazi Jewish, English, some Irish, Northern Irish, Welsh, German.

Reneé Rapp (2000) - is a lesbian.

Celia Rose Gooding (2000) African-American - bisexual and gray asexual, uses she/they - also saw somewhere they don't like being called a woman.

Lucas Jade Zumann (2000) Ashkenazi Jewish / possibly German.

Maitreyi Ramakrishnan (2001) Tamil.

Andria Tayeh (2001) Jordanian and Lebanese.

Freya Allan (2001)

Ari Notartomaso (2001) - is non-binary (they/he).

Rachel Zegler (2001) Colombian / White.

Maria Guardiola (2001)

Hope Ikpoku Jnr (2001) Black British.

Morgan Davies (2001) - is a trans man.

Corey Maison (2001) - is a trans woman.

Ahmet Haktan Zavlak (2001) Turkish.

Kei Kurosawa (2001) Bisaya Filipino and Japanese.

Aaron Rose Philip (2001) Afro-Antiguan - is a trans woman who has cerebral palsy.

Denise Julia (2002) Filipino.

Nessa Barrett (2002) Puerto Rican.

Yara Mustafa (2002) Jordanian.

Iris Apatow / Iris Scot (2002) Ashkenazi Jewish / Irish, Scottish, Finnish, German.

Kosar Ali (2003) Somali.

Madeleine Hyland (?)

Bobby Sanchez (?) Peruvian [Quechua] - is Two-Spirit and trans, uses she/her sometimes they/they).

Nick Hakim (?) Chilean / Peruvian.

Micaela López Bianchi (?) Argentinian.

Jas Lin (?) Taiwanese - is queer (they/them).

Georgia Maq (?)

Eddy Mack (?) Jordanian.

Ellie Kim / SuperKnova (?) Korean - genderfluid, transgender woman (she/her).

Alexia Roditis / Destory Boys (?) - uses they/them.

Violet Mayugba / Destory Boys (?)

Narsai Malik / Destory Boys (?)

David Orozco / Destory Boys (?)

Neil Turner / Los Campesinos! (?)

Tom Bromley / Los Campesinos! (?)

Kim Paisey / Los Campesinos! (?)

Rob Taylor / Los Campesinos! (?)

Jason Adelinia/ Los Campesinos! (?)

Matt Fidler / Los Campesinos! (?)

Raul Briones (?) Mexican.

Britton Smith (?) Black.

Farrah / farrahescapes (?) Emirati.

CJ / Cup of Jo / cupofjoemusic_ (early 20's) Pangasinense Filipino.

Gian / Cup of Jo / cupofjoemusic_ (early 20's) Pangasinense Filipino.

Rapha / Cup of Jo / cupofjoemusic_ (early 20's) Pangasinense Filipino.

Gab / Cup of Jo / cupofjoemusic_ (early 20's) Pangasinense Filipino.

Sevii / Cup of Jo / cupofjoemusic_ (early 20's) Ilocano Filipino.

Xen / Cup of Jo / cupofjoemusic_ (early 20's) Ilocano Filipino.

Grey Gritt (?) Ojibwe and Metis - is genderqueer (they/them).

Elaine Crombie (?) Pitjantjatjara, Yankunytjatjara, Warrigmay, South Sea Islander, and White.

Nori Reed (?) Korean / Unspecified - is non-binary (she/her).

Shahd Khidir (?) Sudanese.

Arewà Basit (?) Black - uses she/they.

Majid Al Maskati / Majid Jordan (?) Bahraii.

Jordan Ullman / Majid Jordan (?)

+ please let me know if you want more!

#fc help #rph #rpc

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boldstarks · 2 months

Text

The Unwanted Wife Blurb #2: The Bedchamber

word count: 765 words pairing: young!Robert Baratheon x wife!reader warnings: past emotional neglect of a spouse, slight OOC Robert, Robert kinda being a perv about his wife's post-pregnancy body

Today was the first night that you would share a bedchamber with Robert. You didn't know why you felt so nervous about it. You had shared a bed frequently after your marriage, but he had always gone back to his own chambers after the fact.

The first time that it happened on your wedding night, you were shocked. You couldn't help but cry yourself to sleep. The next day, one of your new ladies-in-waiting explained that southern nobles didn't share bedchambers as often as northern nobles. This made you want to weep once again.

Sure, your notions of love and happy endings had been shattered by Alyn's death, but you tried to be optimistic going into your marriage with Robert. Both of you had loved and lost; maybe you could find some common ground. Only for Robert to leave as soon as he completed his marital duty.

After Alaric's birth, you hoped to turn a new leaf in your relationship. Not only for his sake, but for your sake. You could not live with a careless husband in a castle where you knew no one and had no true allies.

You sat at your vanity, preparing yourself for bed. Unlike most ladies, you did not need a whole retinue of ladies' maids in order to dress and undress. Alaric is already settled into his cradle and is already asleep.

You finish taking apart the elaborate southern hairstyle that one of your maids painstakingly crafted for the day. Once your hair is in waves down your back, you make your way over to your son's cradle by your bedside. You sit by Alaric, who dozed off to sleep while you were getting ready.

"I hope you can see the Rills and the rest of the North one day, my son," you whisper to your sleeping baby.

"If you wish for our son to meet your family, it could be arranged," Robert said. His silent appearance makes you jump.

You turn to him, and he stands at the foot of your bed. He is wearing a doublet free of creases and stains.

"You haven't been drinking," you said, puzzled.

"No, Jon said women don't appreciate sleeping beside a lump of drunken flesh," Robert says, almost shyly.

The same shyness seems to have infected you. "Alaric has already fallen asleep."

"Umm, well, I guess we can go to sleep now then," Robert said, not moving from his spot.

"Maester Pycelle said we cannot lay together for another two weeks," you tell him, and you stand from the bed.

"I know, I ask about you and the boy's health twice a week," Robert admitted, inching closer to your bed.

"Oh," you say awkwardly.

You slip off your robe and pad over to the vanity. Robert can't help but watch. You leave the robe on the vanity chair and blow out the candles sitting on the vanity. The room feels intimate in the low light of the remaining candles. You return to bed, crawl under the covers, and begin making yourself comfortable.

Robert strips down to his small clothes and climbs in next to you. Both of you stare at the ceiling in silence; neither has any idea what to say to each other.

"I would like Alaric to see the Rills and the rest of the North when he is older," you tell Robert, hoping to cut through the tension.

"I'm sure Ned would put us up while we visit," Robert says. It's meant to be a joke.

You're silent for a moment before letting out a soft huff of laughter. Robert feels a flicker of shame when he realizes that this is the first time he has heard you laugh.

You let out a small yawn. "Good night, husband."

He feels you brush against him when you shift to lie on your side, your back facing him. In the soft glow of the remaining candlelight, Robert can't help but admire the curve of your hip underneath the blanket. He had already taken note of how your breasts had swelled before you gave birth. He wanted so desperately to discover and memorize any part of your body that had changed when you gave him a child. Unfortunately for the king, he had no choice but to wait another half a moon before bedding you again.

Little did Robert know that you were nursing your own feelings of lust and disappointment. There was nothing you could do, though, except burrow deep in the covers and try to ignore the curdling lust in the pit of your belly.

taglist: @kentstoji

#asoiaf #game of thrones #Robert Baratheon x reader #young!Robert Baratheon #young Robert Baratheon x reader #oc x reader #Lyanna Stark #northern!reader #ryswell!reader #stark!reader #game of thrones fanfiction

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sweetsweetjellybean · 1 year

Text

Friends to Lovers | Steve Harrington

When a storm moves over Hawkins, your neighbor stops by to check on you.

TW: kissing, & more kissing with a little bit of bump & grind.

A deluge of rain punishes the earth for its unnamed transgressions. Dark cotton clouds roll across the sun, leaving the sky with a silvery amethyst glow. The green leaves desperately cling to the branches of a large oak as you watch from your raindrop-streaked window. A wall of torrential rain and wind moves across the garden with the smooth ripple of a snake. A loud crack precedes a neon lighting bolt, and a sizable branch hits the grass-carpeted ground. The northern oak sways ominously, mourning its lost limb. Scrambling toward the side of the bed furthest from the windows, you bring your black legging-clad legs towards your chest and tuck your toes under the white duvet.

The white fairy lights you have strung around your bed flicker, and you pull up the soft sleeve of your well-loved open cardigan from where it slipped down your shoulder. The long growl of thunder rattles your window. Quickly, you pick up your leather over-the-ear headphones and place them snugly on your head, blocking out any further cries of disapproval from mother nature. The sensual beat lets your mind wander back into the scene you had been writing earlier. Fingers tracing the spiral black cord running from your headphones to wear their plugged into the receiver, your tongue sneaks out, wetting your bottom lip as the faceless man in your head runs his hand from the back of your thigh to your hip. With your favorite pen in hand, you scribble down the details in your black comp notebook, trying to capture the sensation of the strong hands moving over skin. A warmth covers your chest, and goosebumps rise in a wave as the freckles dotting the arms of your faceless man come into focus. The flexing muscles of his chest, the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows, a lock of golden brown hair falling over his brow. Sighing heavily, you rip out the page, crumple it up, and toss it toward the pile accumulating on your floor - you've got to stop picturing your neighbor.

He was jogging by as you wrestled your mattress from the back of the u-haul the day you moved in. His muscle tee stained darker in the center, saturated in sweat, and you weren't much better. Baby fine hairs that escaped your damp pony plastered to your sticky temples.

"You need any help?" he asks, out of breath as he stops in front of you, taking off his baseball cap to wipe away some sweat. He pushes some hair to the side before turning his hat around and putting it on backward.

The skeptical look you give him has him chuckling, "I'm not a creep, swear. I'm your neighbor. Apartment 44."

The ground-floor studio is one of four sandwiched between the rows of townhomes; you were lucky to snag it. The garden-style apartment opens to a shared green space with a pool and walking paths. It's the first time you've been able to afford somewhere on your own.

"Steve Harrington," he says, wiping his hand on his shorts before offering it to you. Deciding to take him up on his offer to help, you shake his hand and introduce yourself.

"This is cozy," he nods, looking around the space after he helped you set up your bed. There wasn't much to see. A mattress on a platform frame pushed close to a wall of windows, a desk with a word processor, and a small stand with your stereo that had crates of records and tapes surrounding it. A tiny efficiency kitchen ran along the same wall as the door, with an even smaller bathroom beside it. The extra-long cord for your headphones reaches every corner of your rental.

"I'm sure it's not as nice as yours," you say, knowing the price difference between your studio and his two-bedroom.

"It's just bigger," he says with his hands resting on his hips, drawing your eyes down to the running shorts clinging to quite a substantial bulge. Sweet Jesus, what does he keep in there?

"It must be," your eyes snap up to his face, "I mean you have two bedrooms," you stumble trying to cover up your gawking.

"They're pretty much all the same," he shrugs, "Pond View Estates doesn't offer much of a view. At least it didn't."

He's flirting. The weight of his gaze makes you feel self-conscious in your sweaty, dirty, moving clothes, "Okay, well, thanks for your help," you move towards the door, hoping he'll take the hint.

"Yeah, I'll let you get back to it. Let me know if you need anything," he pauses when he's on the other side of the threshold.

"I will. See you around," you say, inching the door closed.

"See you later…alligator," he says and then grimaces before turning in the direction of his apartment.

Leaning with your back against the door you think you hear a quiet "Goddammit" being muttered as he walks away. Capturing your lip between your teeth, you fight back a chuckle.

The song flowing into your ears fades into silence, quickly filled by the loud sound of the rain falling even harder outside. Alarm drags you back to the surface, away from the tranquil waters of the story playing out inside your head. Water is starting to collect in large puddles in the garden, and you worry the tiny slab of your concrete patio won't be enough to stop the rain from seeping under the french door. Slipping the headphones around your neck and setting aside your pen and notebook, you start scooting off your bed when a loud sound startles you. It takes a moment to realize the noise is someone rapping on your front door, not the sound of more tree limbs falling. The black cord trails behind you, the music sounding tinny and muffled where it comes out around your neck. The knocking grows more insistent. Twisting the deadbolt, you throw open the door without thinking of putting on the chain to check who is on the other side.

The howling wind blows a fine mist through your door, damping your cheeks and the wooden boards around your bare feet. Steve is standing with one hand on the door casing, his mouth slightly agape with irritation, his shirt completely sodden and clinging, while rainwater drips from his hair down his face.

"Steve, it's raining," you exclaim dumbly, surprised to see him in such a state on your doorstep.

"Yeah. I noticed," he closes his eyes and uses his thumb and index finger to clear his eyes, "Are you going to let me in?"

"Of course. I'm sorry, come in," you stand aside to let him pass.

He stands just inside the door, the water dripping off him, creating a puddle around his sneakers.

"You're soaked. Let me get you a towel," you open the small closet where you store your linens just outside the bathroom.

He toes off his shoes and carries them to the door. "I came to check on you. Make sure you weren't flooding," he yanks his t-shirt over his head, leaving him in worn light-washed jeans. It hits the floor with a splat. Rain water drips from his hair down his neck, disappearing into the patch of hair on his chest.

He takes the towel you're holding and rubs at his wet locks, "Your car's here. So when you didn't answer, I got worried."

"I had my headphones on. I didn't hear you."

"I should have guessed," he says, bending down to mop up the water on the floor.

"You don't have to worry about me, you know. It's just a thunderstorm," you say, startling as the lights flicker and a boom of thunder reverberates, shaking the dishes in your cupboard.

"I think I do," he says, taking a step towards you. The compact space feels even smaller with him here.

"When you answer the door without the chain on," he takes another step, the distance between you shrinking, "Dressed like that," he motions to the lacy bralette under your cardigan. The swell of your breasts barely covered and your midriff left bare.

"I wasn't expecting company," you swallow. He's standing so close. He smells like rain and soap scented with citrus and cedar.

He dips his head, and your lips part as you lean slightly toward him. A moment before you touch, his fingers wrap around the headphone cord instead. He pulls the plug from the jack on your receiver, and a sultry woman's voice plays through the speakers mixing with the patter of the downpour, as she sings I'm open to fall from grace. The warmth of embarrassment rushes to your cheeks, and you step back, regaining some space and remembering what you asked of him weeks earlier.

Pushing up the sunglasses that keep sliding down your nose, aided by your sweat-slicked skin, you look up from your half-filled notebook at the crowded pool in front of you. The blazing sun and oppressive humidity had the entire complex gathered around the in-ground pool. A group of senior ladies wearing gaudy jewelry and jungle-print bathing suits sat gossiping while they baked in the sun, their browned skin resembling raisins. Harried mothers joined by husbands sporting farmers' tans trying to wrangle crying kids holding sticky melting popsicles. Ignoring the leer of an oiled-up man wearing a neon speedo and two many gold chains, you go back to writing. The play button on your walkman pops, indicating it's time to turn the tape to the other side. Balancing your notebook on your lap, you fumble the tape, and your pen bounces off the concrete pavers before rolling under the lounger beside you.

"I'll get it," Steve says as he reaches under his lounger to retrieve your pen. Until then, you hadn't been aware of who was sitting beside you, but now you're very, very aware. A grin spreads across his boyishly handsome face, but the body it's attached to is all man.

"Thanks," you smile as you take the pen from his hand. A zip of electricity dances under your skin where your fingers brush against his.

"Can I ask you something?" he tilts his head and crosses those long legs at the ankle.

"Go for it," you slide your earphones down around your neck.

"Does the tape you're listening to have the same song playing on repeat?" he points at your walkman, the corners of his eyes crinkle as he squints in the bright sun.

"You could hear that, huh?" you ask, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth.

He nods in response, and you crinkle your nose disconcerted by his question, "Umm, yeah. It is the same song over and over again."

He chuckles good-naturedly and waits for further explanation.

"I get distracted when a new song starts. It takes me away from what I'm writing." you pull your knees closer to your chest and wrap your arms around them.

"So you're a writer?"

"I'm trying to be," you say, blowing out a breath.

"What do you write?" he asks, leaning towards you, giving you his full attention.

Book covers with images of big hunky men ripping open the bodices of pink-cheeked ladies stamped with your pen name come to mind, so you decide to go with, "Whatever pays the bills."

"What about you?" you ask before he gets a chance to press you further.

"I'm a manager at Family Video," he explains, rubbing the back of his neck, "but don't be impressed there are four employees, including me. Two of them are part-timers, and the other ones is another manager. So, I don't really manage anything. It means I keep the kids out of the adult section.

"Nothing wrong with being a cinephile," you comment. His face falls into confusion.

"Someone who loves films."

"Oh," his eyes brighten with understanding, "I do get free rentals," he says awkwardly before changing the subject, "Where are you from?"

"What makes you think I'm not from here?" you tease, "Does everybody really know each other?"

"Pretty much. It's a small town."

"Well, I'm an army brat, so I was in Huston and then St. Paul before my family moved to Chicago. I went to school for creative writing at Perdue, and now I'm here," you say, gesturing around you as a group of small children run by with a blow-up beach ball.

"You should let me take you out sometime and show you around," he says, making his move.

"Steve, you seem really great, but I just moved here. I'm trying to finish this book and get my feet under me. I'm not ready to date right now," you let him down gently, "but I could really use a friend?"

"Of course, we can be friends," he recovers quickly without a hint of disappointment in his voice, "Who said anything about dating? Friends show friends around."

"You're right. That was presumptuous of me," you say, going along with him.

"Alright friend," he says, standing up, "I'll let you get back to work," he picks up his towel and wraps it around his neck, "I'll see you around," he heads in the direction of his apartment.

"See you later, alligator," you call after him.

Guys like him were usually too good to be true, but over the weeks, you've gotten to know him, and he's proved to be the exception. Settling into an easy friendship, he hasn't pushed for more. The attraction has been there, though, just under the surface, simmering like a pot on the stove. Small touches. A hand on the small of your back or your shoulder. Sitting with the outside of his thigh pressed against yours. Glances that have lasted a little too long. Increasing the heat, now he's standing right in front of you, and you feel like you're going to boil over.

"Stop looking at me like that," he says, walking away from you to the french door, bending down to check the seal.

Taking your headphones from around your neck and setting them down, you join him, crowding into his space.

"Like what?" you ask once he's straightened up, looking into the warm honey hues of his eyes.

"Like you want me to…" he trails off as his eyes break the connection fluttering down to your lips. After a soft inhale, his mouth follows their path. Soft lips ghosting over yours, the lightest brush before pulling back, his eyes begging for permission.

"I thought we were friends," cold uncertainty pushes back against the fire between you.

"Friends kiss," he assures, his hand moving to your shoulder, nudging the neck of your sweater until it falls off your shoulder.

"Not like that," your stomach tightens with every touch.

"It doesn't count when it's raining," he reasons. His big hand lands on your hip, urging you closer.

"Why is that?" you place your palms flat on his bare stomach, and his abs jump under at the contact.

"I don't know. I don't make the rules," the corners of his mouth twitch, fighting back a smile as he explains the absurd logic he concocted.

"Who does then?" you press, your hands slowly sliding up the silky skin of his chest, fingertips collecting his freckles as they pass.

"You do," his other hand presses into your back, pulling you flush against him.

"Me?" you ask, surprised. The coarse hair on his chest is softer than it looks as your hands travel through it on their way to wrap around the back of his neck.

"Yeah, you're going to tell me if you want me to stop, and I'm going to listen," he makes sure you know you're in control before his mouth comes down, pulling your bottom lip between his before mirroring his movements with the top.

He pauses to gauge your reaction, but you don't let him get far. Tightening your hold on his neck, you bring his mouth back to yours, angling your head so he can deepen the kiss. And god, Steve can kiss. He deliciously explores your mouth, tongue sliding against yours.

As your hand slides down his neck to his shoulder, opening and closing to knead the muscle, you try to conjure the words to capture this moment, so you can take it out later when the sun is out. But the way his mouth moves has every thought fleeing like a firefly on a summer night trying to escape being caught in a jar.

Steve takes a few steps towards the bed, taking you with him. The springs of your mattress protest the sudden shift in weight as you climb in together, lying on your sides.

"Tell me what you want," he says, tucking some hair behind your ear.

"It's still raining out," you reply, slipping your arms out of your sweater, trading its warmth for his, "I want you to kiss me."

He leans over you, dipping down again and again, languidly tasting, savoring, kissing you like the world could fall down around him and you'd be the only thing that mattered. The cassette tape spins, songs changing from one to the next. For once it doesn't distract you, living fully present in this world instead of the one inside your head. Kissing him back like the billowing clouds, like it's everything, like its art.

Tugging him by the belt loops, you pull him closer until he's cradled between your thighs, the comforting press of his weight a luxury in itself. When his hardening length hits just the right spot, your eyes roll back, and you're suddenly aware of just how wet you've become. Your hips roll without your permission, chasing the lightning bolt of pleasure. He groans, burying his face in the pillow beside you.

"Is that okay?" you whisper against his temple stroking his hair.

"It's okay," he says, lifting his head to look at you, "but I'm probably going to um-"

"Me too," you admit shyly.

"Is that what you want?" he asks, studying your face, "For me to make you feel good?"

"Yes, that's what I want."

There's a new urgency to his kiss as his first strokes of his hips steal your breath leading to a frenzy of movements before finding a rhythm, rocking in opposite directions.

"Just like that," you moan as he grinds his rigid bulge against your core.

His hand grips your thigh, directing it around his waist, driving the rough denim over the thin material of your yoga pants, increasing the pressure.

"You're so beautiful. I've wanted to tell you since we met," he whispers, placing open-mouthed kisses on your neck.

The last song fades into the whirring of the tape deck before it stops completely with a sharp click. Your ears swiftly adjust, sharpening the sound of the falling rain and rumbling thunder. His mouth lingers on the sensitive skin just below your ear, exhales turning into low aughhs in harmony with each thrust. The rise and fall of your chest is getting faster, your stomach tightens with arousal knowing his noises are all for you. Seeking out his mouth, your hips rise off the bed, moving harder with a desperate need to see him come undone.

He smooths your hair back, fingers sliding against your temple, thumb brushing your chin, "Let yourself fall," he kisses just below the curve of your bottom lip, "I'll catch you."

And so you do, and he falls over the edge with you. With a strike of lighting, the world blurs as you float through the clouds, and just like he promised, he catches you with warm lips and gentle touches until you've both come down from the surge. Offbeat plinks of drops hitting metal add another layer to the storm's changing song.

"You'll have to call maintenance," he says, snaking his arms around your waist, "they probably won't show up until tomorrow. You'd better stay at my place tonight. You know, just in case."

There's a splash of water as Steve's feet hit the floor. "Oh shit," he looks at the floor and then at the french door. A small stream of water has crept its way in from the outside. Steve rolls up towels and places them in front of the door, trying to block the gap while you mop up what you can.

"You might be right," you say, pulling him down for another kiss, "I think the forecast said it's going to rain all night."

If you've enjoyed this fic, please reblog. It makes a big difference in helping others find my work.

Thanks to the hive. I appreciate all of you.

Graphics by: @superblysubpar

#steve harrington x fem #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfic #steve stranger things #stranger things fanfiction

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