#[and rangers are more 'direct action' | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fluentmoviequoter · 9 months ago

Text

It's Commander, Sergeant

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!Army-FBI!reader

Summary: After years of thinking about Tim Bradford, you meet him again during a riot in Los Angeles. When he learns you outrank him, he falls... hard.

Warnings: incorrect Army terminology and actions, depiction of riots, fluff! a couple Call of Duty references. Also, I grew up ten minutes from Fort Rucker, so I'm allowed to trash talk it.

Word Count: 2.7k+ words

Picture from Pinterest

When you joined the Army immediately after graduation, you didn’t expect it to become a career. What surprised you more was meeting Tim Bradford. You only met him once, but he stayed with you, a firm and commanding yet protective and loyal personality that was impossible to forget. Now, years later, you continue to think about him occasionally, hoping he’s doing well and happy. He inspired you to work through the ranks and do something more meaningful than just obeying as you’re told. Not that being a soldier and taking orders is unimportant, as you’ve explained to the troops you are now Master Sergeant of. Personally, you felt a calling to do more.

“Master Sergeant, Sergeant Major Riley is here to see you,” a soldier says, standing at attention in your doorway.

“I’ll be right out to meet him. Thank you, Private,” you reply kindly.

You are a different kind of Master Sergeant, unwilling to act higher than the men and women who answer to you. Your respect for others, regardless of rank, has made you a favorite on base.

“No need. Is now a good time?” Riley asks, taking the Private’s place.

“Of course. What can I do for you, Sergeant Major Riley?”

“There’s a developing situation in Los Angeles. If you and your team are up for it, I’d like to send you in to help.”

“Los Angeles? Who has jurisdiction?”

Riley chuckles, shaking his head, as he says, “I knew that would be your first question. Not ‘what’s the situation?’ because that’s boring, right?”

“Something like that, sir.”

“The LAPD called in military reinforcements for an out-of-control rioting issue.”

“When do we leave?”

“1700 hours. Tell your troops.”

✯✯✯✯✯

“How’s everyone enjoying US Army Garrison Italy?” you ask your team, composed of twenty of the best soldiers.

“The men- the view is beautiful, Master Sergeant,” one of the female soldiers says.

“I’d have to agree. But we’re heading back to the States. There’s a riot issue in Los Angeles and they’ve called for the best to come in and help.”

“Riot control? Now, we’re talkin’, ma’am!”

“Los Angeles, California?” someone asks.

“What other Los Angeles is there, man?” a second voice replies.

You clear your throat, and everyone in the room snaps to attention. Smiling, you nod and confirm that your destination is Los Angeles, California.

“We leave at 1700 sharp. Helos are standing by. And before you ask, no, I don’t know when or if we’ll be back. LAPD is running point on this - listen closely, we are assisting. This is about the safety of US citizens. Not proving grounds or a test to become a Ranger. They’re calling the shots, but you still answer to me. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am!” your team yells together.

“Then let’s get out there and protect our home.”

As you leave, someone whispers, “I’m gonna miss Italy.”

You agree, but your job is about more than the view from the base. As you pack to return to California, you wonder if you’ll ever be back to Italy.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Master Sergeant. Thank you for coming so quickly. I am Sergeant Wade Grey, I’m Watch Commander of the LAPD Mid-Wilshire division,” Grey introduces, shaking your hand.

“Nice to meet you, sir. Tell us where you need us, and we’ll be there.”

“We’ve got six teams out there right now, covering what we consider the biggest targets, but I’ll get you in touch with my lead Sergeant.”

“Is he in the field? We’d be happy to meet him where he is and take his direction from there.”

Wade sighs, a relieved smile appearing on his face. “You’re the best person in the state right now, Master Sergeant. He’s at the Wilshire Federal Building, the intersection of Wilshire and the 405. We’re running short on equipment, but we can get you transport.”

“Oh, we’ve got a ride. And, Sergeant Grey, feel free to drop the formalities,” you offer before telling him your first name.

“Only if you call me Wade,” he replies. “Wait- don’t tell me you have an APC parked outside my station.”

“We don’t. We have an M113 APC, a light tank, and six more vehicles waiting for a destination. You called for riot control, and we’re going to control some riots.”

“If you ever get tired of the Army, the LAPD would be happy to have you.”

“Unless you can offer me a station in Italy and as many armored vehicles as I can drive, I think I’m happy where I am.”

“Fort Irwin is scenic.”

You walk backward as you exit the office, tilting your head to the side as you consider. “Italian oceanside or California desert. Guess which I’m picking?”

“Good luck out there.”

“Thank you, sir- Wade.”

✯✯✯✯✯

The moment you jump off the side of the APC, two LAPD officers rush to you and your group of four soldiers. Splitting your team into five groups and sending one to join each of the LAPD squadrons seemed to be the best option. One of your team members introduces you to an officer, who nods and ushers you to follow him.

“Master Sergeant, this is LAPD Sergeant-“

“Bradford?”

Tim tilts his chin, his eyes the only part of his face you can see past his helmet and shield. You’d know him anywhere after countless nights of thinking of him and being inspired by him.

“Have we met, Master Sergeant?” he asks, his voice raised over the crowd gathering on Wilshire Boulevard.

Someone throws a flaming bottle of alcohol toward the steps of the building, and you motion for your team to push the crowd back.

“Later, Sergeant Bradford. Care to tell me what’s going on?” you ask.

“LA courts decided to take a bunch of cases back to trial, deal with overcrowding, standard procedures. But… you get it.”

“Don’t want ‘em out or want to make sure they do get out. Yeah, I know the answer, though I’ve never understood the thought process behind it.”

“You and me both. What are we supposed to do to show them this won’t change anything?”

Glancing at the crowd, you weigh the options. “Realistically, getting violent is only going to make this worse. I’m not suggesting a negotiation, but… what if we try stopping?”

“We’re not setting down our arms and opening the gates for them to storm the Wilshire Federal Building!” Tim yells.

“Then what would you like to do? Stand here until the trials are done?”

“That’s not-“

“Look, I don’t want to pull rank but if you’re just going to stand here and argue with me, I will, Sergeant Bradford,” you reply. His jaw clenches beneath his helmet, and you offer, “Half of your men lower their shields, a show of good faith. Then we go from there.”

Tim lowers his shield, stepping toward you to threaten, “If anything happens to my men, it is on your hands. This isn’t your home, but it’s mine.”

“I understand how this works, Sergeant Bradford. And I’m not telling you to do it alone.”

You push past him, leading two soldiers to the front line, dropping your shield, and raising your hands. The crowd members closest to you stop, looking at you curiously.

“There is a court schedule available online!” you yell. “If you have a loved one that you would like to advocate for, call the courts, call their defenders, and tell them why someone is worthy of freedom at the proper time and place! But don’t risk your own freedom, don’t take the lives of your neighbors or your peace officers in the process!”

You signal for all of the officers to raise their shields again. As the crowd storms forward, you rush into the fray, letting your training take over as you disarm the citizens around you.

“Down on the ground!” you yell, panting as the tank approaches behind you.

At the sight of the tank, the men and women standing in the road begin kneeling, lowering their weapons, and raising their hands. The LAPD rush forward, doing their jobs as you send your team to give your orders to the other soldiers you brought back to the States.

“That shouldn’t have worked,” Tim says, approaching from behind you.

Turning toward him, you sigh and remove your helmet. “Lots of things shouldn’t work, Sergeant Bradford.”

“You know my name; care to tell me why?”

Pressing your lips together to hide your smile, you walk past him, calling over your shoulder to say, “Never expected I’d have a higher ranking than you, Sarge!”

✯✯✯✯✯

“Is the Master Sergeant here?” Tim asks as he enters the bullpen.

“She’s with her team, briefing their superiors.” Wade smiles before asking, “Why would you like to know?”

“She knew my name. I can’t place her though.”

“She’s Army, you were Army… think about it, Tim.”

“I met hundreds of people in the Army, Wade-“

“Not all of them stay in the Army and work their way through the rankings because you inspired them,” you say, standing in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“No problem,” Wade says, adding your first name while looking toward Tim.

Tim looks past you, clearly trying to place your name.

“I met you my first year, we were only in the same room for a few minutes and didn’t say more than a few words to each other. But you inspired me. You were a good soldier, a better leader, and I wanted to do what you did.”

“And now you’re a sergeant?”

Smiling, you correct, “It’s Master Sergeant, Sergeant.”

✯✯✯✯✯

“You got a little drool right there,” Angela jokes, pointing to the corner of Tim’s mouth. “What’s so special about her?”

“She outranks me,” Tim answers.

“Okay. Lots of people do.”

“Yeah,” Wade adds from Tim’s other side. “You don’t look at me like that.”

“No offense, Wade, but you’re not as pretty,” Angela replies.

Tim shushes them suddenly, nodding when you turn and see him. You smile at him, yet again drawn in by Tim Bradford’s presence and leadership. His not trusting you at first, yelling at you, was somewhat unexpected, but you’ve been in his place before. Trusting people as soon as you meet them is difficult, often impossible in your profession, but Tim’s quick change makes you smile. You’re a good leader, like him.

✯✯✯✯✯

“We’ve got a problem,” Wade calls, ending a phone call. “There’s another riot at Cal State Prison. LAPD and Lancaster PD can’t handle it alone.”

“We can never make it there in time,” Nolan responds. “It’s nearly 2 hours without traffic.”

“Now would be a good time to get a private jet or something, Thorsen,” Angela calls.

You pull your phone from your pocket, typing quickly before nodding. “I need Bradford,” you tell Wade. “And your landing pad.”

“What did you do?” Tim asks.

“Sikorsky X2 is five minutes out. We can get there and drop in 20 or less.” You raise a finger to point to everyone in the room. “This stays here. I’m not supposed to know the Army has one stateside.”

“Has a what?” Aaron asks.

“Good answer.”

“It only holds two crew members, but I’ve got a team out there that can ride in a cargo area. We’re going to need backup, so if you can get airships or anything, Sergeant Grey, please do. Let’s roll.”

Tim follows you quickly, jogging to catch up with you. “How’d you pull this off?”

“Somebody owed me a favor.”

“Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“That I inspired you to stay in the Army, to get here.”

“Oh.” You push open a door and begin climbing the stairs quickly. Stepping onto the roof, you look at Tim and say, “Ask me again when this is over.”

Tim waits until you turn away to smile. He can’t believe he forgot you, but your sacrificial, mutually beneficial leadership style, kindness, and abilities, not to mention that you outrank him, have him practically wrapped around your finger.

✯✯✯✯✯

Standing in the back of a helicopter and hooked to a rail, you lean out against the whipping air and feel weightless. The pain and concern of the day are wearing off, and as the sun sets, you’re glad you were asked to come to LA. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath.

Tim taps your side, and when he has your attention, he points West. The ocean is now visible, and the light ripples over the water, reflecting the pastel colors painting the sky. You smile at the view before looking back to Tim. Reaching up, you adjust the channel dial on his headset. He doesn’t even flinch at your sudden movement, and your smile grows as he leans toward you.

Looking at the soldiers behind you, you say, “If I think any of you can hear me, I’ll have you transferred to the worst base I can think of.”

No one except for Tim reacts, and he chuckles quietly.

“Okay, ask me again,” you request into your microphone.

“Did you really stay in the Army because of me?”

“Yes. You showed me what was possible, but your kindness toward me made me think I could do it too.”

“You could’ve done it without me.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Easy, Sergeant.”

“It’s-“

“Master Sergeant… when this illegally obtained helicopter lands, would you go to dinner with me?”

A soldier to your left moves, and you shake your head. “After this illegally obtained helo lands, and I have Henderson transferred to hot and humid Fort Rucker, Alabama, I would love to go to dinner with you.”

“Since you outrank me, surely you get paid better, so it’s on you?”

You lean toward Tim, pausing when your headset hits his. “I could also go back to Italy and see if anyone there is willing to take me to dinner.”

“Fine,” Tim groans. “I’ll pay, but only if you stay in town long enough to show me how much my inspiration paid off.”

✯✯✯✯✯

The dinner date does not go as planned. When you enter the police station, Sergeant Major Riley awaits you. He takes you into Wade’s office to talk, and Tim stands outside waiting for you.

Being a soldier means being sent to different places with only a moment’s notice, but being at your level makes things far more difficult and irregular. Tim may have missed his chance.

“Any idea what that’s about?” Tim asks Wade.

“No clue.”

You exit a moment later, your previous smile now absent. Tim tries to hide his disappointment, but he should have known getting into a relationship with a younger, yet higher ranking, soldier would never work.

“I blame you,” you tell Wade, stopping before him and Tim.

“What did I do?” he asks incredulously.

“You said there was an opening at Irwin, but you didn’t say that you only knew that because my Sergeant Major told you.”

“He may have mentioned it.”

“Anyone want to loop me in?” Tim asks tiredly.

“I’m moving to California. Leaving Italy behind to lead a new force,” you answer sadly. “No more authentic pasta for me.”

“Wait- you’re moving to California? Irwin, which is three hours from here?” Tim interjects.

“It’s your fault too,” you remember. “I let you inspire me to be a good leader and a good teacher, but now I’m paying for it.”

Riley calls your name, beckoning you back into the office. The second time you exit, you seem a bit more pleased.

“Is the offer for that date still on the table?” you ask Tim. “Looks like my team is going to be in LA county for a few days before I can get discharged.”

"Whoa, whoa, what are you talking about? You're getting out?" Tim asks, raising his hands in question.

"I'm receiving another raise in rank," you tell Tim, grabbing his extended wrist and pulling him toward the door. "But not in the Army."

✯✯✯✯✯

✯✯ 1 Year Later ✯✯

“Your form needs some work, but there’s potential,” you say.

“My, uh, my recruiter said that you take potential and make talent,” the recruit before you says.

Standing, you smile. “I like to think so. But I can’t do anything without your effort. So, are you willing to put in the work to do your best?”

“Yes, ma’am, Commander.”

“Then I only have one more question. Why do you want to join FBI special operations?”

“Commander,” someone scoffs from the doorway. “It’s like you take pride in increasing the divide between our ranks.”

Glancing over, you make a “shoo” gesture before finishing the recruit’s evaluation.

“Let’s go,” you tell Tim, gathering your things. “It’s been almost a year, and we still haven’t had an uninterrupted dinner date.”

“I’m not sure we ever will, Sarge.”

You move your hands to Tim’s shoulders, brushing your lips over his before whispering, “It’s Commander, Sergeant.”

#tim bradford x reader #tim bradford x you #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford #tim bradford the rookie #the rookie #the rookie abc #requests #fem!reader

552 notes · View notes

barrenclan · 5 months ago

Note

My problem with the "Rainhaze at fault" idea is sorta the question of when he does become at fault, after he goes into the Defiance at least.

If we all agree that he was forced into Defiance against his will, was then brainwashed, specifically targeted by Ranger for psychological and physical abuse to make him more readily accepting of defiance ideals, and then was sent to Barrenclan territory by Ranger because he KNEW something like this would happen... When does it become his fault?

To me it just seems like the brainwashing worked, and those who put him through it already had a working system to break weak willed people, and I don't think being weak willed is something directly his fault, it's just something he was due to his lack of experience.

It's just a little weird to me that the torture and his abuse is acknowledged as something awful he had no control over, but the thing that came as a direct result of it is suddenly the invisible line crossed and he it shows personal failings that he did it. Isn't that the entire point of the brainwashing, isn't that the entire point of cults???

Yes, it is! Rainhaze sparks so much analysis and thought for this exact reason. How much control does he have over his own actions? He's still the one taking them in the end, after all. He was forced to kill Dustfeather, but no one forced him to kill Asphodelpaw. Yet it's true, he was set up for it - but then, he himself acknowledged in his own words that it was not his only option. Is weakness and fear an acceptable excuse for violent murder? But then, is abuse and manipulation? How about if you're aware it's an immoral thing to do?

We got a look directly into his mind in Issues 24 and 31, so I think those issues speak best for themselves on Rainhaze's character.

#ask #anon #rainhaze #analysis

131 notes · View notes

hiraeth-sonder · 5 months ago

Text

Want Nothing More

Jiyan x Reader

A quiet moment away, a reunion and a revelation long foreseen

//He finally came home it only took my sanity. Very short little decently written fic, maybe OOC also some maybe spoilers for his story quest??? Also maybe I got stuff wrong idk, this isn't beta read so like eh

The greater world is often far wider than the humble confines of a small village, much less one so tucked away. Since facing an injury that rendered you almost entirely incapable of returning to the frontlines, you quietly returned to Taoyuan Vile with hefty compensation and an arm that could not even be lifted.

Life becomes oddly quiet, with barely any danger to hold arms against nor a proper purpose back home, you take to helping in the village’s pharmacy as some way to bring order back into your daily routine. You are given more delicate work, pressing and drying herbs, sorting them for use, dealing with customers and aiding with deliveries. With the opportunity to provide, to give back, it became a sort of pride for how quick you could pick up the routine.

It works for a while, yet with this new direction, you are gradually reminded of a certain someone from all those years ago.

That boy who smelled like medicinal herbs and eyes like stars, whose face scrunched from displease whenever he caught a taste of bittberries in his food, the boy who certainly has found his path beyond medicine. There are times you blink and before you is not the current reality of him, but rather the little boy who somehow managed to find time to spend with you no matter his duties.

Memories of stolen moments, of forcing him to rest after his sending condolences to grieving family, of exercising his natural medical ability. You were younger then, with limbs like sticks and hair that stuck to your face, yet that did not discourage you from doing what you could for your friend.

You wonder how he is doing nowadays, you haven’t seen him since the day you got discharged after all.

One can only imagine your surprise when through falling pink petals and the light breeze of the wind, he appears as he did all those years ago. Still the pillar of calm and decisiveness, he looked a tad out of place compared to the lively and enthusiastic crowd of teams. By his side was a dark haired individual, looking just a little less out of place, and when two other rangers approached them, a small huff escaped you.

A repeat of that last game, who would have known that the general’s second game would have him recreating the circumstances of his first. If only with a few minor differences.

By the time the revelry and chaos dies down, the sun has long since fallen beyond the horizon. Many of the villagers are still out celebrating as the tapestry of stars stretches far past what your eyes can see. Having made the venture to the great tree that stands atop the mountain, you notice a familiar form already standing there. Beneath falling petals and illuminated by the moon’s grace, that young boy of the past has become your stalwart general.

With heavy steps, you approach him, yet stop just a few steps before his side, sitting down on the grass as you overlook the little lights of the village. He clearly notices your presence, sitting curtly, leaving an arm’s distance between your two forms.

“I didn’t think you’d take part again,” You hum, keeping your eyes away from his as you maintain your focus ahead of you.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” He shakes his head, his lips move to open just the slightest, as if wishing to say more yet unable to muster the words to say so, still they close. Jiyan manages to breathe out, “It's been a while.”

You swallow, an action that seems oddly difficult, “It has.”

As you finally muster the courage to turn towards him, you notice how his gaze seems to consider your inept arm. Perhaps a few years ago, you would have despised the way he looks at it, knowing that people only look because of pity. Nonetheless, you instinctively press that arm against you, your other hand raising to hold it.

He furrows his brow just the slightest, and in a tone so soft you must strain to hear, “I wanted to apologise for not doing more for you.”

“You’ve already done so much.” Sighing, a breath escapes you as you meet his eyes. You move closer towards him, shifting so that hand of yours, that arm that could barely lift a basket, could rest atop his arm.

Your voice cracks just the slightest, even after all this time you never manage to thank him for everything he has done for you. The compensation was far too generous for an ordinary ranger such as yourself, the immediate and efficient care you received as rehabilitation, the bundle of Pecok flowers you would see upon every morning’s awakening. You only hoped you could give him something back in return, “An arm is just an arm, if you hadn’t acted as quick as you did, maybe I would’ve lost more than that.”

Jiyan looked no more than the young man he is, in such familiar settings and under such familiar straits. Sword straight brows and the soft quirk of his lips, he never truly changed from that young boy. Your eyes trail further down, to his squared shoulders and staunch chest, how they maintain rigid and perfect poise.

Another sigh escapes you, “You’re not at work, won’t you at least untense your shoulders?”

“I’m sorry, there has been a lot going on and I didn’t think I’d end up staying here so long.”

“Don’t apologise,” You smile, then pat your lap with your hand. Sending him a nonplussed look, you can all but see the gears in his head, you can only laugh, “Humour me then.”

He does not move, his eyes widening just the slightest that to anyone else, they might have missed his brief moment of shock. You have not asked him to rest in such a manner for years, perhaps the last time was over a decade ago, so you do not blame him. Still, perhaps it was the nostalgia, perhaps it was the unveiling of sentiment, but a familiar sense of easiness takes over.

“Come on, don’t tell me great and mighty General Jiyan is too good for a break?” You raise a brow, easy teasing falling from your lips.

He is quick to deny your quip, “I never said that.” And with at first hesitancy in his very form, he finally tentatively lays his head on your lap.

The weight brings about old memories, and old feelings. How old were you when you realised that Jiyan, friend as he is, was worth far more than that to you? How old were you when you started looking forward to his little breaks just to catch a glimpse of him?

You loved him, of course you did. Who does not love their friends?

Yet this love of yours is one that is aged, one that has matured into contentment for what you had. Even as you spend your days in Taoyuan Vile, the little parts of him you see among the crooks and crannies of white walls and verdant greenery, it is enough for you. So even when he lays in your lap and closes his eyes as he did all those years ago, you are happy with what you have.

“You know, when we were younger, I used to have to convince you to rest whenever we managed to get away,” More akin to reminiscing seniors, you brush away his bangs away from his face with a gentle flick.

“Even then you were so hardworking,” You murmur.

He responds, just as quietly as your recollection, “That should be expected, I was working even then.”

“I think it was when I saw how peaceful you looked while sleeping that I realised I liked you,” Humming, you close your eyes as the wind breezes past your cheek.

As though realising what you said, a warm flush pools at the tips of your ears as you accidentally meet his eyes, “Ah…”

“Guess I said too much huh?” You laugh, the sound carried by the gentle wind. “Ignore me, I’m just saying things.”

In a rare moment of vulnerability, Jiyan reaches for you, his hand raised to keep you from looking away. Though he remains, those golden eyes tipped with scarlet bear an emotion you never thought he would hold. With just one look, just one action, he renders you incapable of moving to defend yourself.

He mutters, voice tinged with just the hint of languish, “After all these years, you’re still unwilling to tell me things.”

“Would you have wanted me to tell you?” With a raised brow, you cock your head, leaning into his palm incidentally.

“Yes.”

And that contentment, the placidity that came with the distance and time between the two of you, crumbles. For your love, a sentiment you have nurtured into something that can be tucked away, is still one that yearns for response. For his love, is one just as aged as yours, just as willing to sit in contentment and placidity. Years and years of pining that soon bred a seed of tranquillity, quietly sitting within the soil just waiting for that push to bloom.

With a soft smile, so like that boy’s and so befitting your beloved general’s visage, he avows the second half of a confession brazenly said, “Because it was when I laid in your lap that I realised that I liked you too.”

#wuthering waves #wuwa #wuwa jiyan #wuwa x reader #jiyan wuthering waves #jiyan x reader

128 notes · View notes

darkworkcourier · 2 years ago

Note

You’re doing Ghost!! Can I request an exercise in sharing body heat in cold conditions that turns into *other* forms of exercise? Preferably a non-military female reader if that tickles your fancy. So excited to see you back on tumblr, I loved your RDR2 and FC5 work back in the day 💕💕💕

Hi yes I’d like to apologize that this tiny prompt turned into EIGHT THOUSAND WORDS OF PORN OH GOD

(Also, try and find all the Far Cry 5 references. :3c As a thank you for hanging out with me all this time!)

Reader works for the National Park Service and gets pulled into a mission involving guiding Ghost to go after a (wink) paramilitary organization in (WINK WINK) Montana. Things go awry.

---

“Piss poor excuse for a shortcut, Ranger,” Ghost says to your back.

Your mid-back, actually, since you’re about two feet above him on the hillside which is way steeper than you remember. You could have sworn there was a trail cut through here, or maybe that was a half mile down the ridge, or maybe— Maybe it’s good to not second guess it when you think Ghost’s about a full thirty seconds from ditching you and going off on his own.

“You wanna get shot at?” you ask over your shoulder, voice slightly muffled in your scarf. “Because if you took the main road, that’s what you’d get.”

“I would do just fine,” he replies dryly.

Right, he’s got a tactical vest on. You have a down jacket that would just make for a really interesting display of flying feathers if you got shot. The best defense you have is the handgun he gave you for protection, and a Park Service badge that would elevate the threat of killing a federal employee. Not that Ghost’s targets would care, but it makes you feel better.

The two of you trudge through waist-deep snow, thick even on the incline. You’re practiced enough with winter weather hiking to approach it fairly spryly, but you’re also not lugging an incredible about of gear like he is.

“It’s not that far, anyway,” you tell him, just to make conversation. “It’s this ridge, then the Beaver Dam River, and then the lookout tower.”

“Real walk in the park,” he replies.

“Literally,” you say brightly.

His grunt isn’t very amused.

The biggest problem is the cold. It’s northern Montana in the depths of winter, and every shrieking sickle of wind that cuts through the mountains physically hurts. You’re prepared enough for the temperature drop, but you worry more about what happens after dark, when it goes from tolerable to goddamn polar. If it wasn’t vital for you to be out here, you would have stayed in.

For lack of anything better to do as you finish ascending the ridge, you think on the whole situation. A paramilitary extremist group hiding out in the mountains, some multinational task force you’d never heard of swooping into the park, and you getting swept up into it all and taken on as a guide. It sounds like something straight out of an action movie, but here you are and there Ghost is.

Hell, even his name and whole look makes the reality of all this seem that much out of pocket. He’s dressed in winter tactical gear, white and gray mottled camo, hood pulled down low over the skull-plated balaclava that you’re fairly sure he never takes off. He blends in with his surroundings, but at the same time, he really sticks out.

You get to the top of the ridge, pausing for a moment to take in your surroundings. Sure enough, by your reckoning, you’re about a quarter mile off from the actual trail. It’s easy to remedy, leading Ghost down the relatively level ridge to where the trail appears as a shallow divot in the snow.

Of course, he points it out.

“Got lost, did we?”

You roll your eyes. “Not lost,” you correct. “Just slightly askew on the directions. Everything looks the same in the snow.”

“Thought you knew this place like the back of your hand.”

“I do,” you say, stepping down onto the trail and grimacing when the snow goes up to your hips. Ghost is so damn huge that it probably barely goes over his knees, but you don’t turn around to look. “And I wasn’t too far off!”

“Slightly off is still off,” he retorts.

You really wish they would have sent the nice, happy Scottish guy with you instead.

Once you clear the ridge’s treeline, you see the lookout tower poking above the trees straight ahead of you. Grinning, you point it out to Ghost.

“Affirmative, Ranger. I see it.”

“You can just say ‘yes’.”

You can hear him sigh, and then, “Yes,” said like he’s punching the word out of the air.

The trail crosses over the river, cutting through at its shallowest section for this part of the park. The only problem is that the Beaver Dam River doesn’t freeze, so there’s a very real risk of soaking through your boots and defeating the purpose of having moisture-wicking socks. With any luck, you’ll have some downed trees or rocks to cross over, and the river won’t be too high.

That’s with any luck; the opposite being the luck you currently have, as the river’s clearer than you’ve ever seen it once you reach it. You hiss out a curse under your breath, glancing up and down the banks to see if there’s any easier way to cross.

Nada.

“Shit,” you mutter.

“What’s shit?”

“River’s clear, but it’s... well, it’s fuckin’ cold is what it is,” you say, watching the glacially-fed water happily rush by you.

He shrugs. “Looks shallow enough.”

“It is, except—” You look down at your boots, cringing at the thought of all the fun ways water can get in them.

Beside you, Ghost looks down at them as well. “They’re not waterproof?”

“They are, but probably not for walking through a river.”

“Jesus,” he murmurs, then steps right into the water. You see it course around his ankles, protected by his thick boots that probably cost more than a month of rent back home. Once he’s on the other side, he turns back to you, dark eyes peering out through his mask, making him look like a bizarre death motif hanging out on the banks of a very chilly River Styx.

“Damn it,” you hiss. You’ll have to be quick, not settling long enough for the water to leach into your boots and socks.

It’s probably comical to Ghost to watch you hopping across the river, up until your boot hits something—loose gravel, a slimy rock, or just a pocket of underwater bad luck. Whatever it is, it sends you right on your ass and into the water. The only good thing is that it’s not deep, but that does shit to negate the cold shock that knocks the wind right out of you. Cold pierces right through your clothes, hitting your skin like dozens of tiny knives. You gasp first, then yelp, and finally scramble out of the water and right into Ghost’s arms.

To be fair, in the shock, you didn’t see his sudden movement toward you, so you yelp again—right into his ear—when he scoops you up. His head jerks back, but he holds you steady regardless.

“Jesus fuck!” you gasp, already shivering hard. Parts of you are too numb to register on your brain’s running docket of limbs and appendages, but others hurt like shit.

“You okay?” Ghost asks, sounding a little breathless. His hands are on your shoulders, holding you in place.

Great question; you don’t have a good answer. You nod, but you’re pretty sure the uncontrollable shivering is telling another story.

“Let’s get you to that tower,” he says. His voice takes on the command form you only heard back when you sat in on the task force’s meeting. It’s solid, and strangely comforting to hear him take charge. “Sooner we’re inside, the better.”

“C-couldn’t agree m-m-more,” you manage, crossing your arms and digging your hands into your armpits.

Ghost takes the lead up the trail, which is good because your legs feel pretty damn numb. You don’t think it’s frostbite yet, but you know that’s a very real risk, especially as the clouds overhead start to darken with the oncoming evening. Because of the tower’s high perch, the trail snakes back and forth up the hill—a half hour’s walk in good weather and a steady pace, but longer in your state.

Ghost’s surprisingly patient, purposefully slowing his pace so you can keep up. He looks over his shoulder again and again, like he’s making sure you’re still there and not face-down in a snowbank. On your end, you keep your eyes fixed on his backpack, determined to keep it in your sight.

Halfway up the hill, Ghost decides to change tactics. He stops, shouldering off his backpack, then handing it to you. “Put it on,” he says. “Then get on my back.”

“What?”

“Just do as I say,” he says, brooking no argument in his tone. “It’ll be faster.”

You put on the backpack, not surprised that it weighs a metric ton. At the same time, your vision swims a little, dark shapes appearing in your vision before fizzling out like little firecrackers.

Oh, we’re in trouble, you think.

Ghost makes sure the backpack’s secure before turning around and going down on a knee to give you space to climb up. Non-hypothermic you would find this a great opportunity to make a down-on-one-knee joke, but you’re way too fucking cold to do much more than shiver and hang on to him for dear life. His hands go to the back of your thighs, supporting you while you cling to his neck, pressing your face into the back of his coat.

“You good?”

You nod.

“Need a verbal confirmation, Ranger,” he says, not without a hint of humor.

You manage a stifled, shuddering laugh and say, “Yep.”

“Good enough.”

He carries you up the hill, the incline steep enough to make the backpack feel heavier somehow. You don’t know how he’s managing it as well as he is, except for whatever freakish training they probably do in England. In your swimming, dizzy mind, you imagine Ghost hoisting crates of tea over his head, and that sends you into a giggling fit.

“What’s so funny back there?” he asks. However, you can’t miss the sliver of concern in his voice.

“H-how d’you train in Eng-g-gland?” you ask, the middle syllable briefly caught in the back of your throat.

“How do I what?”

“B-back where-e-ever you come f-from-m-m,” you say, shivering harder even though you can feel his body heat close to your core. “W-what do th-they make you d-d-do?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and all you hear are his boots crunching in the snow and the wind snapping through the trees around you.

“Vigorous biscuit lifts,” he says.

You snort against his coat, and then cling tighter, feeling your limbs prickle in the cold.

You’re silent the rest of the way up the hill, shivering and sniffling as Ghost carries you. Finally, you reach the top, and you glance up to see the lookout tower’s staircase which until now has never looked so fucking tall.

“Sh-shit,” you say.

“Just hang on,” Ghost says. “You’ll be fine.”

“N-n-no, I th-thought I’d l-l-let go,” you joke, but your arms do feel like they’re going to fall off, and you’re starting to lose feeling in your fingertips.

He grunts and adjusts his hold on your thighs, then starts the ascent up the stairs. You really do have to wonder about his physical training regimen, because you’re pretty sure you’d be dead before you reached the top in your state. He’s only panting, breaths coming out in thin clouds in front of his balaclava.

“S’it locked?” he asks.

“No.”

“Good,” he says, letting you down onto your numb feet so he can open the door. He goes in first, hand close to his thigh holster, quickly scoping the single room before letting you in. "Clear.”

Your steps waver a little as you walk in, then quickly fall onto the bed without much ceremony. You’re a shivering mess, every part of you that you can still feel trembling with the cold. It’s not much warmer in the tower, but at least the wind’s blocked out. Ghost walks over and helps you shoulder off the pack, then leaves your line of site, his presence indicated by heavy footsteps, the sound of the backpack’s zipper being opened, and then soft clanking and thumping.

Your consciousness wavers on a very dangerous precipice, and you know you really need to get out of your wet clothes. You’re not at the paradoxical undressing stage of hypothermia, which is a good sign. But that also means you have no strong desire to strip, either.

Somewhere in your half-doze, you hear Ghost working on the potbelly stove, opening it on its whiny hinges, loading its gullet with wood left over from the last restock, then striking a match. It doesn’t take long to hear the throaty crackle of burning wood, and that’s a comfort in of itself.

Ghost is back at your side, gently shaking your shoulder. “Hey, Ranger,” he says. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

“Mmn,” is your best response, and not a particularly eloquent one.

“C’mon,” he presses, then manhandles you up into a sitting position. Your muscles give a pretty passionate protest, and you blink wearily up at him as he helps you take off your gloves, then unzips your jacket. His eyes flicker up to yours, assessing you. “You still with me?”

You nod, lifting your stiff arms for him to help you out of your sleeves.

“You know the signs of hypothermia, right?”

“Y-yeah,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut as a fresh rush of pins and needles goes down your right arm.

“Alright, let me know if any of ‘em get worse.” He drops your coat in front of the stove, then gestures to your half-soaked sweater. “Can you get that off by yourself?”

You nod again, then start the suddenly grueling work of getting out of it. It’s heavy wool, designed specifically to be as thick and warm as possible. That also means that it’s a bitch to get out of when your arms feel like cooked pasta. Still, Ghost’s already doing a lot for you, so the least you can do is prove that you’re better at a toddler than taking your clothes off.

Oh. Yeah, there’s that. You’re taking your clothes off in front of Ghost. That’s a whole thing to parse through.

But you manage to get out of the sweater, and that’s a victory. You drop it next to the bed, then start undoing the laces on your boots, fingers fumbling the whole time.

“Need help?” Ghost asks.

You look up at him, and then feel a very welcome heat rush to your face.

He’s ditched his coat on a chair next to the stove, tactical vest laid aside on the lookout’s desk. He’s down to a skin-tight black long-sleeved shirt that does wonders in showing off his musculature, and his hand are— Holy shit, he’s undoing his belt.

“W-what are you d-doing?” you ask. Bonus points for you that you’re not shivering as hard. Lack of bonus points that you’re openly ogling the lieutenant like he’s a prime beef steak (and he is).

He gestures back to you, one boot off, the other half-undone. “Getting undressed,” he says very plainly. “Fastest way to warm you up. You know that.”

You do, is the problem. It’s in every survival manual you’ve read and every class you’ve taken for your job. At the same time, it’s in at least four romance novels you’ve perused. And you’ve spent nearly four full months without coming into contact with any human being for more than an hour at a time; getting naked with a gigantic, musclebound man nearly sends your addled brain into a tailspin.

You quickly undo the other boot, trying to will your hands to stop shaking.

This isn’t the time to get shy, especially as your limbs ache in new and profound ways and you feel like you’re never going to be warm again.

The boot comes off, then you peel your wet socks off and drop them on the floor with a very telling plap sound. Your feet prickle and ache as the chilled air hits them and your shivering renews in spades. The faster you get undressed and under any kind of cover, the better it is for both of you.

Snow pants go next, then your work pants, until you’re down to a t-shirt and long underwear.

And Ghost is—

Fuck.

If there was any blood left in your suffering arms and legs, it must redirect right up to your face, making your head swim in a whole new body of water. Ghost’s stripped down to his boxers and (of course) his balaclava. His back’s to you, but that means it’s on full display as he puts all of his clothing in a semi-neat pile. When he turns back to you, you see his eyes widen a little as he lifts his brows.

“Still wearing too much, Ranger,” he states.

You know that, but there’s a pretty firm disconnect somewhere in your synapses, body firmly resisting any higher command to do literally anything useful.

He seems to register that issue, because he’s at your side in an instant, tugging on the hem of your t-shirt to help you out of it. You squawk in surprise, almost falling back onto the bed.

If you could read masked expressions a bit better, you might think he’s amused.

“I— I can d-do it m-m-myself,” you stutter out. Fighting down any urge to be bashful in a survival situation, you get out of your t-shirt, then maneuver yourself enough to take off your long johns. At the end, you’re down to just a sports bra and panties. Pointedly, you don’t look up to see Ghost’s reaction.

“Take this side of the bed,” he says, gesturing to the edge you’re sitting on. “It’s closer to the stove.”

You do so, feeling him get on the bed and go over to the far side closest to the window. He pulls up the blanket and quilt, then slips underneath them before holding them up for you.

With your back to him, you lay on your side and shimmy under the cold blankets. Behind you, Ghost grunts in what sounds like irritation.

“Turn around,” he says.

You swallow hard, worrying that he’d say that. Reluctantly, you roll over to face him. Or, rather, face his chest, which is alarmingly close. And it’s a good chest, all muscle-y and firm, with a fine dusting of light blond hairs on his pectorals. When you look up, he’s still wearing that balaclava. You squint at him.

“H-how come y-y-you’re still wearing th-that?”

“Doesn’t come off, Ranger,” he states, although the corners of his eyes crinkle like he’s smiling.

“Ever?”

“Affirmative.”

You groan and lean your head forward until it touches one of his collarbones. “Just s-say yes-s,” you complain.

He actually laughs this time, a low, rumbling sound deep in his chest, before you feel his arm wrap around you, pulling him close to him. It’s startling, and damn embarrassing, but you definitely can’t argue with the results. Almost immediately, his body heat seeps into your skin, first warming your hands pressed in between your chests. One of his feet brushes over one of yours, causing you to jump, and then settle with your eyes squeezed shut in mortification.

But that mortification gives way to blissful comfort as everything warms up. The stove radiates heat as the wood crackles and shifts, and Ghost is a stove in himself. The little space beneath the blankets is a pocket of glorious heat, and you start to feel the ache in your limbs recede and your head clear of its chilly fog.

You don’t know how long it is before he speaks again, but his voice comes in close to your ear. “You doing alright, Ranger?”

You’re relaxed enough that you nod and smile with your eyes closed. “Yeah,” you say.

“You ever do this in survival training?”

You scrunch up your nose a little. “I read about it. We never actually practiced stripping down and cuddling.”

He snorts. “It’s not cuddling.”

You crack open an eye, looking up into his greasepaint-ringed gaze. Feeling emboldened by the fact you can feel your arms and legs and nothing hurts, you gently shove his chest. “What do you call this, lieutenant?”

“Hypothermia prevention.”

You roll your eyes. “Just say it’s cuddling. It’s easier. Less syllables.”

He doesn’t say a word.

Before long, the crackling of the fire and Ghost’s steady breathing lull you into a doze. You go in and out of sleep, deeper and deeper as the sky darkens outside and causes the fire to make strange shadows around the room. You wake once to find your arm around Ghost’s waist, your chest pressed against his, the crown of your head under his chin. You’re sleepy enough that this doesn’t strike you as odd or something you should remedy. It’s way too easy to fall asleep after that.

You wake again to Ghost moving against you, getting out from under the blankets and crawling across the bed until he steps down on the floor. You groan and roll over to watch him as he crouches in front of the stove, opening the door to add more wood to the fire.

He stands back up and looks down at you, shadows making his face look like an eyeless skull. You admire his body cast in the warm light, more than happy to openly stare at him when he walks back to the bed.

“You feelin’ alright, Ranger?” he asks.

“Mm. I’d be better if you got back in bed,” you say, heart outrunning your mind by leagues.

He lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head. “Things that sound better outside of a survival situation,” he says.

As he crawls over you and back under the covers, you do manage to parse that sentence out through the thick haze of sleep. You turn back to face him, looking up into the dark sockets of his mask.

“What does?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“What sounds better?”

He’s silent for a thoughtful moment before he breathes out through his nose. “Nothin’. Forget it.”

Nope. You’re not forgetting it, especially as you wake up a little more and take in the sight of him laying next to you.

Briefly, you think back to the meeting back at the ranger station, when Captain Price outlined the mission to gather intel on the extremist group. You stood across the table from Ghost, watching him as he stared down at the topography map, then at the dossier in front of him. But then he looked up at you, eyes striking in his mask. After that, you felt his eyes on you all afternoon, and again in the morning when you set to head out.

At the time, you thought he was just observant. He needed to know he could trust you to lead him through the wilderness, assessing you in depth and measuring you up against the other rangers at the station.

But now? Well, now you’re not so sure. You could test it, though. Now that you have all your faculties pretty well in check, you’re tempted to see how he would react to you.

Besides, it’s dark and the two of you are isolated in the Montana wilderness. The only bad thing that could come of this is a very awkward morning.

So, in line with Ghost’s whole vibe—go big or go home.

You pull yourself into a sitting position, tucking your fingers up and under the elastic hem of your sports bra. The second you pull your bra up, you hear Ghost’s breath hitch. He doesn’t make a sound as you take your bra off, sighing in relief and dropping it off the side of the bed.

Behind you, Ghost’s voice is a dry, hot rasp. “Feel better?”

Nervousness flutters around in your chest as you shimmy back under the covers, bare chest now just a suggestion in the fabric. You force a smile. “I hate wearing a bra to bed, and you’re not wearing anything.”

“Thought you’d be warmed up enough by now.”

Taking in a breath to steady your nerves, you don’t answer but raise one of your hands to brush over his chest. He doesn’t move back, or seize your wrist. Instead, he holds still, letting your fingers explore the textures of his skin—scarring and all. One particularly rough scar catches your attention, and you run your fingers around its circumference.

“What’s this one?”

You don’t look up, but you feel Ghost’s eyes burning on you. “Bullet wound from an insurgent. 2017. Laid up in hospital for three weeks.”

Your hand goes lower, finding a raised scar as long as a pencil above his navel. “And this one?”

His breathing is steady, but you’re more aware of it now, of the rise and fall of his chest, your shadow cast across his skin. “Hunting knife to the gut from a drug trafficker in London.”

“When?”

“2012.”

“How long were you in the hospital?”

“Two and a half weeks. Most of it was from surgery.”

You nod, getting bold enough to scoot closer until your breasts press against his chest. His breath hitches, which feels like some kind of success. Something you should report back to Captain Price.

Then, one of his hands brushes over your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, down to your hip. Goosebumps rise on your arms and a shiver runs up your spine, thrilling you. His hand goes back up, then follows a line downward over your stomach to a set of small scars on your right side.

“Appendectomy?” he guesses.

You smile. “2019,” you respond. “In the hospital for two whole days.”

“How did you ever survive?”

“Ibuprofen and HBO,” you reply.

You see his mask move with a smile, and then his hand goes up to your chest, following the divot of your sternum. Below his hand, your heart beats deceptively quick, threatening to upend your calmness. Ghost notices, of course, moving his hand to rest over your left breast, your heart threatening to break right out of there like an escaped prisoner.

His voice is like liquid heat in your ears when he says, “Do you want this?”

You could ask him to clarify—play dumb, like you have no idea what you’re insinuating. But the darkness is so all-encompassing, so protective. The world outside doesn’t know about the world in this room, in this bed. You feel safe here, and there’s an opportunity literally laying in front of you.

You smile, and say, “Affirmative.”

He doesn’t jump into action. Instead, his left hand moves down, massive palm covering your breast, pressing gently as he leans his head down close to yours, hard shell of his mask pressing against your forehead.

You look up at him, reaching to tug at the bottom of his balaclava. “Can you take this off?” you ask. “Or at least pull it up over your mouth?”

Another thoughtful silence, and then he does something a little more unexpected. He pulls you close to him, chest to chest, and bodily rolls you over until you’re on the far side of the bed and his back’s to the stove. This way, you can’t see his face, his mask disappearing in his silhouette. You see him reach up and pull the balaclava off, some of his short hair clinging to the fabric before falling away. He sets it down behind him, probably within arm’s reach.

“That better?” he asks, his voice clearer now, hotter, like he’s removed a physical and emotional barrier.

You grin. “Is there anything stronger than ‘affirmative’?” you ask.

“Hard copy,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, then, hard copy, sir.”

And you lean in, pressing your lips to his. In the dark, you miss a little, kissing somewhere closer to his chin; Ghost corrects the approach and kisses you in full. His kiss is like him—strong, solid, an undercurrent of ferocity as he catches your bottom lip with his teeth. Your left hand goes to the side of his face, reeling yourself into him and deepening the kiss. In a word, it’s exhilarating. Maybe it’s in part because of what you’ve gone through today, but you go at him like you crave him, and he returns the favor.

His right hand cups the back of your neck, a gentle but firm pressure. His other hand moves down to your chest, thumb brushing over right nipple, drawing a gasp out of you against his lips. You feel him smile against you, then tweak the nipple again. A small, hot shock of pleasure follows a current down your spine, relaying right into your core and sparking a small fire.

If that’s how he’s going to do it, you’ll do the same.

Pressing your hand to his chest, you bring up one of your knees in between his legs, pressing gently against his crotch and making him bite back a curse. You’re quick to kiss him harder, shutting him up before he can say anything about it. In retaliation, he drops the hand on your neck to palm your other breast, massaging both simultaneously as you moan into his mouth.

Where you were freezing before, it now feels like the room can’t get any hotter. That spark lit by Ghost’s first few touches fans into a fully-fledged flame, threatening to burn right through you. You begin rocking your knee in between his legs—alternating pressure, then no pressure—until his hips begin to move against you, his cock growing hard against your thigh.

You tilt your head back and grin. “Well, isn’t someone an eager beaver?” you tease.

He groans and presses his forehead against yours. “Your pillow talk needs work,” he replies.

Your response to his complaint is to reach down and stroke your fingers over his tented erection, earning a surprised grunt and a hissed, “Shit.”

“What’s shit?” you ask, echoing his words by the river.

His voice is all irritation and arousal in equal parts, “The fact we still have clothes on, that’s what’s shit.”

“Oh. Easy fix.”

Again bypassing ceremony, you curl in on yourself enough to pull your panties off, wiggling out of them before tossing them somewhere in the direction of the stove and hoping they don’t get burnt. Then you hook a leg over his still-clothed hip, grinding against his thigh.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, reaching up to run his fingers through your hair, then forming a half-tight fist so you’re forced to look up at his silhouette. “Now who’s eager?”

“I think it’s a firm tie,” you say, feeling another thrill of victory as Ghost reaches down to shove your leg off and pull down his boxers. Once they’re gone, all the proverbial bets are off. Aside from the shadow he’s wearing like a second mask, he’s completely exposed to you, bare and vulnerable to every touch. It’s like a drug to you, intoxicating and really fucking addicting.

Apparently, Ghost thinks about the same of you. His hand is back on your hip, but trails down to your sex, palming your mons, fingers just brushing over your labia.

You feel him look at you. “Can I?”

No further question from you, especially when your arousal is threatening some serious whiteout conditions in your head. “Yeah. God, yeah.”

One large finger slides against your slit, and you hear yourself, the slick, wet sound audible above anything else in the room. Ghost curses again, drawing his finger back and forth, listening to that sound like he can’t get enough of it.

“Fuck, Ranger. You’re so fuckin’ wet.”

“You kinda have that effect,” you manage to say, before the pad of his finger brushes over your clit and draws out a moan that you bury in his chest.

But his other hand finds your shoulder, pushing you back, before he nudges up under your chin. “No. It’s just us two out here. I wanna hear you,” he says, his voice so hot, smoldering in your ears.

He rubs your clit again, and there’s nothing to hide behind, no muffler to conceal the gasp and moan that follow. Your pleasure is completely on display, and Ghost seems more than happy to draw it out further, admiring it from every angle. He draws circles around your clit, teasing you, adding more fuel to that particular fire—the irony of feeling this way in a tower meant to watch for fires isn’t lost on you.

His finger goes lower, trailing down to your opening, going back and forth several times. The friction is damn near unbearable, and it takes every iota of self control not to grind on his hand. But your hips roll outside your control, and he catches the movement with another low rumble of a laugh.

“There somethin’ you want?” he asks, index finger running a low, lazy circle around your entrance.

You nod, shuddering when he only just dips the tip of his finger in. “Ghost, please.”

“Please what?”

You hear yourself whine, a sound you never thought to hear coming out of your own damn mouth. This man makes you feel ridiculous. And he also probably gets off on hearing you say stuff like this. “Finger me,” you say, exasperated and aroused. “Please, for fuck’s sake.”

“That’s not very pretty,” he teases, and you’re very close to shoving him off the bed. But then he pushes his finger in, and any retort you were set to say or do dies immediately, consumed in the wildfire he’s ignited and fed. He presses his lips to your cheek as you moan, now very unapologetically rolling your hips against his hand as he fingers you, per request. You feel a second finger insinuating against you, and then hear Ghost whisper, “Okay?” against your ear.

“Yes. Oh my God, yes, please.”

“Much prettier,” he says, and the second finger joins the first.

The thought that he’s done this before only just brushes your thoughts as he hooks his fingers in a ‘come here’ gesture, sending hot sparks of pleasure running through your body, using your nervous system like an electrical conduit. You rock against his hand, moaning and gasping as Ghost kisses your neck, scraping his teeth over your tender skin.

“Good girl,” he says, breath hot over your shoulder, before he presses a kiss against your clavicle. How his kisses can feel so chaste while he relentlessly fingerfucks you is beyond your comprehension. The praise just makes it better, making that hot coil inside of you turn tighter, ready to be sprung on a hair trigger.

Ghost picks up on that, too. He suddenly doubles down on the effort, fingers thrusting into you at a much more rapid pace, the wet sound of his hand against your pussy practically deafening. Only his murmurs of praise against your ear register above that.

You’re reduced to a repetitive litany of ‘god’, ‘fuck, ‘please’, and Ghost’s name. All those months without seeing people and having only your hand to keep you company make this oncoming orgasm all the more vibrant and bright, a flare launched high into the air with a huge charge set to explode.

Your hips arch up, and Ghost hooks his fingers again, saying, “Come for me,” in a firm command tone.

And you are not one to ignore a command.

You come hard, crying out and arching off the bed, toes digging into the mattress, hands grasping for literally anything solid, including Ghost. He fucks you through it, coaxing your release out with the finesse of someone defusing an explosive. You come down in fits and starts, catching on little plateaus of pleasure along the way, moaning all the while. Finally, you go practically boneless on the bed, and only then does Ghost relent and pull his fingers away.

You hear him chuckle, a dry and throaty rasp of sound that makes you feel hot all over.

“What’s so funny?” you say, although your words are slurred as endorphins run relay races through your body.

He holds his hand up so that the firelight catches it, and you very plainly see how wet his whole hand is. To show it off, he presses his fingers together, then spreads them out, showing thin strings bridging between them.

“Oh, God,” you squeak, covering your face with your hands and fighting back a round of giggles. “I am so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” he says, clearly pleased. He reaches somewhere behind him, presumably to wipe his hand off on the side of the bed.

And sweetheart. This man is going to kill you, and it has nothing to do with his occupation.

You tilt your head up to kiss him again, sighing against his lips and pressing yourself close. His right hand finds the side of your face, residual dampness from your orgasm still very present. Except he treats it like a trophy, dragging it down to your neck so you can feel it.

It’s also impossible to ignore his arousal prodding against your hip. Not that you intended to ignore it.

Before you can think and reason out an appropriate response, your primal brain takes hold. “Can I ride you?” you ask, and only after it’s said do you feel any kind of horror at outright asking. He purposefully arranged the two of you so you couldn’t see his face, like a Montana wilderness version of Eros and Psyche. Now you’re asking for him to lay on his back, exposed to you in every way.

He’s silent, and you’re about to apologize and suggest spooning or something when he says, “Sure.”

You blink, almost certain you misheard. “Say what?”

“You can, yeah.”

“What about the—”

It’s his turn to kiss you quiet, taking the opportunity to pull you close again and roll on his back. You meet the movement with your own, straddling his hips and feeling his erection press against your sex with insistence. You keep kissing Ghost with your eyes closed, finding his hand next to his head with your own and weaving your fingers together. His grip on your hand is firm—a solid, warm reassurance.

You turn your head, keeping your eyes closed. “I can keep my eyes shut if you want,” you tell him, only to feel his other hand come up and run over your back.

“You can look,” he says.

It feels like a point of no return now. Seeing his face, knowing that a person who this morning was still a stranger with a codename is now going to be very real—you’re almost breathless at the thought.

Slowly, you sit up while astride him, and open your eyes.

He’s— Well, handsome doesn’t seem like a well-rounded enough word. You were more on the mark with the Eros and Psyche metaphor. Firelight and shadow play across sharp features, making him look otherworldly. There’s still greasepaint around his eyes, which makes his gaze all the more intense. But the intensity is mitigated by a plush mouth, a distinctive nose, and a firm jaw. His light hair catches the warm ember-gold hue from the fire. All his features put together make for a face that you want burnt into your memory.

“Jesus, Ghost. You hide this on purpose?” you ask.

He smiles, and it’s only hearing him speak that connects the Ghost you know to the man underneath you. “Yes,” he says. “And it’s Simon.”

You must look owlish, eyes wide, blinking, damn sure you misheard again.

Ghost seems pleased by your reaction, reaching up with his free hand to brush hair out of your face. “That’s my name. My actual name.”

“Simon,” you repeat. A human name to a human face. There’s some poetry in there, but you’re too dazzled to work through it.

“Sounds good when you say it.”

You preen a little, then lean down and kiss him, savoring the sensation for everything it’s worth. And you know he read your name on the dossier, heard it from the other rangers—still, you whisper it into his ear like a secret, and he repeats it back to you in his low voice, accent curling around it perfectly.

Yeah, you’re absolutely going to ride this man until sunrise.

You reach down and take his cock into your hand, stroking it a few times and pressing your thumb up under the exposed head. Ghost—Simon moans and tilts his head back, watching you under half-lidded eyes. Carefully, you go up on your knees and align yourself with him, slowly lowering down and adjusting as needed. He’s big, which you expected from everything else about him. But it’s not a painful fit; if anything, it feels damn good.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand stroking over your hip as he looks to where you’re joined. “You have no idea what you look like right now.”

“Neither do you,” you reply, very much enjoying the angle. He fills you up completely, the strain of him just a pleasurable ache. You moan at the sensation as you experimentally rock on top of him. “Ohhh, I am so glad you got me off first.”

“What can I say? I’m chivalrous,” he replies, although it sounds a little strained as you move your hips again.

“That’s what you call it?”

Another roll, and he looks like he’s seconds from thrusting up into you. But he’s being conscientious, letting you adjust and go at your own pace. His eyes flutter closed, and you almost want to ask him to keep them open so you can enjoy their expressiveness.

“Something, something about being a British gentleman,” he mutters, and you can’t help but laugh. Apparently, that sensation’s pretty good for him; he shudders beneath you and keeps his hand braced on your hip.

Without his mask, you want to put him through the paces of reaction, committing each expression to memory, cataloging them for future use. So you go up on your knees again and come off his cock, then bring yourself back down. You do it a few more times, watching Simon’s expression with enormous interest, the pleasure and arousal doing fabulous things to his face.

He moans your name, and you’re definitely going to use that as fantasy fodder in the future.

Your earlier orgasm gives you plenty of lubrication to work with, and so you start to fuck yourself on him in earnest. In return, you’re rewarded with a low moan and a quiet, “Fuuuuck.”

The friction feels way too goddamn good, setting up another explosive charge inside of you as Simon starts meeting the bounce of your hips with thrusts of his own. Two opposing forces working toward the same goal, and it feels incredible.

You start to rock back on his cock, using his upward thrust as momentum to hit you just right. It’s the perfect angle, apparently for both of you, as Simon’s now breathing heavily, sweat a fine sheen on his skin.

“Yes, Simon, fuck me,” you whisper, beyond turned on at the wet sound of him fucking into you. You can’t tell if it’s hearing his name like that, the command, or both that make him really lean into this, but he’s pushing up hard, groaning and pulling you down so you’re pressed to his chest.

You wonder how long it’s been for him, too—briefly thinking oh god what if he’s got someone back home and I’m a fucking homewrecker before one particular upward thrust makes you cry out, clenching down on him in a way that’s audibly very good for him. You turn your head enough to see your joined hands, and when you squeeze his hand, you don’t feel any rings on his fingers. He does squeeze back, though, and it just feels like another reassurance.

There’s no way to keep track of time, and you really wish this could go on forever. The heat generated between the two of you is scorching, all-encompassing, a forest fire caught on the cusp of the lookout tower and reported to no one but yourselves.

His pace stutters a moment, the first hint that he’s very close. He releases his grip on your hand to grab at your other hip, pushing you up and off of him before you resolutely sit down, taking his cock in full and drawing a sharp gasp out of both of you.

“No,” you pant. “No, I have an IUD. You can— Ah, fuck— You can come inside me, Simon.”

“Oh, bloody fucking Christ,” he breathes, eyes wide and beautiful. “You’re sure?”

In response, you rock back against him, squeezing hard around his cock. “Affirmative,” you say, then lean down and kiss him again. “Very hard copy.”

And that’s enough to tip him right off the edge. He thrusts once, twice, and then he moans against your mouth, one of his hands going up to card through your hair, pressing you so close to him that you can feel his heart beating against your chest. You feel him come inside you, a pulse of heat, a sense of fullness. The room seems to take on new, brighter colors, and when you look at Simon, he looks fucking euphoric. The firelight gives him a look that’s like a touch of divinity, a golden cast over his face and body.

You take your time getting off of him, enjoying the feeling of him inside you too much. That, and there’s no bathroom, no shower—the comedown also means that reality’s a little too close at hand.

Simon catches his breath, hand loosely stroking your hair, and he presses a kiss to your temple before letting his head fall back onto the pillow. “Holy fuck,” he says.

You grin and nod against his shoulder, then slowly pull yourself off his softening cock, causing both of you to groan, albeit far weaker than before. You collapse onto the narrow bed beside him, nuzzling up close to him, hand on his chest, as he pulls the blankets up over you and wraps an arm around your shoulder. Your foreheads touch, and you listen to his breaths even out, his heart rate firm and steady under your hand.

“Probably too late to ask if you have a partner, huh?” you say, smiling as you run your thumb over his skin.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t, and I also feel stupid for not asking.”

You look up at him, the orange line of firelight tracing his features. “I don’t either. You’re good.”

He smiles, and you set that expression in your memory, drawing it in great detail. “My job kind of gets in the way.”

“Mine, too,” you reply, tracing spirals over his chest with your index finger. “It’s hard to get a date when you live out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Didn’t want to go check out the paramilitary extremists next door?”

You grimace and hide your face against his chest, shaking your head. “Gross. No.”

His chest shakes with laughter, and it’s wonderful.

---

Morning comes too quick, dawning cold and gray, reminding you that there’s a whole weird world outside the confines of the lookout tower. You and Simon get up, both aching very pleasantly, exchanging one too-brief kiss before his radio goes off.

“Ghost, how copy?” Price’s voice comes through in a crackle.

“Fuck,” Simon hisses, getting up and crossing the room to his radio. You at least can enjoy that he does so fully nude. He picks up the radio and keys it, scratching at his stubble as he responds, “At location 29-B and holding, Captain,” he says, his voice a dry scratch of sound. “The ranger had a medical issue.”

“Is she alright? Do you need a med evac?”

“Negative,” he replies. “We’re moving in about an hour.”

“Rog’. Keep me posted.”

“Will do, sir.”

An hour. You groan and fall back on the bed, staring up at the bare wood ceiling, decades worth of cobwebs in the corners. Simon falls back into bed beside you, cupping your face and drawing you into another firm kiss. Then, something dawns on you, and you lean back, looking over his handsome face in the morning light.

“When you say we’re moving in an hour, do you mean moving out, or just moving?”

His brows go up, slightly crooked smile on his face. “I think I didn’t specify, Ranger,” he says. “Do you have a preference?”

You laugh, leaning in close and pressing your forehead against his again. “Affirmative,” you say.

Simon laughs and shakes his head. “You could just say yes.”

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #modern warfare ii #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #prompt fill #VERY big prompt fill oh god i'm so sorry #i've spent most of the day on this!!#and it's not edited yet because it's 10pm now and i'm very tired #did i have cody in mind as the model for the reader? yes. do i kinda ship her and ghost now? YEAH

2K notes · View notes

yaekiss · 1 year ago

Note

*crawls in here again* hi qi! for #mailroom open, I'm sending my letter to yan!zhongli. I'll take any gender neutral/masc nicknames, and I'm writing in meme 2. oh, and nsfw reply please lkjhdfg cheers to 400!

My dearest, Zhongli

I'm writing to you under the moonlight of Sumeru. There's... as much to say as the forest is vast. On my travel to the city, a kind forest ranger had given me directions to lodge with a pair of men while I stay. They remind me of you, actually, if you were split in two. They're both quite knowledgeable, being alumni from the Akademiya, but one has a more calm temper like yours, and the other has more refined taste.

I've had a lot of fun here for the time being, but I miss you so. I must be transparent... I may have partaken in some drinks in their company once, a delicate, local vintage. Please forgive me my darling, you must know I'm prisoner to your heart. I wasn't in a clear state of mind as I... kissed them. That's as far as it went, I promise.

I'm sorry to end this on a sour note. And I'm deeply sorry for my actions. My precious, I'll do anything to show you you're the only one for me. All you need is ask.

Awaiting to be in your arms again, your Andi.

(along with the letter is a bouquet of Sumeru roses wrapped in paper and pink ribbon and a pair of handcuffs)

꩜ Letter Content: Dom! Top! GN! Reader x Yan! Sub! Zhongli, no gendered terms for reader, reader can be read as having a cock or a strap, polycule/polyamory (Zhongli, Alhaitham, and Kaveh are all mentioned in this), small mention of aphrodisiac but not used, possessiveness and unhealthy relationships, worshipping (reader receiving), biting (Zhongli receiving), snowballing, handcuffs (not used on reader), lmk if I missed out anything ! ꩜ Delivery Notes: I think you better check the contents of your box before bringing it back up to your room. I got some troubling reports from the staff in the mailroom... Tell me if anything is off, I'll be at the counter! ꩜ Wanna write a love letter yourself? Check out it out here!

A not-too-hefty box is passed to you in the hotel lobby when you return to rest for the night. Asked kindly by the staff to double-check its contents, you settle down on a nearby lounge chair before opening it up to inspect what’s inside.

You find a Liyuean tea set, fit for a group of four, the colour of the teaware a beautiful earthy brown, reminiscent of your dearest back in Liyue. In the hotel lighting, light bounces off the surface of the teacup you’re cradling in your hands and reveals an underlying pattern of sheer golden dragon scales. A breath. Oh. He crafted this himself.

Setting the cup back into its cushioned groove in the box, you pick up a sealed bag of tea leaves. Zhongli was the one to introduce you to mixing different types of teas to create a layered taste that you couldn’t find anywhere else. No one else knew your tastes quite like he did, always so frustratingly addictive. You read the attached tag, “An aphrodisiac blend of tea leaves, so I am not the only one left wanting.” That sly dragon, desiring you carnally even miles away.

Of course, no gift from Zhongli is complete without a letter. It’s a little strange that the envelope is not sealed properly, terribly unlike your lover to flub up. But he does seem to always forget to bring his wallet around, perhaps a mindless slip. You know how excited he gets when it comes to matters concerning you, so you chalk it up to enthusiastic forgetfulness.

After removing the letter from the box, you gently close the lid. His letter is written on paper with a stunning gold trim, one he reserves only for letters to you. The words are evenly spaced out, neat, pleasing to the eye (and maybe looking at his handwriting feels a little like coming home). His letter reads:

“In loving correspondence to my heavenly pearl,

First of all, it is simply wonderful to hear from you again, my pearl. It puts my mind at ease to know that you are still here, present, on Teyvat with me. I know not what I would do if I never heard back from you, I have lost too much, I cannot lose you too… Forgive me for being direct, it must be the aching longing to see you again.

Moving on, I suppose we must address the issue which you deem so pressing. I am sure you will be delighted to hear that I am no stranger to the concept of having multiple lovers, for you are simply just that magnetic, my pearl. This dragon has learnt to be more than generous over the countless millennia I have existed.

(The handwriting seems to get a little more compacted together starting from here, as if he’s growing increasingly frenzied the more he writes.) However, when it comes to you, I wish to be a little selfish. I’d love you to love me, most. I am willing to share but let the two see that only I can please you, that I was the first to capture your heart. Perhaps, if you allowed it, I could even restrain their hands as they watch on at the sight of you pounding into me, marking me up with bites that leave lasting marks. All while I can only hazily mutter out my reverent devotion towards you. How charming you must be, to have an archon grovelling at your feet. But my pearl, you deserve all of me and more.

Would you let me service you, pleasing you until you finish on my forked tongue, before I snake my way over to the two scholars, kissing the both of them? The only way they could ever taste you is through me alone. In my presence at least. Imagine how they would writhe and beg for you in their cuffs, their hard cocks straining against the fabric of their pants, yet they are unable to do anything about it, so pitifully close yet so far. You might call me sadistic, but the thought excites you, no?

(The handwriting returns to its usual normal spacing and formatting at the start of the letter.) …It seems that I have gotten too worked up, I shall leave my response at this. When you return, do bring your two loverboys in tow, yes? I look forward to meeting them.

Utterly yours,

- Zhongli -”

“Thought we’d find you here! What do you have there?” Kaveh’s voice rings out from before you. Looking up, Alhaitham and Kaveh greet you. Kaveh sports a blinding smile while Alhaitham’s face, although appearing neutral, radiates a sort of softness towards you.

“A reply from my lover in Liyue after I sent them a love letter recently.” Your eyes roving over Zhongli’s words in your hands again, you miss the way their eyebrows pinch slightly at how tenderly the words “love letter” rolled off your tongue.

“Is it the one with the brown tea set?” There’s a tinge of… something in Kaveh’s voice.

“Yes, he did send me a lovely-” Your mind stills. You’ve never mentioned anything about a tea set yet. The box is closed. The envelope was strangely open when you first took it out.

Your gaze snaps up to them, and they share a conspiratory glance before Alhaitham leans in, whispering lowly next to your ear.

“Kaveh and I were simply thinking we could get a… headstart on showing how much we want to worship you, our prince.”

Thanks for reading! Consider supporting me on kofi if you enjoyed this or check out my other works hehe ♡

450 notes · View notes

tomurakii · 7 months ago

Text

I kind of hate all the comparisons between kipperlily and like. Those fuckass "affirmative action fucks me over I wish I was [minority] so it would be easier" people because none of that. Is what she said. She said the bad kids already had more experience with adventuring before they got to augefort and it meant they had an advantage. Which is true. Yeah Riz was lower-class but his mum was a COP. Riz, Kristen and Fig had parents who were heroes (Sandra-Lynn is an active ranger, Kristen's parents are paladins, Sklonda is a rogue), Adaine's family was super rich and politically influential, Fabian had both. Gorgug's the only one who wasn't actively at an advantage [IN THE CONTEXT OF HAVING PRIOR KNOWLEDGE ABOUT HEROISM] and she didn't have shit to say about him. Kipperlily was the first person in her family to try heroism, the bad kids are largely legacy admissions.

Additionally to the people comparing it to the "anti-affirmative action" crowd: do you know what affirmative action is. The bad kids didn't receive special consideration on their admissions to aguefort or scholarships or additional financial support or extended assessment times or anything. How could she be mad about affirmative action if none of these people received affirmative action. What they DID have was knowledge about their classes that started much earlier than high school, which is what Kipperlily said in her file that she thought grading should be adjusted for because she did not have that.

To me it's less like affirmative action and more like augefort is like an IQ test. They pretend that it's fair and objective, but you can be taught how to do those things from a younger age, and if your parents took the time to teach you pattern recognition and shit then you'll do better on an IQ test than someone who wasn't trained for it and everyone will act like that makes you innately smarter when it doesn't. It just means someone taught you how to do that earlier.

Barring Gorgug, every one of the bad kids had access to information about heroism and their class at a younger age than Kipperlily did, which primed them for success in their classes. Every one of them got additional information about mysteries from their families (and even direct battle-tactics training from Bill), Riz especially with getting classified info out of his mum. Kipperlily does not have hero relatives. She's the first in her family line to attend a hero school. She knew nothing about it before her first day, meanwhile Kristen was already the chosen of Helio, Adaine had already been attending the best wizard school in the country, Fabian had already spent his whole life training with his father, and Riz was already involved in solving mysteries using info and tactics he got from his parents.

They aren't necessarily "privileged" (except Fabian and Adaine), but Kipperlily didn't say they were, she said that in the specific context of attending a hero school they had a prior-knowledge advantage. Saying they didn't is like comparing the grades of a kid who's academic career started with preschool with a kid who didn't attend until middle school and acting like one of them wasn't better prepared.

#like cmon people. you already hated her so you're reaching to justify it more #is it reason to be as hateful as she is? no. but she was 14 when she said the shit about riz's dad and. CRUCIALLY. kids from healthy homes #dont wish death on their parents lol. like objectively #shes not poor but neither is fabian. neither was season 1 adaine. and yet we wouldn't say their home lives were GREAT now would we #or that they had nothing to complain about just because they were economically advantaged #she thinks its unfair because she came into augefort blind meanwhile riz had been doing investigator shit for years already #and she has not learned healthy coping mechanisms. like brennan calls her anger childish and its because shes a CHILD #and she only became this cruel because she's possessed by literally the god of rage. because it was that or death #ive even seen people waxing tragic about every other rat grinder's “deal” with ankarna but acting like kipperlily was just fine with that #because she was angry already. she DIED. and having anger issues/emotional regulation issues doesnt mean you WANT TO DESTROY THE WORLD #she probably wanted to live just as much as any of the others did. and this was the sacrifice. she was 16 #d20 #fhjy #fhjy spoilers #fantasy high #kipperlily copperkettle

128 notes · View notes

strxnged · 2 years ago

Text

TIGHNARI: # deliver me.

word count. 3k. genre. adventure, pining.

overview. news of your patrol squad's brutal defeat by eremites reaches tighnari's ears. he wastes no time searching for you to save you—but in the end, who will be saving who?

warnings. blood, action sequences, tighnari & y/n both being badass AND down bad for each other. read at your own discretion.

Tighnari shifted his weight to his other leg, trying to focus himself on his work at hand. A dark cloud had been looming over his mind all day. It had obscured his path to understanding the recent outbreak of withering zones all across the forest; he seemed to have hit a roadblock in what to anticipate in coming weeks. Some information from forest logs pointed to the archon’s situation, and other clues pointed to misconduct of both Akedemiya researchers and bands of Eremites. Still others seemed to lead him somewhere deeper, somewhere within the very Ley Lines of Teyvat. But there was more that was bothering him today which he could not lay his finger on.

“General Watchleader, sir!”

He looked up to see a Forest Watcher at his doorway.

“Come quick,” she said. “Something’s happened to this morning’s patrol squad.”

Tighnari wasted no time following her to the infirmary hut, where but one Forest Watcher was lying wounded on one of the beds. It was indeed one of the Rangers that had been sent out this morning, along with you and two others, who he did not see now.

“Kamran, what happened?”

The poor man clutched his bleeding side, which was dressed mildly with a makeshift bandage from his scarf. Tighnari gently removed this to treat the Ranger’s wound, listening to his tale.

“Eremites, General Watchleader. We were ambushed, and they—they had no mercy. The two others died, sir, and our patrol chief told me to get out of there. I made it out by the hair on my neck. Or rather, my side—yahhh!” Kamran yelped as Tighnari applied an ointment along the edge of the wound.

“Sit still, Kamran.” Tighanari tried to steady his hands. He’d elected you chief of this patrol—and so, it was his fault if you were dead. He might not ever forgive himself for this. He should have sent stronger defense along. He should have seen this coming.

Damn, he might have lost you, now, and might never get the chance to tell you what you meant to him.

He tightened a liquid bandage over Kamran’s wound. “Tell me, Ranger: where did this occur?”

<*+`,.>

Tighnari’s boots were laden with mud by the time he and two others had reached the reported location. Rain was falling hard, emphasizing his growing dread and causing his ears to fold back. Finding nothing initially, one of the other Forest Rangers suggested they split up.

“Hold that thought, Ranger,” he said, kneeling at the sign of discolored mud. On closer inspection, he realized: “Blood.”

None of them could locate directional footprints near this point, but there was a clear indication of a fight, one that ended quickly. The three swept the riverbank for more clues with no luck. But upon a tree Tighnari noted a fresh gash around half of its trunk. It looked like one your knives might have made it, though it was higher than you would have naturally reached.

Perhaps you had been carried. Perhaps they kept you alive.

“We go West,” Tighnari declared. “Iraj, take the Southernmost route! Shirin, you take the Northernmost one!”

“Sir,” they nodded, gathering in front of him.

“Don’t stand there. Lives still may be saved today!”

And off they ran, all three praying he would be right.

Tighnari was relieved when he found another fresh cut in a tree several paces West, indicative of your survival past the ambush. He later found the ground to be firmer, and the marks of several footprints created a reliable trail. Now he had a feeling he was drawing closer—but at the same time, a feeling he might still be too late.

The discovery of one of your blades in the dirt a bit further along concurred.

It had occurred to him quite soon after Kamran’s arrival that this may be a trap for Tighnari. The Forest Rangers of Gandharva Ville had had a rocky relationship with Eremites, and being known as the leader placed a target on his back. However, he feared more the blood of the Rangers on his hands than any of the enemies of the forest he may face. He had no doubt now that it was a trap, but knowing it served him very little. He’d sent the others further away so that they might not have to get involved; he only hoped they hadn’t come near enough to locate the camp.

Only then did he hear distant chatter. It sounded like Eremites, no doubt, and additionally, the whining tone of Treasure Hoarders. As he approached the camp, he quieted his paces and kept to the shadows, eyes peeled to the men and women around the wet firepit with their weapons at the ready.

Tighnari crept around the outskirts of the camp, far enough away that any rustle in the trees would be indistinguishable from the storm. He spied you, soon enough, sitting in a crude wooden cage similar to ones he’d seen at other Treasure Hoarder camps before. Guilt sank his heart to his stomach. He would get you out of this mess, no matter what.

Tighnari aimed his bow at the back of the Eremite guarding your cage, considering. If he alerted the camp of his presence, he would have to face all of them at once. If he lured some away, however…

He pointed and shot his arrow to the trees near the path, and watched a few shout and scramble over in that direction. He snickered to himself. Knuckleheads.

Back at the camp, he could just make out you standing in your cage, peering over in that same direction. He refocused, noticing how muddy your face and back were.

There would be no easy way to save you, he knew. But hesitating would make things harder, and so he crept closer to the camp. The mud was slippery and thick here, gathering a slight stream downhill. If he had sprinted for you, he would have wiped out and given himself away.

Ah. That would work.

Tighnari at last sent an arrow at the Eremite leaning on your cage, and she staggered to her feet, whirling around. “He’s there!” she shouted shrilly, and soon, a larger portion of the camp was racing towards him. He simply jogged a few steps away, turned, and readied his weapon.

Sure enough, each Treasure Hoarder and Eremite that ran close enough slid on their heel and landed on their ass. Defeating them with a few well aimed shots was no problem. A cryo-thrower tossed a solution from further away, and Tighnari just managed to dive out of the way. Gathering his elemental energy, he sent three shots at the foe and made a dash for the camp.

“Welcome, Tree-Hugger. Eat this.” A kick from an undetected Eremite struck him clean across the face and he stumbled backwards.

“My,” he said, simply. “No need to play dirty.”

“You don’t know when to drop the act, do you?” the Eremite said. She slashed her dual hydro-blades at her, and just barely missed his chest as he dodged. “You’re dead.”

He dodged another attack. He wouldn’t be able to defeat her from this close a range. He’d been hoping to emancipate you before dealing with the rest, but it seemed he had no choice.

Or, at least, that’s what he was thinking, until the Clearwater grunted and froze in place, before crumbling to her knees.

He noticed the handle of a blade stuck deep into her shoulder. Not just any blade. Your blade.

“C’mon, ‘Nari, get me out of here before I scream. They’re awfully loud bastards.”

He chuckled, noticing you watching him from the cage. Truly an ineffective sport and ineffective piece of technology, trapping someone without taking away their weapons in such a wide-barred, single-person cage. He wondered if you might have shimmied out between the wood had you not been surrounded by Treasure Hoarders.

“Alright, alright. Be patient, Patrol Chief.”

You groaned as he went to make work of the lock. “You can’t be serious. You don’t even have the key.”

“I can pick locks,” he said matter of factly, “you know.”

You chuckled. “Yeah, well, I can do this—” He halted as you wrapped your hands around two parallel wooden beams and pulled them apart, successfully snapping them and opening yourself your own doorway out. You tossed the splintered beams to the ground and dusted off your hands.

“You could have done that before I got here and saved me the trouble,” Tighnari quipped, watching you step out. “Now, then, I do apologize you landed in this mess all because—”

“It’s not your fault, Tighnari. I can be responsible for my own ass sometimes.”

Tighnari curled his lips unashamedly.

“Don’t respond to that,” you said, trudging over to the female Eremite to draw your knife out of her shoulder. You wiped the blood off with the inner elbow of your sleeve, peering into the sky. “So, how’d you find out what happened?”

Tighnari followed you, checking you over for injuries. “Kamran stumbled into camp and I was alerted,” he said, and then deemed you to be in one shape and acquiesced to your resistance.

“That coward.” You huffed and shook your head. “I don’t know what he told you, but he ran off almost immediately. And he was supposed to be our combat support. Our analyst didn’t make it.”

“Not your fault.”

“It ain’t yours either, ‘Nari. Eremites can just be ruthless. I knew they wanted you, but I was hoping Kamran wouldn’t be able to find the way back so that I could handle it myself.”

“Patrol Chief, you were still in your cage when I made it here,” he said. “I don’t think it was going as well as you claim it was.”

The Clearwater Eremite groaned, writhing on the ground. Tighnari gave her a good kick in the side. You raised your eyebrows at him. “I was just waiting for the sun to come out. It seemed awfully inconvenient to deal with the situation in the pouring rain.” You pointed into the sky. “A bit of sun’s coming out now. I would have gotten out by now with or without your help.”

“No ‘thank you’?”

You shook your head. “Nope. Not when you put yourself in danger like that.”

Tighnari shook his ears with a resigned sigh. “Well, at least it’s all over now.”

“Not yet it ain’t,” a voice boomed. The two of you whirled around to see a burly Eremite clomping into the camp. Tighnari did not recognize him from the ones he dealt with earlier. He was larger, more handsomely clothed, and angrier. “I’ve been waiting for this day.”

“Of course you have,” Tighnari muttered.

“You should be more afraid, tree hugger,” demanded the Eremite.

“No need,” he replied, readying his bow unwaveringly.

The Eremite laughed heartily and drew a long, narrow blade, eyeing both of you with evident bloodlust. You clasped the hilt of your dagger in your belt, but Tighnari raised an arm in front of you.

“Fight me all you want, but leave them out of this.” At this you started to protest but a severe look from Tighnari silenced you at once.

“Someone’s protective of his pet,” the Eremite responded. He stepped closer, dragging the tip of his blade in the mud. “Seems we were right.”

Tighnari’s face was dark. You were grateful not to be on the receiving end of that look. “You Eremites wish you had any kind of sense. Luring me here was a mistake.”

He fired an arrow at the man’s chest, knocking him back and angering him further. You stepped out of the way as Tighnari had instructed you, watching him dive towards the edge of the camp to avoid a swipe of the Eremite’s blade. You wanted to help, but you didn’t want to complicate things.

Tighnari shouted, tossing a Dendro bomb at the Eremite’s feet. He stumbled back—only to charge at Tighnari with greater force. You could just barely hear him swearing under the thundering rain, dodging the blade again. It went on for several minutes; you watched with great interest, only bothered by the fact that you weren’t part of it. It seemed that the General Watchleader was attempting to exhaust the roaring Eremite, but it was taking a while. Both Tighnari and the Eremite’s movements were becoming sloppier. The Eremite showed no sign of letting up, however; he looked like he’d been waiting for this his whole life.

In a moment that seemed to last several seconds, you saw Tighnari’s foot slip a little in the grass, causing him to stumble a little. You did not hesitate to reach your arm back and fling your dagger at the Eremite.

It sunk into his back a moment too late—the Eremite had landed a deadly strike on Tighnari.

Tighnari fell to his knees as the Eremite crumpled into the grass, groaning.

“Damn it, Tighnari!” you ran over to your leader, kneeling next to him.

“My love…” He fought to keep his eyes open. “I apologize. I thought I could—” He cut himself off, holding one hand to his mouth to cough hard. His other hand was clutching his chest. Blood came from both locations.

“‘Nari,” you whispered.

Neither of you had the time to process the use of such a term between you. You could feel his shoulders in your hands, tremble and falter. Your heart stopped as he fell forward into your arms. Your thoughts blurred as you ripped the Eremite’s scarf from his neck and tied it around his chest, trying to hold enough pressure to his collarbone to stop the bleeding. Once you were satisfied with the tautness, you took a full, deep breath, dragged him to a standing position by his armpits, and pulled him onto your back.

“Shit. You’re heavy, asshole,” you breathed. It was going to be a long walk back to Gandharva Ville. And you were not going to think about him calling you his “love.”

<*+`,.>

Tighnari came to in a very comfortable bed with a very uncomfortable pain in his chest. He could barely breathe. It was like he’d been stabbed in the lungs.

Oh. He had been. The events of the Eremite camp sharpened in his memory. He’d been trying to lead the Eremite far enough from you that you could escape. But he didn’t remember anything after being stabbed. Where were you?

His vision was peppered with dots but he forced them to focus. He was in the infirmary, no doubt. But whoever had treated his injury had done an egregious job, and he did not attempt any movement. His mouth tasted like iron. Like blood.

Tighnari heard a fuss across the room and footsteps ran into his direction. You leaned over him with evident worry. And red eyes.

“You’re awake,” you said with a tense sigh.

“No shit.”

You stared at him. Your face, previously clouded in misgiving, reconfigured to a relieved smile. “You’re quite awake,” you said.

“Haven’t you got,” he said, taking short breaths between words, “anything else to say?”

“Yeah. You’re awake thanks to me.”

He opened his mouth to voice a retort, but his throat clenched and he turned his head to cough. “I should have given you… lessons… on how to treat a chest wound.”

“I figured it out myself.”

He tilted his face back to look you in the eyes. “Barely.”

“I’m sorry, ‘Nari,” you said. “But at the same time, you could have been dead. You could have been dead because you didn’t let me help.” Tighnari noticed a tear escape your eye, which you wiped away immediately with the heel of your palm. “Asshole,” you added as an affable afterthought.

Tighnari studied your face, feeling emotions threaten his own expression. He wiggled his fingers, testing the pain. Satisfied that it was bearable, he reached up to your collar and pulled you towards him.

“Thank you,” he whispered into your ear, “for saving me. You did well.”

You seemed to hesitate. Then, ever-so-gently, you rested your head next to his and placed a careful hand on his shoulder. You were warm, and he didn’t know you were capable of such tender affection.

As you stood up straight again, you flicked his forehead with all your might.

He gasped, and then howled as his hand involuntary jerking up to his head caused his chest to strain and ache. “Ow! That was unnecessary!”

“You’re welcome, Tighnari,” you announced with your back to him. He did not fail to notice the redness of your ears.

He clicked his tongue. “You used the wrong ointment on my wound, Patrol Chief.” He took a deep breath, wincing again. “Is this Padisarah itching cream?”

You scoffed. “You can treat your wounds yourself from now on.” With that, you marched through the door of the hut, leaving Tighnari quite immobile on the bed.

He allowed himself a small smile. Alas, neither of you were dead. And something told him he would get the chance to tell you what you meant to him.

author's note. thanks for reading. if you enjoyed, a reblog would mean the world!

#MY SKRUNKLY EEPY FENNEC BOY #tighnari x reader #genshin x reader #genshin ff #genshin fluff #genshin angst #genshin whump #genshin scenarios #gi x reader #gi x gn!reader #tighnari x gn!reader #tighnari angst #tighnari #!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#juneshin impact #genshin #WE'RE JUST IGNORING COLLEI'S EXISTENCE FOR YET ANOTHER 3K WORDS ENJOY #u can tell im the sanest genshin impact player fr

608 notes · View notes

fefern · 6 months ago

Note

Hello!! I'm in love with your Wuwa hcs and writing in general and I'd love to put in a request, if you're still open for them :0 <3

I'd like to request some fluffy hcs for Jiyan with an s/o that's part dragon, has horns and tail and maybe some scales like Mortefi(forgot if you spell his name like that I'm sorry😭 the red scientist guy). The s/o is super protective of him but also aloof in public, super cuddly in private when the time is right, brings him rocks and flowers as gifts and all that cute stuff, basically courting him by "dragon standards" hajsjdjd

Thank you for your time!<3

✧˖° his reaction to a dragon hybrid lover. | jiyan headcanons.

⋆ ˚☁️ ⁀➴ synopsis: look in the sky! it's a bird, it's a plane, it's a... dragon hybrid reader? just how will jiyan react to being courted by you, and how does he love you as someone who's part dragon?

⋆ ˚☁️ ⁀➴ characters involved: jiyan and gender neutral reader.

⋆ ˚☁️ ⁀➴ warnings: none!

⋆ ˚☁️ ⁀➴ notes: hello hello hello! i hope you are doing well lovely anon!! thank you for sending in an ask, and i hope this fufils what you were looking for ;;!! sending lots of love, and as always, requests are open! ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ jiyan ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

your tail would be so so pretty, decorated with scales that had colors that mimic the colors of the clouds and skies.

your horns would be cute on the top of your head, a bit pointy and glowing in the night.

jiyan has come to adore your dragon features, finding them both unique and absolutely beautiful. he’s caught often staring at the way your scales on your face, neck, and tail all catch the sunlight just right to create a glimmer like nothing he’s ever seen before.

he’s quiet in the way he admires you, gently curling a piece of your hair behind your pointy little ears and smiling whenever you look over at him when he does.

he didn’t have time to confess to you about his feelings though, he was caught up with being a general and of course, he also had to consider the fact that he didn’t really know if you would reciprocate them back.

would you prefer mating with another dragon hybrid yourself? is that how these things work?

after a few months of being around you though, he began to notice some… strange things.

for example, whenever you two were walking around the city, you’d always be on the defensive, not letting anyone get too close, not even the chef when you’d go get lunch together.

then, sometimes, when he comes back from long patrols, you overload him with rocks and flowers that you’ve gathered for him, and he always says thank you, even though it’s a bit difficult to bring back to his home.

(he keeps them in his room forever to admire when you’re not around.)

also, lately, you’ve been much more affectionate with him, rubbing your cheek against his and getting very touchy as well, always wanting to be close to him physically.

he expresses his confusion about your behavior to one of the researchers when he stops by one day to gather some intel for a mission for his rangers.

one of the researchers directs him to a shelf that discusses about dragon hybrids, and the man spends almost the entirety of one day learning more about you and your species.

the way he feels his cheeks flush a soft pink when he realizes just what it means for you to have been doing all these actions. he feels like he had a revelation, but at the same time feels stupid and dense.

he’s quick to come back to you one day with flowers and your favorite food in hand, giving them to you and confessing his love for you on top of a quiet hill with a beautiful view of the starry night sky.

“my pretty dragon, you’re prettier than anyone in all of huanglong, and i have loved you for quite some time. will you do me the honors and be mine?”

when you say yes, he feels overjoyed and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into a tight hug as he’s careful not to hit your horns or tail while doing so.

after the successful confession, a few things change.

for one, when you begin sleeping over more at his place, he begins to gift you dozens of fluffy blankets and pillows. he organizes them in a nest-like position for you to cuddle up in, and finds it adorable when he comes back to the sight of you curled up in the fluffiness.

jiyan will cuddle with you more often now, guiding your tail to wrap around his strong muscles so that you get your fix of touching as much of his skin as possible. jiyan likes to run his hands over the smooth scales to coax you to sleep.

he enjoys pecking soft kisses on the scales of your face and neck; it’s his little reminder to you to not be insecure about something so beautiful.

overall, you’re jiyan’s most beloved treasure. he will do anything to make sure his little dragon is safe and loved.

#wuwa #wuthering waves #wuthering waves x reader #wuthering waves headcanons #wuwa headcanons #wuwa x reader #jiyan #jiyan x reader #wuwa jiyan x reader #wuthering waves jiyan x reader #jiyan headcanons #wuwa jiyan headcanons #wuthering waves jiyan headcanons #wuthering waves jiyan #wuwa jiyan #qi writes

809 notes · View notes

eggzwithfeetz · 4 months ago

Note

Can you please tell us more about Breakout Au?? I love it so much

Operation Take Back Toontown.

The main event that caused the current situation of the Au that was Flippy's plan to finally get rid of the cogs that were terrorizing his people for so long, my friend helped me to explain this part, yet we have a lot of stuff to share in the future !

" The first stage of the attack was entrusted to specific Resistance Rangers, who were tasked to taking down the working Oil Refineries and by extension any taskline associates. This halted the production of oil, and due to some...complications.. the employed suits were becoming weak. Approximately a week after, taking advantage of the vulnerable cogs and the fact that Cogs Inc wasn't making the choice of replacing them and making new buildings fast enough; a mass attack was launched on all HQs by all of Toontown, who had all been notified and trained during that empty time space. One by one over the span of the several weeks the final battle lasted, the HQs fell, not only due to sheer force and will of the toons, but issues and lack of authority on Cogs Inc's part. Many different things happened during the " Raids " as they call it. From discoveries to new alliances, there are many different stories during those final weeks and the months before it. By the end, Cogs Inc fell and the small remaining " lucky " Cogs fled to Suitopia. The Toons in turn severed the ways in which Cogs Inc originally invaded the lands. Isolating the Toon Region from the direction where the suits came from. Operation Take Back Toontown was a success. At last the Toons were finally free of the cogs, and now it was time to rebuild and recover. Though the story doesn't end there and we hope to share more of it real soon. "

Rain wasn't fully ok with Flippy's actions, she had to choose her own path... we might explain what was on her mind on the future... stay tooned !

#breakout ttcc au #ttcc #au

56 notes · View notes

chrismerle · 2 months ago

Text

Elsa's Writing Commissions

Hey, hi, hello! I'm Elsa and my usual freelancing contracts are (still) being flaky assholes, so I'm extending branches in other directions!

I’ve been informed that I’m a fairly good writer, and I’ve done writing commissions in the past, so I figure I may as well see if it helps! You can check my writeblr tag, my (very tiny) ghostwriting portfolio, or my AO3 account for examples of my writing.

PRICING:

$0.03 per word.

So, 500 words would be $15.

You give me a ballpark of the length you want. So, if you’re willing to spend between $20 and $25, the story will be between 666 and 833 words.

I’ll round down to the nearest $0.10. So if the finished product is 526 words, I’ll report it as being $15.70, rather than $15.78.

I take payments through Paypal or Venmo.

GUIDELINES:

500-word minimum

You don’t need to supply a full outline, but you do need to have some idea of what you want to happen in the story. The longer the story, the more detail I’ll need. If you just want, like, 500 words, then 'X and Y cuddling’ will suffice, but if you want 5,000 words, I’ll need more to go off of than that.

I will write about your OCs, as long as you can provide info on them.

I will write fanfic, as long as I know the source material well enough (list provided below).

I will write smut, just double-check any kinks you want first. (I won’t write any involving bodily fluids, poop, vore, or feet, sorry.)

If I’m super uncomfy with the subject matter, I’ll turn down the commission, if only because it would be a really badly written end product.

Sorry, but I won't write self-insert or reader-insert fic.

FANDOM LIST (below the cut):

Kingdom Hearts (not Back Cover or Union)

Final Fantasy VII (original Compilation or Remake)

Final Fantasy XV

Persona 5, vanilla or Royal

Persona 4, vanilla only

Dragon Age (games only)

Mass Effect

Hazbin Hotel

Helluva Boss

Avatar: The Last Airbender (original series only)

Good Omens (book or show)

Five Nights at Freddy’s (games only)

Who Killed Markiplier? and related series

The Legend of Zelda (OoT, MM, TP, SS, or BotW only)

Star Wars (movies only)

Power Rangers, Ninja Storm and Dino Thunder

Yuri! On Ice

Fullmetal Alchemist, original anime or Brotherhood

Black Butler, anime or manga

Transformers, cartoons, anime, and live action movies

Critical Role campaign 2

Subnautica

The Sandman (Netflix series only)

Sonic the Hedgehog (recent movies only)

Howl’s Moving Castle (Ghibli movie only)

#writeblr #writing #commissions #commissions open #writing commissions #writing comms open

18 notes · View notes

lifeafterartsch00l · 3 months ago

Text

✨ Sns rec’s ✨

I read a fabulous post from @longlivefeedback about supporting authors so I thought I’d try and give it a go since I’m constantly looking through the Naruto/Sasuke tag 🙊 I’m going to try and make a new habit and post once a week with my sasunaru/narusasu/sns (and maybe other pairings/fandoms) recs!

Some awesome fics I’ve been enjoying on a03 lately include:

Finger on the detonator by foreverbaby

Twelve Steps by foreverbaby

An anchor in the storm by cecific

don’t act like it’s a bad thing (to fall in love with me) by heartsugu

What counts for anything by kayeeyooblue

Solis occasum by wouldyoukiindly

Konohamaru wanted to rest by anaria_k

Thank you talented authors 😊 I don’t think I’m following any of these authors on tumblr 🤔 but I’ll look for them! 🤗 please tag them in the comments if you know who they are!

Read below for details on fic recommendations ⬇️

Finger on the detonator by foreverbaby

Im so happy i finally found this author! I started with Finger on the detonator but Twelve Steps really spoke to me and my own feelings/experiences with a difficult childhood. And making art! I love how sexy and meta and healing and radical they are. I’m excited to read more from this author ❤️ Multiple chapters.

“Chapters: 2/?

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto

Characters: Shimura Danzou, Hyuuga Neji, Sai (Naruto), Juugo (Naruto)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Activism, High School, Military Backstory, Politics, Teenage Rebellion, Partners in Crime, Gay Uchiha Sasuke, Crack Treated Seriously, Anarchy, Making Out, lazy US-specific setting...sorry, Wet Dream, Breaking and Entering, Minor Injuries, Closet Sex, Frottage

Summary:

uzumakiswag: this might b kinda weird but like i just got back from my deployment and stuff and i saw u on the kwp direct action discord when i joined that? and i was gonna go to a meetup but idk anybody else there yet sooo do u go to those? wld u want to go together next week? hahaha

taka99: That's a joke right

uzumakiswag: no y is that funnyp

taka99: You’re literally in the US military

It's totally normal to engage in a little gay domestic terrorism just to impress your crush...right?”

Twelve Steps by foreverbaby

“Chapters: 3/3

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto, minor past naruto/sakura and sasuke/suigetsu

Characters: Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Sasuke, Hoozuki Suigetsu, Haruno Sakura

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, POV Alternating, Alcoholics Anonymous, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Addiction, Homophobia, Light Angst, sasuke vapes, criterion channel and chill, Blow Jobs, Shower Sex, Friends to Lovers, naruto's bi awakening, sasuke's issues

Summary: One day at a time, they always said. But for Sasuke every single day was exactly the same: serving the same gruff truckers the same greasy pancakes and eggs, heading to the same gym to do the same workout, going home to stare at the same half-formed Final Draft document, then waking up the next morning to do the same thing all over again. Was that really one day at a time, or was it more like one single hellish stretched-out day that dragged on endlessly and forever? And what exactly was the point of staying clean when that was your reward?

Everybody told Naruto after Sakura called off their engagement that what he needed was a “fresh start.” Naruto’s fresh start had so far consisted of a new city where he knew nobody, a park ranger job that paid him sub-minimum-wage, an empty studio apartment in a part of town not yet gentrified enough to be out of that price range, a lot of lonely Skyping with his friends, and, now, apparently, an A.A. meeting at a Quality Inn.

When Naruto moves away from his hometown after a breakup, he's surprised to see someone he recognizes at his first A.A. meeting in a new city: his childhood best friend, Sasuke Uchiha”

An anchor in the storm by cecific

One shot, contemporary au, poem. POV from Sasuke. I haven’t read any poems before for sns! Lovely, great ending 🥹💗 the author says their English is bad but I truly think no apology is needed because i think their English is great and hell I only speak English and can’t write poetry!

“Chapters: 1/1

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto

Characters: Uchiha Sasuke, Uzumaki Naruto

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Idiots in Love, Uchiha Sasuke Needs a Hug, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Falling In Love, slow burn but it never actually lights on fire, Sasuke's mother is dead, Sick Character, Soulmates

Summary: Sasuke's on a blind date set up by his father, his date is late so a young bright man keeps him company.. It feels like a fated encounter between the two.

Essentially a poem that tells a story. Also sorry, English is my first language and yet I'm horrid!”

don’t act like it’s a bad thing (to fall in love with me) by heartsugu

One shot. Sweet n spicy, my fave combination! 🍭🔥 I really loved how Naruto was written here & that it’s Sakura positive 😊 I really hope this author writes more sns 🤞😍🤞

“Chapters: 1/1

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto, Haruno Sakura & Uchiha Sasuke

Characters: Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Sasuke, Haruno Sakura, Dai-nana-han | Team 7 Ensemble (Naruto), Yamanaka Ino, Hatake Kakashi

Additional Tags: POV Uchiha Sasuke, Uchiha Sasuke Returns to Konoha, Blank Period (Naruto), Haruno Sakura is So Done, Background Relationships, Mild Hurt/Comfort, mostly fluff tbh, Bad Humor, Emotional Constipation, Dai-nana-han | Team 7 Shenanigans (Naruto), Mutual Pining, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Haruno Sakura & Uchiha Sasuke are Best Friends, Domestic, Making Out, Love Bites, Resolved Sexual Tension, No beta we die like Neji, Everyone Is Gay, Self-Indulgent, Minor Haruno Sakura/Yamanaka Ino

Summary: He hadn’t meant for it to get this bad, but being back in Konoha had shown him how dull his world was without Naruto.

Being dragged around on dumb errands, or training together, or even just sitting around and watching the sunset had given Sasuke peace of mind he hadn’t ever known. He felt like himself again, and Naruto was the cause.

Naruto was his home.

5,000 words of sns word vomit because this is what makes me happy these days idk”

What counts for anything by kayeeyooblue

I love how in this fic Sasuke gets to try normalcy and be an awkward teen! 😭 ❤️ great dynamic between Sasuke & Naruto (I really enjoyed reading about their developing relationship) & also spicy 🔥

“Chapters: 12/?

Rating: Not Rated

Relationships: Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto

Characters: Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Sasuke, Hatake Kakashi, Tsunade (Naruto), Haruno Sakura, Nara Shikamaru, Uchiha Itachi

Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Slow Burn, Coming of Age, Soft Uchiha Sasuke, Sexual exploration, First Kiss, First Time

Summary: months after the 4th war, sasuke and naruto meet again. except now they have time”

Solis occasum by wouldyoukiindly

Reading this was like a fresh breath of air! I loved how the characterisation felt very true. I hope they do more chapters! 💗🙏🏽Canon divergent Boruto-era.

“Chapters: 1/?

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto, Haruno Sakura/Hyuuga Hinata

Characters: Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Sasuke, Haruno Sakura, Hyuuga Hinata

Additional Tags: Old men naruto and sasuke find out they're gay in their 30s, Hokage Uzumaki Naruto, Co-Parenting, Divorce, more tags when i write more!, Hinata is Naruto's best friend, Sakura is Sasuke's best friend, Domestic Fluff, Naruto has ADHD, sasuke has autism

Summary: After becoming Hokage, Naruto notices that despite it all, he's had no time to hang out with his best friend. He never realized how much he missed Sasuke's attitude, demeanour, and all around being; he hasn't felt this way about anyone before.

It's always been Sasuke, hasn't it?

And maybe that realization will be the very end of him.

(Naruto and sasuke realize they're gay in their 30s and divorce their wives, who in turn, realize they are also gay and everyone is friends and co-parents. yessir.)”

Konohamaru wanted to rest by anaria_k

Cheeky, sexy, & Konohamaru POV! One shot. I love looking at sasunaru fanart and I love it when clever authors make fanfic inspired by it (author links the art which helped inspire the fic). 😋🫶🏽 one shot

“Chapters: 1/1

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Uchiha Sasuke/Uzumaki Naruto

Characters: Sarutobi Konohamaru, Uzumaki Naruto, Uchiha Sasuke

Additional Tags: Comedy, Post-Canon, Post-War, Blank Period (Naruto), Post-Fourth Shinobi War (Naruto), Drabble, Pre-Slash, Semi-Public Sex, Third Wheels, Konohamaru sees something he wasn't intending to see, Hot, Dirty Thoughts, Pre-Relationship, Canon Compliant, Not a Date, Idiots in Love, Boys In Love, everyone can see it, Konohamaru does for sure, Sexual Tension, also Konohamaru might be accidentaly bi

Summary: Konohamaru returns from a mission to the village and, finding himself in a bar, accidentally witnesses a very non-accidental scene. He doesn't like it. Although?…”

🍥+🍅=❤️

#naruto #sns #sasunaru #narusasu #a03 fanfic #a03 writer #a03 author #read on a03 #sasuke #sasuke uchiha #naruto fanfic #my fic recs #lifeafterartsch00l fic recs

23 notes · View notes

redisaid · 6 months ago

Text

Beneath the Blue Moon - Chapter 10

Blue

Whew, it's been a while huh? I've sat on a draft of this chapter for months that I wasn't happy with because it did not match with my original plan to make it more confrontational. But I just couldn't get it there because the girls were too tired and sad to fight. What a mood.

Anywho, I'm gonna roll with this as is, though it's changing the tone of the story to be a tad bit more pensive. Expect a new poll soon for chapters 11 and 12.

5073 Words

Read it on Ao3!

Change for better or for worse Move much deeper to immerse Drape your spirit in the words Some kind of ghoul Small exception to the rule

It was hard to express what she felt in words. Sylvanas was always a woman of action. Her state of being was one of action. She preferred to show her love rather than tell of it. She enjoyed fussing over finding and then giving the perfect gift. She found herself addicted to the light that would kindle in Jaina’s eyes when she showed her something new or interesting—not to mention the hitch of her breath, the keening whine that would slip past her teeth as Sylvanas showed her new pleasures in bed.

Sylvanas was simply not meant for writing flowery letters, sealed with pressed flowers and perfume, in lieu of all that. If Jaina expected as much for her, she would be sorely disappointed. Her writing skills were better utilized in direct and concise military reports. Those she could easily churn out.

Yet a letter to her soulmate was a struggle.

Clea sat swinging her legs upon the great gilded mahogany desk of the Ranger General, offering little in the way of helpful advice. “You’re quite lucky she’s stuck with you, you know.”

“Your confidence in me is truly inspiring,” Sylvanas drawled back at her.

Even her famous wit and verbal stings were a thing that needed playing off of. If Jaina were here, she could easily have her laughing her pretty little laugh within minutes, and watch as her eyes widened and an intrigued smirk formed on her lips at the continuous, rapid pace of their banter. But Jaina was not here. Her soulmate was off playing nice with the arrogant fop that was Prince Arthas Menethil, somewhere in the great pine forests of Lordaeron.

And Sylvanas was stuck here in her offices in Silvermoon, trying to write a love letter in between mountains of other paperwork. But, when all was said and done, she was quite terrible at saying how she felt. She would much rather show it.

In fact, if Jaina were here, Clea would be politely asked to leave the room so she could show it in the way she truly wanted.

Instead of pouring forth her very soul through her quill, Sylvanas was left to look toward the wrist of the arm that held it instead—to the soft glow of the soulmark that Jaina had lit for her. In her mind, Jaina was there too, a quiet presence of focused intensity. She was thinking about something. She was often thinking like this. Imagining what puzzled her today always brought a smile to Sylvanas’ face, sometimes when one wasn’t necessarily warranted from a woman who had earned a reputation as a stern but fair General.

It was then that Velonara walked in with a stack of even more reports for her, and Sylvanas knew that with her, all hope of getting her thoughts out onto paper today had left the room.

“Good afternoon Ranger General, Ranger Clea,” Velonara said with a mocking air of formality that disappeared as she slapped the stack of paper onto what little surface area of the desk remained uninhabited by other work or Clea’s backside. “Pray tell, what requires so much of your rapt attention on this fine afternoon?”

“I caught her writing to her pretty mage and decided to help,” Clea announced before Sylvanas could even try to think of an excuse. “It’s not going well.”

“Tell her she has nice tits,” was Velonara’s sage advice.

“That’s the first thing I said,” Clea informed her.

It had, indeed, been the first piece of advice Clea had given. And while true, it did not help.

---

What seemed like entire lifetimes later, Sylvanas stood upon the cliffs above the twisting wreckage of stone and mana that was once Theramore, once again lacking for words.

The space between her and Jaina might as well have been filled with such cursed rubble itself. It felt just as tainted and impenetrable. A canyon miles wide—a distance too far and too treacherous to be crossed, or to even consider crossing.

But Sylvanas was here. She was here and she was whole again but dead. She was here to offer the crumbling remains of what she once was back to a woman who had become so much more than she could have ever imagined in these intervening years. Jaina was an Archmage. She was a leader of nations three times over. She had conquered and defended. She had both lost and won so much and lived to tell the tale.

All the while, Sylvanas had been dead. Walking, talking, but dead. How could she explain it all, when back in those happier times, without war and apocalypse threatening at every turn, she couldn’t even express her budding love for her pretty Kirin Tor apprentice?

Now, to the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, she stood like a stone, unable to speak, unable even to begin to go through the list of things she’d thought to speak on, the apologies she prepared, the explanations that had been so clear to her when she’d muttered them as she paced through the Warchief’s chambers in Orgrimmar, hours before.

“I’m—”

“If you’re about to say you’re sorry again, save it,” Jaina stopped her before the second word could even enter into existence.

Only she was very sorry. It was hard to be anything but sorry. Surely, Jaina could feel it thrumming along their bond. If Sylvanas’ heart still beat, she would likely feel that too—the panic, the deep, twisting guilt.

Even Theramore was something she could blame herself for, though it was Garrosh who used the bomb. Still, she had not stopped him. She had not risked it all to defy him. And though strategically, it would have been utterly foolish to attempt it, standing here, watching the arcane scar upon the land that was once a bustling settlement twist and rot all the more, Sylvanas felt as though she should have tried.

Had Jaina thought of that, when she chose this venue for their meeting? Had she wanted to rend more grief from her, more guilt?

It was hard for Sylvanas to say. The woman who she had once loved was just as much a thing of the past as the cocky Ranger General of Silvermoon. Jaina was just as changed by her losses, just as scarred, and just as hard to read for all of it. The setting sun and the swirling arcane mixed their glows in the white of her hair—violet and orange. She looked aflame for it, and her eyes burned too, demanding.

So Sylvanas had to think of something to answer them. Some words, though none would ever be good enough. She started with a question, “You wanted to know why I wished to meet?”

It took a moment for Jaina to offer a simple nod in return, as though she considered leaving just then, finding all this unsatisfactory. But, her feelings as they traveled over their bond spoke a different story. Sylvanas focused on these instead, taking every ounce, every fiber of the intrigue, the hesitancy, the worry, and that little shred that might be wanting.

That, she could certainly understand. She wanted nothing more than to reach out to Jaina. To hold her to her chest. To breathe in the fire of sun and magic that played on the soft white of her hair. Even her gold had been stolen from her.

“I need you, Jaina,” Sylvanas explained. “I need your support. I need you to understand that I am truthful in what I say about the Jailer, the realms of death, and that I have everything to lose for it if I’m wrong. We all do.”

She watched Jaina stiffen at this. The words took their time in washing over her, and Jaina let them echo beyond her into the wreckage, and into the sea beyond before she deigned to respond. “Surely you did not retrieve your very soul from hell then, so you say, to ask for an alliance?”

“No,” the word echoes hollow. Putting that into words does it no justice. Yes, Sylvanas sliced her soul free from the very fingers of the being who kept it prisoner. She did it for so many reasons. She did it for her freedom. She did it because she was missing a part of herself. She did it, too, for love.

But Jaina did not look at her with love. Her eyes were hard, crystalline. They too sparkled with flecks of dying sun and untamed magic.

“I did it for myself,” Sylvanas answered honestly. “And for Azeroth. The things the Jailer asked of me seemed cunning and clever in the beginning. He had a plan. He offered me what I wanted, what I needed, and did not ask for much. It all seemed so clear in the beginning. Death is a cruel and broken thing, and he would free us from it.”

That too, was difficult to explain. What could she tell Jaina of that first death of hers? Of leaping from Icecrown hoping for release—hoping for an end to the mockery of life that still preserved her, only to find terrifying nothingness, then Zovaal, looming. He showed her the unfairness of it—the loss of self, the lack of rest.

Worst of all was when she asked, pleaded, begged him to see her family again—mother, father, Lirath—to know that they were resting safely somewhere would bring her the most peace she’d known since she was alive with Jaina in her arms, listening to her bare her burdens, her loneliness since their loss. But there were no such people left for her to meet. No, Zovaal had told her, what remained of the souls that were once half of her immediate family would not know her anymore. They would not judge her for all she’d done. They would not welcome her to run with them in the great hunt, as elven mythos would often picture the afterlife. No, they were perhaps an angel with blue skin, a trickster faun, a plotting vampiric courtier, a proud gladiator, a thousand other things, or even just loose, aimless anima. The person they had once been was gone. They would not know or remember her, for better or for worse, ever again.

Anything, it had seemed, was better than enduring the cruelty of that fact, and to bear the idea that it was the same for every soul that had ever been willed into existence. To be tied so deeply to others in life—only to lose them forever in the eternity of death? It was beyond cruel. And worst of all, that part was entirely true and real, and not just one of Zovaal’s lies.

It had been easy to dwell on that. Even missing half of her soul, it had been hard to follow the agenda to put an end to it when it dragged on and on, seeming just as cruel.

It had been impossible for her to follow it any longer as it directed her to hurt Jaina.

“No doubt you heard what I explained yesterday aboard our ships. No peace awaits us in death. He had promised me a way out. His domination magic made it seem so convincing, so clear. But I began to have my doubts that it was possible, that such a solution was even what he was driving me toward. Those doubts were solidified when he asked me to raise your brother, willing or not, and turn him against you,” Sylvanas explained.

Those words, it seemed, hit home. Jaina’s eyes widened at the truth Sylvanas had otherwise not revealed.

Yes, she was her tipping point, and yes, she should know that.

“You defied this master of yours then, for Derek?” Jaina asked.

“For you,” Sylvanas told her.

The sun clung to one last sliver of the horizon, lighting the western sky to brilliance in orange and gold. Belore would abandon them soon, but perhaps it was for the best. No doubt Jaina would struggle to look upon her as she did now. Devotion and apologies alike meant little if they came from such a wretched creature as she. Her beautiful apprentice turned Archmage deserved better than a mournful corpse.

“If you’ve known all this for so long, why not come to me earlier? That’s what I don’t understand, Sylvanas,” Jaina said, seeming confused at the end by the name that fell so readily from her lips.

The words met her along with a softening in the back of her mind. It was not what Sylvanas expected, not what she rehearsed for. She prepared for Jaina to be stony-faced, civil, but enraged. She prepared for eyes that would not meet hers, not these that stared, and danced with flame and fire and want and this bone-deep desire for an understanding.

Sylvanas held up her hands, bare for the occasion, glowing soulmark on display on her wrist. “Would you have believed me? Would you have even as I explained all these things yesterday, if not for the attack that came after? You wouldn’t have, and I have given you little reason to. I doubt it would have been any different had I sailed here straight from Lordaeron, Grand Marshall Garithos’ blood still wet on my hands.”

“You don’t know that,” Jaina told her. “I grieved for you. For so long, I mourned you. You didn’t even tell me you were—” she trailed off, lacking the correct words to finish that sentence.

“Still alive? Because I wasn’t. I’m a monster. An abomination. An affront to the gods themselves. I still am, even with my soul intact,” Sylvanas reminded her. “Back then, the Alliance saw my people as nothing more than mindless zombies, temporarily bending their feeble wills away from the Lich King’s control, soon to be consumed by it once again and be made to betray them yet another time. You mean to tell me you would have thought any differently?”

“How can I answer that if you didn’t let me try?” Jaina immediately snapped back, her frustration boiling through, both in the movement of her hands and like a pot of boiling oil in the base of Sylvanas’ skull. “If you had come to me, if you had—”

“If I counted back the hours to you I have wasted, dwelling on the past, one by one, we would be here all night and another day,” Sylvanas told her. “I don’t know how you would have reacted. When, where, or why. It doesn’t matter. Could have and would have do not help us now. They do not help the people of Azeroth.”

“They did not help the people of Teldrassil either.”

Ah, there it was. Sylvanas had speculated she would have to answer for her greatest of crimes here. Really, letting the Jailer in had been the greatest, but if it were not through her, then surely it would have been some other pawn that would have taken his power to Azeroth. She just had her anger, her reasons, her vulnerability in having only half a soul to judge by.

“It was not supposed to end that way,” Sylvanas told her frankly, voice low, finding for the first time she could not look into Jaina’s eyes as the dying sun behind her was too close to the memory of the roaring flames. “And while I know it sounds no worse to say this, only one key person was meant to die that day. I left the job to Saurfang, but his odd new sense of honor let Malfurion escape. The strategy to burn the tree was the extreme alternative I was driven to, though no doubt it is what the Jailer wanted all along. That is often how it worked. I would plan something sensible, direct and discreet, it would fail, and then I would be driven to the mad answer, every time.”

The silence stretched on long enough for Sylvanas to have to look up to gauge Jaina’s reaction. She wondered if SI:7 had heard of her original plans for the invasion of Darkshore. But what did it matter? They were doomed. All of these failures, time after time, all this falling back and having to rely on desperate measures—it had all been him. The taunting hand that had held a piece of her soul had pointed her in the wrong direction only to watch her damn ever more souls to his hell in her attempts to make it right again.

The fact that Jaina seemed to be thinking on it still, her mind grinding the words down to powder, as the sun flashed one last brilliant ray behind her, sinking below the horizon, was not lost on Sylvanas. It meant that she did not know. It meant that she was trying to understand.

“Tyrande would have killed you for it all the same,” was what she finally said.

“Perhaps I may yet welcome the mercy of her blade,” was all Sylvanas could say in reply.

There was another silence, but this one ended with a bitter, short laugh against the coming dark of night. “I don’t wish to feel what it’s like to die with you again, so let’s avoid that,” Jaina offered.

There. That was something. Just as the tension dropped on the edge of her spine. In the night, Sylvanas’ wrist glowed like a guiding star. There had to be something left of this, something worth saving. Even if all she had to offer Jaina was to share her life with a dead, bitter war criminal, who had been manipulated into some of what she’d done, and had gladly chosen other transgressions without so much as an ounce of that evil influence.

“I cannot say that Zovaal is to blame for everything I’ve done. I cannot draw an exact line for you of where he ends and I began. That, I think, is the worst part of it. The terrifying part. It all made sense in some way, because that was what he wanted. I wasn’t able to see it so clearly until the day I clutched my soul in my hands. His chains did not hold me then,” Sylvanas went on.

Feeling welled up in her along with the word. Bright and bold, crisp as the cold air of winter, burning as the summer sun. The extremes of emotion save that of anger had been a foreign thing, and still were to her. She felt too raw, too new, her skin newly shed.

“If I were thinking as clearly then, or any time, as I am now, I think I would have come to you,” Sylvanas told her.

She wanted to cry. Not in the screaming, raging way she’d cried for her death and the constant struggle that followed. No, she wanted to cry because this was all just awful. She wanted to cry because it was all like a bandage ripped from a scabbing wound that would not and could not heal. The world itself was even scarred—she had seen the tip of the great hilt of the sword stuck in its side even on her flight over here.

Jaina didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve planet-sized swords and magic-sundered cities. Only the purple of Theramore’s arcane painted her now, and she was beautiful in it. A stunning woman if ever there was one, powerful and stern in the way she stood and thought about those words.

She deserved a lonely Ranger General, whose life she had brought light back into just by existing. She deserved warm, languid mornings in a bed draped with the finest Quel’thalan silk. She deserved to laugh and smile easily, without worrying if she could or should for the state of things. She deserved the smile that even Sylvanas could feel a thousand miles away when she read her terrible attempts at love letters. She deserved the life they were supposed to have together.

But Sylvanas supposed it was not for her to say what Jaina deserved. White-haired and once-dead herself, her heart still beat, but she knew what it was to fail, what it was to have it all come crumbling down, and to be the one picking up the pieces yet again.

All Sylvanas wanted was a chance to be a brick in that new foundation they might both build together. Anything else, well, she would just have to see.

“I don’t know how I could have helped, but I would have tried,” Jaina told her.

“I know. I should have known,” Sylvanas told her. “And I know now it’s too little too late.”

Jaina reached for her, and just as Sylvanas had done when she’d first arrived, let her hand drop empty. It was covered still by the clawed gauntlet, hiding the mark that Sylvanas knew burned beneath it. Jaina was clearly not ready to divest herself of such armor around her, nor did she blame her for such caution.

Still, she reached.

“I can’t say I didn’t wish you did this all of this much sooner, but if you were manipulated as you say, I understand how hard it must have been to do at all,” Jaina said, looking down at that hand before clenching it, the metal of the gauntlet creaking. “But know that I don’t accept that as an excuse.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Sylvanas told her. “Or anyone. I deserve far worse than Tyrande’s blade at my neck, which I’ve no doubt she still wants to deliver to me.”

Tyrande’s absence on the ships was noteworthy. Even though the ceasefire had caused all Horde forces to be removed from Darkshore, she had pursued them to the last—apparently culling them from the boat ramps and swinging ladders hanging from hovering zeppelins. When Sylvanas had posed the question of where she was to Anduin at the beginning of the summit, he’d simply shaken his head.

“I only ask that if I am to be punished, that I do so after we have defeated Zovaal, at least in some measure,” Sylvanas went on. “I will be of no use rectifying my crimes if I am to be in chains once again.”

“I fail to see how that helps any of us,” Jaina concluded. “There is no doubt in anyone’s mind you have been truthful about this, you know. Not even mine. You were correct before in saying you had everything to lose if you weren’t.”

“Delivering oneself into the hands of one's enemies spouting madness they cannot prove is not the strategy of a woman with secrets left to keep,” Sylvanas noted. “I am done with secrets. Truly. Ask of me what you want, what you need to know and I will answer. I owe you at least that, for coming to hear me out.”

Sylvanas watched as Jaina’s lips wrapped around a question, then held it in, like a sigh she did not want to allow to escape. A prayer, maybe. A complaint, perhaps. There was so much to talk about, but the moon was rising, following her ardent and fruitless pursuit of the sun. Tonight, it was only a small crescent, still regaining its form and power. But, it was waxing, not waning.

And while Jaina seemed to debate what question she should ask first, she was asking.

Her pause left Sylvanas enough time to wonder what she would ask, if Jaina were to open herself up this way.

That answer was as simple as it was impossible, really. “Did you love me?” would be what she wanted to know. Ever, at all, still? It didn’t matter. But it wasn’t a question she’d been invited to ask, or one she could give voice to even if she was. Not now, at least. Perhaps not ever.

Perhaps she might never know. Perhaps, she might have to be content with her soulmate standing at arm’s length from her, struggling to find the right words, offering only distant hope of a truce, an alliance of needs, and nothing more.

But loved or not, Sylvanas supposed that was better than the alternative. Still, Jaina was here. She’d listened.

She opened her mouth again to speak.

“Can we maybe sit a while and just, well, talk?” Jaina asked. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear more about this Zovaal and the Maw.”

It was something. Anything at all.

“We can talk, yes,” Sylvanas answered, as she watched Jaina sweep aside her skirts, and sit upon a nearby boulder.

She gestured to the same rock, where a flat place was left empty just beside her, waiting, inviting.

It was the closest Sylvanas had been to her—no. That wasn’t right. Jaina had reached out to her the day before, touched her skin, asked for her to meet. No more melodramatics, no more comparisons of the years and years she’d lost to death and dominance, the wrong and the right of it. These would not serve Sylvanas in her goals, her atonements. Her actions would.

Sylvanas sat next to her soulmate, and though she desperately wanted to reach out to touch her again, she held her bare hands still in her lap. She would tell Jaina everything she wanted to know, everything she was willing to hear. Sincere words were never her forte, but as a career soldier, she could report like no one’s business. If Jaina wanted a report, she’d get the report of her lifetime, so long as she was willing to listen.

And Jaina, it seemed—sitting beside her, back straight, arcane fire dancing still in her eyes and on the strands of her hair—was still listening.

---

Another day, another lifetime ago, and Clea had once again perched herself on the edge of the Ranger General’s desk, legs swinging, without invitation.

“What has you grinning with your ears pointing straight to Belore like that?” she asked as she unceremoniously took up her favorite seat in all of Silvermoon.

“Would you believe me if I told you it was a report from Vereesa on supply lines?” Sylvanas offered, not looking up from the letter that was decidedly not that.

“No. Well, wait, it depends on the type of supply lines. I know you love a good artillery shipment, but maybe not that much,” Clea said.

Sylvanas huffed a laugh. While she would indeed be delighted to get some new ballistas requisitioned for the weaker points of their defensive lines on the Amani front, the likelihood of King Anasterian prioritizing that was far lower than her chances of even finding her once in a lifetime soulmate, whose letter she was actually smiling over.

Clea took this opportunity to peek for her answer and snorted her own response, “Well, I doubt Vereesa writes to you in Common, so I’d say you’re drooling over a letter from your pretty mage instead.”

“I don’t drool,” Sylvanas retorted. “But I also don’t wish to waste time lying to you. Now, Ranger, was there a purpose to your visit other than to pester me about my love life?”

“You love her then?”

Sylvanas knew that the question was meant to be teasing in nature. It was hardly meant as the existential blow that it felt like, a slap across the face that reality must be answered to.

Of course she loved Jaina. That much she knew. The truth of it was so odd though. She’d met the woman for only a week, and still knew precious little about her. Fate had decided to place them in each other’s hearts, forever bound by their souls, and while Sylvanas had relished in the idea of no longer being alone in this world, she had not done so with love in mind. Odd as it was to say, she sought her soulmate for wholeness’ sake as much as anything else really. It was a thing one did, a lifelong pursuit in the long life of an elf, one she was lucky to fulfill in her relative youth.

But yes, the answer was easy. She loved her. She loved Jaina with every fiber of her being, every steady beat of her heart, every calming reminder of their bond as Jaina’s thoughts and feelings leaked so subtly into her mind across the vast distance that separated them, and likely would for much of their lives. They were still figuring out where they would live, where they might even meet for the next time, once Jaina was finished with this silly little jaunt around Lordaeron.

She wanted Sylvanas to come to Dalaran, of course. That was the topic of this letter, apparently sent just before she left the city of mages to accompany Prince Arthas.

Sylvanas hated Dalaran, but for Jaina, she could try. That, she supposed, was what love really was, at least to her—a willingness to put all aside, grievances and gratitudes alike, just to be with someone. Even if that meant dealing with an entire city full of snooty magisters. Jaina deserved that much from her—to do as Sylvanas had done with her in Quel’thalas, and take her to meet her friends, to eat at her favorite restaurants, to see the things and people and places that were important to her.

It was all so strange how this worked with soulmates. It felt like doing love in reverse. The deep, unfathomable bond was there already, but Sylvanas didn’t know what wine Jaina liked best yet, or what she would do to cheer herself up or clear her mind when she was feeling weary of the world and its trials. She didn’t know her favorite color. She didn’t know what animal she’d most often pretend to be when playing make-believe growing up.

Sylvanas, of course, had been a fearsome lynx in her childhood games. What animals were even so prevalent in Kul Tiras for Jaina to assume their imaginary form in her play? Sylvanas didn’t know. She almost jotted down a note to herself to find a natural atlas of the island nation to familiarize herself with the possibilities, but remembered that Clea was there, now looking strangely at her as Sylvanas hadn’t responded in her musing.

“Of course I do,” she answered.

Because she did. She loved Jaina Proudmoore, and was looking forward to spending the rest of whatever time the gods might allow them to have together to get to know her, however and whenever she could.

#sylvanas windrunner #jaina proudmoore #sylvaina #fanfic #beneath the blue moon #sorry for sitting on this for months but the struggle is real

40 notes · View notes