#I can see all the mistakes jfc

[peachesofteal]

Speaking about Ghost/Soap/Darling omegaverse... May I bring the idea of Soap and Ghost being alpha and Darling an omega? But wait, let me sprinkle a little of angsty thoughts about it:

Johnny and Simon get to spend their ruts together. Hell, they share a room, and even on base they get to have privacy and go through them with the help of each other, not only fulfilling their physical needs, which are sated of course, but also emotional. Yeah sure, heats are emotional but ruts are too, and they spend so much time together that almost, if not all of their ruts together have been spent in the company of each other.

But Darling? Imagine Darling having a heat every time she's alone. Simon and Johnny gone on some mission, gone for weeks and sometimes even months. Trying to satisfy herself with whatever smell is left on Simon's hoodie or Johnny's shirt. She tries to brush away the thoughts of loneliness and being left out that arise every time she rests in her nest, every time she has to painfully get through her heats without her mates' company.

Hell, she tries to hide everything every time Johnny and Simon come home, smelling like each other and fresh bite marks on their necks. She really, really tries. But nothing escapes those two, no. They can smell that little, slightly rotten smell on Darling, sensing her discomfort and those bouts of anger flaring up, those hints of desperation hiding in a slightly-rotten fruit smell. It becomes stronger and stronger each time she sees how close they are after they tell her that another rut came while they were on base, and her? At this point she might lie and say she's on suppressants. Again, they at least suspect about it.

But hell, the fact that there are always fresh bite marks on them every time they come home, while hers is is non-existent (Johnny and Simon foolishly believe she doesn't wish to be bitten), is NOT helping at all.

And they realize how drastic, how deep the problem is once their leave coincides with Darling's heat.

Except she hides. She doesn't let them in, because they maybe have never seen her on her heats.

She doesn't trust them to know how to deal with it, how to deal with an omegas' most vulnerable moment when all they've known is how alphas deal with their ruts.

Darling doesn't trust them, not fully, at least.

Djsjjd jfc when you said omegaverse I was 👁️👁️. Peach I hope you're having such a good day and I must thank you once more for giving us such beautiful stories, I hope nothing but good things happen to you from now on:)

— 🫔 Anon

Oh… okay, I see you. This is so good! There’s so much to explore here… 🩵

18+ / dead disco omegaverse au (it needs a name but we’ll get there?) / mature themes

The door swings wide, and Johnny is nearly bowled over by the scent. It’s everywhere in the flat, wafting down the hall to where they both stand at the threshold, overcome with the smell of overripe fruit, something sour and tart hovering at the precipice.

It’s the smell of their omega in distress.

But what surprises them both, is along with the burnt tannins of distress, is another smell. A ripe smell, a bruised stone fruit smell.

The smell of an omega in heat.

But their omega doesn’t have heats. You’re on suppressants.

Still, it’s definitely your scent. There’s no mistaking it.

Simon tenses, hackles rising with a growl. Johnny’s hand finds his chest, placing his palm over the older, bigger alpha’s heart soothingly. They’ve just both come off a rut, poor timing all things considered. Both exhausted, they were looking forward to getting home and falling into bed with you, cuddling you close while they both slept off the stress from the op and the remaining… sensitivities.

“Darling?” Simon calls, keeping his voice soft and easy.

There’s no answer. The flat is silent.

“Love? Are you here?” Johnny tries, pushing through to the bedroom, where he’s half expecting to see you curled up in the bed.

Except, you’re not.

It looks like you may have been, at one point. It’s a pile of blankets and pillows, haphazardly arranged with various shirts and other soft things.

Johnny chokes on a breath. The scent is much, much stronger in here, and Simon’s eyes slide closed as he draws a deep inhale.

“Omega?” He murmurs, and to their relief, there’s a small whimper from the closet.

When he gets the door open, his heart breaks. Simon’s body goes preternaturally still, and they both stare down at you.

You’re drenched in sweat, burrowed in a pile of clothes, eyes wide. You reek, panic and fear, distress and pain burning in their nostrils, along with the overripe scent, the telltale smell of a heat. Worse, when you look up at them, there’s no recognition there. Nothing to show that you know who they are to you, or even where you are. Johnny shoves away his panic over your confusion, this state, to try to coax you forward into his arms.

“Hey, there ye are.” He reaches for you, slowly, and your body presses against the corner, head shaking back and forth. Johnny frowns. “Darling, it’s okay. It’s us, you’re alright.” His hand gets closer, nearly brushing you knee, and then to their absolute shock, you snarl.

Simon is conflicted. He’s confused.

Why did you tell them you’re on suppressants?

They would have done things a lot differently, if that wasn’t the case. They wouldn’t have left you alone, if they had known. His stomach clenches when he thinks about the possibility that this isn’t the first time you’ve been on your own during a heat.

“Darling.” Simon coos. He doesn’t want to reach for you. He doesn’t want to pull you from the closet, this safe spot you’ve built, your nest. He doesn’t want to force you out, like his father would have. Like he always did to his mother. His father would have gripped you so hard it would have hurt you, left bruises on you. He would have terrified you, taken joy from it. “Omegas are weak.” Simon was raised to believe. “The lesser. It’s our job to teach ‘em.”

You snort out a trembling breath from your nose, little groan slipping from your lips and you rub your wrist on your gland. Johnny makes a strangled sound in his throat as it happens, and Simon doesn’t need to ask to know what he’s thinking.

Only omegas who have been abandoned or lost their mates try to self soothe like that, scent themselves like that. It’s an instinct, something that happens to try to prevent them from becoming overheated or harmed by a heat unmanaged.

“No, no no. It’s alright, love, we’re here.” Johnny pleads, hand still tentatively outstretched while you stare at his fingers. Every time your wrist rubs over your gland, they both cringe, and Johnny’s body goes rigid.

“I- don’t-” You stutter. You blink at them slowly, and he can see it all on your face, plain as day. The pain. The confusion. The distress.

Simon crouches, just outside the closet. He starts up a soothing rumble, trying to lure you towards him. You lift your head slowly when you hear it, when you feel the subharmonics, the song that sings to you.

“Come here, baby.” Your brow creases, and you rub your face. You look exhausted, like you haven’t slept in days and he wonders how long you’ve been you like this, how long you’ve been suffering. You don’t smell like pre heat, so you must be on the curve upwards. Guilt burns in his stomach. “It’s alright now.” Johnny moves next to him, shifting into a kneel very slowly while you watch him, hazy gaze fixed on the bite marks on his neck, over his gland.

“You’re safe.” Johnny coaxes, and he keeps his hand towards you, but unmoving, trying to show you that neither of them are a threat.

They both work to emit soothing scents, trying to lull you into their arms. You watch them warily, curiously, eyes opening and closing in slow motion as your instincts battle whatever confusion is happening beneath the surface.

It works. You crawl slowly out from the corner, t shirt sticking to your skin, your arms trembling under your weight.

“Good girl.” Simon murmurs. Neither of them move, afraid to spook you, and then you’re curling up between their bodies, rubbing your wrist against your gland over and over.

You tuck yourself into them, head laying on Simon’s chest and his hand comes slowly to rub your back, getting you used to his touch, easing you into a more relaxed state while Johnny smooths a hand over your shoulder, coasting his wrist closer and closer to your gland, trying to scent you subtly and soothe you, gentle you. You whimper when he makes contact, and they both press a little closer.

“Shhh. You’re okay, darling. We’re here.” Simon bows his head, skimming his nose overtop your scalp, and you shift, hands grabbing for Johnny, trying to pull his body overtop yours, effectively sandwiching yourself as tight as you can between their mass. You whine, and Johnny hums in your ear, soothing you by scenting until you’re letting out little rumbles of your own, soft purrs puffing against Simon’s chest, Johnny’s lips ghosting across your sweat dotted forehead.

[darlingofvalyria]

❝Will you forsake me, my love? And the babe I carry?❞

[ You had made a mistake. A slip up. You had overlooked the extent of Otto Hightower and his greed. Now you must make it right... or pay in fire and blood. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 5,504 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt-wife!reader (aegon's twin sister),

contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader— gets darkish but not yet dd:dne - targcest, angsty as fuck, pregnancy - nsfw: p & v sex, oral (male receiving) - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— i... actually dunno how i got here tbh. thankfully, this isn't dead dove quite yet, but you, yes you, as jace's manipulative targ wife, almost did, girl, jfc. ahahaha! comments, reblogs & like at will, mwa! 💝 + now that there is a second part, and a third part i'm plotting (uh huh), this is officially a series!! its v loosey goosey, but it'll have a masterlist so... it means it has a taglist! message me to be tagged 💝 & if there are any drabbles/blurbs you wanna see!! message me lmk!! i have so many thoughts about jacey & manipulative reader hehe + dividers by @danowh0re

The only warning you receive is the missive hastily made by your twin.

In his panic, Aegon's scrawl had been barely legible, but the cold sweat that shot through your spine at making sense of the text had you keening over; fingers over your mouth, a dangerous gurgle in your stomach.

The world tilts, the air sucks inward.

Fear... Cold, weightless fear, settles in your heart.

"Princess!" Your maid, Dyana, shrieks, hands grasping your elbows to prevent you from falling. She turns to the door. "Call the maestre back! Now!"

You shake your head rapidly. "No, no. No Ser Addam. I am alright."

"But princess—"

"No, Dyana, I am alright." But you are pale, and a thrum shakes through fingers, rattling your ribcage and trying to yank your heart out of your throat. You have to find your footing or all will be lost. You grab Dyanna's arms and she winces. "Tell me- the prince - where is he?"

"I'm not sure, princess, I can—"

"Quickly! We shan't lose precious more time."

You turn to Meera. You had invested in her from the early age you had taken her in from the orphanage. Loyalty, in its absolution, must be rewarded.

And ease for your own plans can be disguised as a reward.

She steps forward obediently, hands clasped behind her back like a soldier awaiting orders. She is nondescript with plain features, easily able to hide between other common folk; and no one, truly, looks at a maid.

"Go to the Sea Dragon Tower, wait on the Rookery for Johan. Only Johan, do you understand me? Keep the missive that I will dictate to you close to his heart, hidden, and he must depart immediately. Throw extra gold at the captain, I do not care. Meera, no other eyes must touch the paper I will send, tell him of the utter import such a thing. No other than another Spider. We cannot unravel further than this or we will start burning."

Meera's gaze darkens, her posture straightening. "Yes, your grace."

You grasp her hands, your mind whirring— so many plots, so many lies, in between them, he flashes in your mind; the dark hair, the warmth of his hand, the sweet, simpered smile and the flicker of rage that dances like a flame. In and out and calmed and wild.

Dutiful. A Perfect Son. A Beloved Prince. Your Lord Husband.

He flashes in between plans and unraveled lies. Along it, Aegon's missive, quickly written, panic seeping in every vowel.

Grandsire had gotten to Aemond's head. Went to Storm's End. Met Lucerys. They are calling him Kinslayer.

Your head is pounding. Kinslayer, Kinslayer, Kinslayer. It churns your stomach, dries your throat. Lucerys dead. Aemond beheaded. Jacaerys' rage. Rhaenyra's. Dark Sister in the Rogue Prince's hand. All your clever threads, your webs and tales, everything you have sacrificed to get here— they are unraveling, the lives you care about, your fondness and love — the fear has moulded and churned; the Stranger now haunting the skies, searching for names, trying to grasp for your neck.

Aemond, You, Aegon, Helaena, Alicent, Jaeheara, Jaehearys, Maelor—

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Your baby brother. Marred and disfigured, dutiful and dedicated. Sarcastic and princely; dancing with you if you ask. Reading with him in the library. A flickering hearth, a kind eye, a protective arm.

Your baby brother, beheaded, gaping mouth and bloodred eye.

Justice spun and spun, but oh so corrupted when they had taken his eye and no name step forth to claim.

Disfigured, marred, and dead.

Focus, you think, your mouth moving, words spilling, plans stretching. Focus.

Otto Hightower must die. It is a pressing thought, digging into the centrefold of your mushy, wet brain. Pressing and pressing like a fever as words of instructions, orders, must be sent along one spider to another.

Your hand drifts to your stomach as Meera leaves, in her head the words that must reach King's Landing. That must pass only the cleverest of hands. Your hand curls, your fist tightens enough that blood clots and beads through crescent rings. Clever girl. Clever spider. You have to believe in Meera and the people under your hushed employ.

You have no choice. You have built your webs, you must trust your spiders.

Not when you can't even trust your own fucking blood.

It took a while to get your network going in Dragonstone. As soon as the smell of brimstone and dragon broached your nostrils, the plans for moving what you had started in Kings Landing became the forefront plan. There is only so much movement you can make in a board full of enemies; and with so many more things to do, you cannot be restrained.

People with stakes, with ambitions and wants of their own— be that money, a good future, a house with warmth and love — if you can provide it enough, dash it in enough kindness and care, people, like ants, could move mountains for you.

It took most of hyour life to have what you established in Kings Landing. Most of your free time— feiging afternoon teas, walks along the garden; young lady things that will not arouse suspicion, fit for a pious, devoted daughter of Alicent Hightower — was spent building and building webs.

Thankfully, as a Princess of the Realm— and as the future Heir's wife, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms (the title tingles and throbs, comes alive in gasps and winning hands) — you can have your pick of maids and lady in waitings here too. Connections are important, and Jacaerys did not bereaved you of choice.

In fact, he so encouraged you to make changes to Dragonstone as you so chose fit.

"You are my wife," he sighed, pressing kiss after kiss to the side of your head. When he was wrapped around you like this— arms around your torso, a finger, almost absentmindedly, rubbing just the underside of your breast, and the smell of him, boyish but smoky, like a fireplace and first kiss, swaying you to a rhythm he is fond of, absentminded almost — it reminded you of how Vermax oft like to wrap around small hills and large rocks. A dragon mimicking another dragon; a twin soul so connected.

He sighed again as you run your own fingers against the back of his palm, against the side of his head behind you. "You may do so as you wish," he finished, nuzzling further into you as if he wants no more than to become one with you, flesh and blood. An engorged monster of sorts.

"Just your wife?" you teased. The wedding had only been a few moons ago. The missive had been immediately sent to Kings Landing (under your orders, of course, your new husband none the wiser as he had preferred a few more days of just you), and before lunch, your hand on Jace's thigh, his eyes more than hungrily looking at your lips— Caraxes screech alongside Syrax' wing pattern shook the walls, demanding answers.

Jace had looked nervous for a second, not at all prepared to be facing his mother so soon, his Queen, and his stepfather... whose own daughter he was supposed to marry. Better prepared to face all of them in Kings Landing was his plan.

But you had grasped his hands, had mounted girlish excitement shining in your eyes (an expression so familiar to you to adopt that it so perfectly hides the sharp edges of your excitement; your smugness. It oft reminds you of Aemond)— and Jacaerys had melted.

"My Queen," he reimbursed. You turned as his hands cupped your face. Gentle, possessive in its own way. You sighed, eyes fluttering close with a small, satisfied smile on your lips. "My beautiful queen."

A Maiden in love is not a hard thing to emulate. And he does not make it hard to be.

On some days, you even think it will be easy to actually fall in love with him. You already do so feel his warmth for you permeate your own being. His attention is addicting for one; it is whole and preserving. He makes it known when he is looking at his lady mother, at Baela, his former betrothed (who had given you a meaningful eye when Rhaenyra and Daemon escorted you back to Kings Landing to face the rest of your consequences), and other ladies of the court versus when he is looking at you.

He does not hide his adoration. His so obvious desire.

When you reward him for his loyalty, for private little ticked boxes you keep for him— siding with you in arguments, defending you upon ugly whispers in the Keep, requesting from his mother, a more permanent residence of your own in Dragonstone, in the guise of newly wedded bliss to hide growing your connections far and wide (once Rhaenyra takes the throne, Jacaerys will be named Heir and Prince of Dragonstone; your spiders and people must reach each end of Westeros, and Dragonstone is the perfect central chatter) — you mount him and bask at the lust contorting his features, at his hands gripping your waist in a staccato rhythm of feeling and gasp, each harsh bounce of your hips sending you both to bliss. You feel him inside you so deeply, enjoy his eyes rolling back and exposing his neck for you to sink bruises on.

Most oft, he enjoys mounting you. And you like the alternative of his choice to be buried so deep you feel him in your throat; to hold you down and hold you close, telling you to keep your eyes open for him as you come undone again and again— time and practice can manage his newness to the act. His enthusiasm, both for the act and for you, definitely helps his case, and he is so fond of finding your pleasure, of leading you to the precipe, so addicted to your sounds and writhes.

"There? Is that it, little dragon?" he huffs against your mouth, so attentive as he held your wrist and watch as you gasp, your face twisting as he hits that point inside of you, that sweet, sweet spot of undeniable pleasure buried so deep within— that he laughs. Not meanly, but of pride as he pulls back and hits it again. More insistent. You mewl and scratch his back, your toes curling as you seek the pleasure he so enjoys insisting you into.

"I've found it again, didn't I?" Another snap of his hips, another cry of your lips. "I will fuck your sweetest spot until you- are- crying- my name in that sweet, sweet whine of yours, shall I?"

But it's not really a question privy to an answer, surely not by your own mouth but by your body, as he manhandles you easily and does not stop until you are a quivering, overstimulated mess against wet sheets.

Sometimes, when you can't help but reward him as soon as possible— so excited from his gallant display; the perfect King bowing to his wife — you drag him to shadowy corners and solemnly drop yourself on your knees, unlacing his breeches with deft precision. You place your hot mouth against his manhood, your eyes fluttering delicately, making him reach completion enough times that he is left with a dopey, simpleton of a smile afterward, a soft, chaste kiss against your your head, your nose, your lips. So tender to how he was fucking your mouth not but seconds ago.

"I love you," he whispers against hot skin and cool, salty air.

And it eases, every time he looks at you like that, holds like you that. His love is patient, sweet, kind, and devouring. It overflows and seeps into you that when you whisper back, just as soft, just as troublingly honest, "Avy jorrāelan, ñuha zaldrīzes, I love you, my dragon," the truth of them bleeds further and further into your heart.

Jacaerys.

A warm grief swells within you. Your hands twitch, flattening your grief beneath your chest, deep in your gut. Deep below. You fought hard to be here. You cannot lose him now.

Otto Hightower must die.

A cruel thought, a natural order. With your marriage to Jacaerys meant a relative peace, a truce. Moving to Dragonstone many moons was more than just to establish your position, your future. It was also for your darling sister to take better control of her position back in the centre of power, alongside her husband.

Aged well with a stronger alley who most would not dare defy— a vainglorious guard dog, really, one who isn't afraid to sic people with a mere nod from his master — more than evens out the playing field.

The Queen To Be is prospering. And in her prosper, meant your husband's position more than fulfilled. He was to be King, and with you as his Queen, his reign will want for not.

You should have known it would put Otto on defense, would panic and use your siblings and your poor, nervy mother, to move in unfeasible decisions.

Aegon had taken to calling him grandsire again. Aemond... Your spiders had told you that Lucerys was sent to Storm's End as no more than a casual reminder of Lord Borros' oath. Viserys was in no doubt in worse conditions than he had been the last time you or your husband had visited him. Rhaenyra was settling on her position, reminding the Great Houses which heir was meant to rise soon, so close to the changing of the guard.

And your little brother no doubt was moved in panic.

This was a slip up on your part. Once the King was dead, Otto Hightower would hold no cards; Rhaenyra would never take him as Lord Hand, and his daughter would no longer be a foreground of power. Rhaenyra has her heir. The winning hand is more than ensured on her part.

His only move would be an usurpation, and would ruin your chance at being Queen... it was a good move. Your twin was not made for duty whilst you craved it. He knows you better than you know yourself; you will not be played in his palm. You would be useless to him.

"I should have killed him," you murmur to yourself.

Yna, the last maid in your arsenal, steps forward. She is the youngest of your main three wards, and the newest. She is still learning her letters, but she is young and always eager to serve.

"My lady?"

"I am going to find the prince. Whatever happens, tell them Vermax must not leave with his rider. Make up any excuse you must. My husband must stay in Dragonstone until I say otherwise." You raise your chin, tone icy. "Anyone who dares to defy my orders will be beheaded."

"At once, princess."

Your steps are measured, your breath held between lie and tongue. So many pretty rings on your fingers, twisting and twisting at the idea of the confrontation plagues you.

But you raise your chin. You will not be defeated. All is not lost.

Dyanna had caught you at Aegon's Garden, windblow hair and wide, fearful eyes.

You had braced yourself. "The Prince?"

"The Stone Drum, my princess, he is..."

"Angry," you supplied. She nodded jerkily. "Tell me everything."

"The Prince was talking with Ser Robert, was about the missive sent from Kings Landing says Kevan, not soon after your own." Another spider, one that follows most of your husband's movements. Unassuming and quick on his feet. A good soldier. "Prince Lucerys is alive but badly maimed." The breath you had withheld between grit and fright unrolled, the world slamming back into the ground in a giant's fitful wake. "He still hasn't woken up, says Arrax took most of the damage— one wing torn but is awake. Dunno about recovery for dragons, 'specially against Vhagar. Mournin' the prince, Kevan says. Makin' loud, sad dragon noises."

"But he is alive?" you pressed. Aemond's life hung in its balance. Your sweet, vengeful baby brother who bore his tragedies between muted teeth and rage.

"Yes."

"And Aemond?"

"No word in the missive or between them." It made your throat tight, the convulsion restraining your neck once more.

"It's fine. As long as there no mention of his death. Then that's all I need."

"My lady, there's more. There might be a reason we haven't been getting much word from King's Landing. Or Oldtown. It seems to connect is all."

Your pulse jumped. "Tell me later. I have to see to the prince. No one is allowed in Stone Drum for the time being. Not unless absolutely necessary." You think and you think hard. "Ready to call in a maestre."

Dyanna had looked alarmed when you left her, but you only gave a pensive smile. A soldier's nod.

He is bent over the Painted Table, shoulders so hunched, reminding you of monsters and tall tales. A dragon, really. He may not have Velaryon blood, your husband, but you— nor others — could deny the thrum of fire in his blood. Roiling and boiling, so engulf in his rage, his voice is quiet at the approach of your footsteps.

"You have bound me to Dragonstone," he says calmly with all the quiet rage you can hear in your very soul. It makes you shiver, but you stand resolute.

He is still turned away, away from you, palms flat on the surface. The iron brazier is lit up, and so is the Painted Table itself.

"Can you honestly tell me you won't try and kill my brother if I let you, ñuha valzȳrys my husband?" you say softly. You plead. His refusal to turn to you spikes your madness in corners. The night reaches and you finger your rings as you try not to spill all over the floor; your own madness, your own fears, your quiet, quiet webs. "Aren't you at least satisfied at the thought of your stepfather excelling at planting Dark Sister to his neck? At least cheery at the idea of him suffering inside those dungeons?"

He spins then, rage—white hot and spilling — breathes as he bellows, "He has harmed my brother!"

You calmly met his gaze. "You do not know that for sure."

He laughs without mirth, arms wide and daring. Crazed anger outlandish and wild, while in response you tighten and become small.

But you do not cower. No truth cowers. And you are a princess. A dragon the same as he.

Lest all, he is a mere husband.

"What else could it be? Your brother has called us bastards our entire lives," he spits. "Neither of us are blind to his dark looks. Despite your family's attempted plots, his rage beholds him. His grudge is stronger. He attacked Lucerys, on fucking dragonback— Arrax, a dragon Luke has barely flown against your brother's war dragon — and that makes him a kinslayer."

Your blood leaps, and you cannot control your own fear, your own anger. "Do not throw that word around so carelessly, Jacaerys! My brother has killed no kin!"

"He has tried, " he hisses and it makes your eyes burn because he has never looked at you so before. At his thunderous footsteps to reach you, to aggravate you, you fight the urge to flinch. His anger spills and spoils you. You try not to curdle. You keep yourself braced. Kinslayer is so ugly said aloud. "That is enough of a brand to call him kinslayer."

Your jaw tightens, tears unleashed from your eyes and there's a glimmer there— a spark, of your Jace. Your husband. It is small and short, a comet so faint it is almost nothing, but it is there.

He does not like to see you cry, your Jace. Not if it isn't from pleasure.

You raise your chin. "My brother is no kinslayer. Lucerys is alive. Do not make Aemond what he is not."

He laughs humourlessly against your face, his hand reaching for your jaw, thumb over your chin, but the mock gentleness wounds you worse. "And who has alerted you of the news? Your twin usurper?"

"W-what?" Blood rushes to your head. Something is missing. He knows. He knows about grandsire's plans. Dyanna would have said. Dyanna didn't know. "Aegon is not an usurper," you whisper, faint but firm.

His thumb rubs against your bottom lip, his eyes tracing your face. "Is this the plan all along, then?" he says softly. "While your brother and grandsire plot to usurp the throne from my mother, and your younger brothers raise bannermen from Oldtown to Storm's End, and try to kill my own when they get the chance, I suppose your job is to warm my bed and to ensure I'm out of the fray before you kill me in my—"

His words stutter for you have slapped him. It is not the hardest move on your part, and he stops not from pain but from shock. Tears freely flow down your face now as you push him off you.

"I know nothing of these plots you speak of." That in much is true. These plots are half-assed. Made in panic and fear, and it makes you curse Otto Hightower to the depths of further Hell. "And you may bully me as you wish, husband, but I will not take it as if it does not hurt me. As if- as if I would take pleasure from your death."

He raises his chin, so defiant in his own anger that he clenches his jaw. "Are you telling me you took no part in your grandsire's plans?"

"We have been married for many moons now. I think, out of anyone on this island, amongst our family even, you would know me best. I have only ever truly bloomed in your presence," you say softly. Lies and truths are balanced so precariously; they spin and spin in a tantalising grip that even you don't know where fabrication meets honesty.

If your own lies befuddle you, why not your truths to him?

"If you are doubting me, then you are doubting our marriage, is it not?" You give a mirthless laugh of your own, chin wobbling as you brush your tears away. His eyes track your movements and his brows are furrowed. "Is it ease, that has turned you so from me? Has your doubt been seeded long before you took us to Dragonstone? To affirm your mother that you have wedded me? Yes, Aegon sent me a missive a mere hour ago. He says Aemond had been urged by our grandsire, no doubt played with as he had done so to our mother, as he tries with Aegon. With me."

Jacaerys' eyes darken. Bottomless pits of dark, dark eyes. You've grown to love them you realised.

"I will give you all the violet-eyed heirs you desire," you had purred once in your new marriage bed, having just christened (one to a few times) your new marital chambers in Dragonstone. "But I do so wish I get a babe with your eyes."

"They are hardly exemplary," Jace had said, snorting. His hand rested on your back while you rest on top of him. The air is acrid in sweat and sex, but neither of you mind. "They are not a show of Valyrian blood."

"Who cares?" You reached to dance your finger against his lashes. "A daughter with your eyes... I fear, I would spoil her rotten. She would be an absolute beauty."

"Are you calling me a beauty?" he teased, trying to hide his rosy cheeks.

"Your eyes, yes," you teased back.

"If I was such a pawn to him," you say now. "If I was using you as you so callously accused me of, why would I bother with a marriage with you? You are right, they have accused you of not being a trueborn Velaryon—" He flinches. "—So why would Otto decide marrying you was a good idea at all? Any babes I carry would be questioned, and it would serve no benefit at all if the main plot was Aegon usurping the throne. To keep you entertained? Hardly. It would serve him better, as was his earlier plan, if I had married Aegon myself."

He loses his stance, a grit in his teeth gives you way to a slow curl of possession. A renewed sense of anger. His fists clenched at his sides.

You found a thread. You don't just unspool, you decide, you will yank, and you will yank hard.

"Aegon is a firstborn male heir, even as twins. It made sense to anyone who understood Targaryen customs that marrying us would be the natural order. It did not matter any past transgressions he may have had, I keep him better. I am his tether to this world. It was obvious to anybody with eyes that if we were to marry, we would breed good Valyrian stock, our children—"

But he has lurched forward, grasping your face, seething, angry at an idea, at a diverted road.

"He wanted us to marry," you continue, a snake's hiss that it is. "But your mother sent a missive asking for Helaena's hand, and I had already told her I wanted someone else. I wanted you." You grasp his leather, pulling him to you in equal ferocity. Madness meeting a mirror. "From the very start, grandsire could not control me for my blood sung for you. I had done my very best to free my siblings from him, resigned myself to be their forever protector inside that Keep with no real power of my own, but when the Gods gave me the chance to have you, I had been selfish. I abandoned them for you. Because I wanted to be yours for a night, I was willing to have that, if it is the only moment you will grant me."

You are crying again, and lies are spinning with their truths, golden and bloodstained, but you are cracking him.

"But it was you, Jacaerys Velaryon, who had asked for my hand. You wanted to marry, whisk us away to Dragonstone, and I love you too much to blind myself to the idea of becoming your wife would not be a totally selfish act, for what act of ours would be considered selfish if it was borne out of love?" you sob hard, grasping and reaching against him, trying to shake and ruin him. "I thought you loved me, and yet here you are, accusing me of plotting? What? Usurping your mother? Killing you in your godsdamned sleep?"

"Wife, I—"

"No. I am sorry for what happened to Lucerys. But if it is vengeance that is truly what you seek, and in the morrow my brother," my choke out. "My brother would be announced d-dead, I would rather you kill me now for it seems I have not only failed them from my grandsire's clutches, I have also failed at being your wife."

Your hands reach in and pull his dagger out, and he is instinctive, a true swordsman, holding onto the dagger before your own. But you do not give up. You yank him forward so suddenly, the dagger now positioned over your heart.

You keep him there, defiant as you are. As no true dragon is afraid of metal. Metal melt in the face of dragonfire.

The tip of his dagger deepens against your skin as war rages in his own mind. Truths and lies spinning and spinning in his head, but your thread— your thread is Hightower green clung in blood and gold — and it's the brightest, twisting beneath his lids and rage. Rage and grief, the tethering madness is spilling, trying to break into the dragon's clutches—

But your Jace is strong. He holds it at bay with a fury.

It is love, it is love, it is love.

But you are not sure. And you have to be.

You have been betrayed already, your Jace cannot betray you. If you are to have a future with him as King, there must be no doubts.

You step forward, letting the blade sink against your skin. It draws blood. A few beads bloom and slide. Thick red in a string or two. It makes his jaw tighten, and you feel, almost impercibly, the strain in his hand give.

That flash of panic, panic bathed in love, in adoration, is all you need.

You grasp his hands in yours, blade nestled between two grips now, and he gasps, thinking you were going to push him away finally, but no. You hold on tight to his hands, nails digging into his skin, keeping the blade where it is before you push forward once more. The tip sinks into your flesh, blood gushes as pain explodes.

"What are you doing!? Let go!" he roars, but you stare at his eyes, brown, so pretty, framed in featherlight lashes, did he even know there are violet flecks in his eyes?

You will not harm me, you think. You realise. For you have given yourself to me body and soul. Even the Gods know.

"Will you forsake me, husband?" your voice is no higher than a whisper, than a wind's hum. It is hollow and cracking. A siren song. In the silence, it is a whip cracking against petty flesh. Against a beating heart thrumming for you. "And the babe I carry?"

Before the words register in his brain, you yank his hands again with every strength you can muster, the dagger, to hover over your stomach. Your Jace roars, pulling with his entire strength as complete fear in floods his beautiful, brown eyes. The strength propels your force of gravity, and you fall with a hard thud. The dagger is flung in the second as he reaches for you, cold-curdled terror ruining his face as he tries to make sense of where to touch you.

The fall is hard enough that you wince. And your instincts, new as it is, is to curl your hands protectively over your stomach.

"M-my heart? Does it hurt? I-I am so sorry, I-A MAESTRE, CALL A MAESTRE FOR THE PRINCESS NOW!"

Your child is strong, you have always known that in your heart.

The second you held suspicion, pressing against the tender flesh of your breast to the nausea that kicked in out of nowhere, before Maestre Gerardys had confirmed: you are with child. Your firstborn. The heir of heirs. You could not wait to meet him.

"I hope it is a boy," you murmur weakly into the darkened space of your chambers. You don't turn as Jacaerys' head snaps, his hands over your own, sat on a chair by your bedside. Relief, guilt, fear breaks and crashes in waves against him, trying to nudge you, but you don't look. You stare from your position on the bed; forward and into nothingness.

"My love," he breathes, hands against your own warm and tight. "I am so, so sorry. I shall call for a maestre—"

"No need." Your other hand moves to your stomach. An emotion glimmers in his gaze at the movement. "My babe is strong. Blood of the dragon that he is. I know him already in my blood. Call for my maid instead. Any of them. Tell them to move my things to a different room, perhaps the one above Aegon's Garden. By morn, I will fly to Kings Landing to be with my family."

Panic fills and breaks. His hold tightens. "I-If that is what you wish, we can go as soon as Maestre Gerardys says it is alright for you and the—"

You turn to him, finally, your eyes dead of emotion. "I will go for I do not think you would like your would-be murderer to sleep beside you, haunting you with a dagger. This way, I can take advice from my mother about births and the like, and you can sleep comfortably. Do not worry, I will not poison you to your child's mind. You may visit him as you would like. You might even take comfort in knowing your mother would look for him as if he were hers. She is so very motherly, I'm sure she would enjoy a grand..."

Your words drift off as he had fallen to his knees, tears soaking your hand as he presses it to his face. You feel like the Mother, looking down on a penitent. Or the Father. Or the Stranger. You feel complete, as his apologies fall in graceless, shaky exhales and sobs. The axe is in your hand. His neck is exposed.

"—I will do anything, a-anything for your f-forgiveness. Y-You can move rooms if it comforts you, I will not s-shadow your doorway, but please. Please. Do not leave me. Anything. I will do anything."

You, and you alone, is the owner of his absolution.

You smile, despite yourself.

Maybe you should reward your grandsire after all.

TAGGED (bold means I couldn't tag you: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata

[justmediocrewriting]

Hello, saw your NSFW prompts and since there can be combinations, I'd really like to request 1, 15 and 30 with Zoro, just love to see soft dom Zoro taking care of reader! Only if it's OK with you and please take your time at your own pace! 😊

A/n: blurb? Who’s she? Y’all I got fucking carried away with this. Did not expect it to come out to this monster length, but oh well *shrugs*. I hope you all enjoy this one as much as I did!

Prompt(s): “is it your first time, baby?” – “you’re so damn tight.” – “think twice before you say yes; because once I start, I’m not stopping.” (#1, #15, #30)

Pairing: zoro x fem!reader

Word Count: 11k (jfc)

Warnings/tags: explicit sexual content, soft!dom zoro, virgin!reader, brief descriptions of virginity loss, soft!zoro, slow sex, porn with feelings, gentle!zoro, bigdick!zoro, cunnilingus, oral (m receiving), spit as lube, afab!reader, vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, creampies, very small breeding kink, established relationship, first time together, language, dirty talk, does get slightly awkward at times because hey first times, duh. Zoro was drafted to be soft but rough!Zoro sort of took control of my mind oopsie

{{:================================:}}

“You’re nervous.”

Zoro’s statement wasn’t even a question — it was just a blatant observation, one that you had no doubt the perceptive swordsman would make quickly. Embarrassment clawed up your skin and you shifted in his lap, casting your eyes to the side to avoid looking into his; you hoped Zoro wouldn’t mistake your nerves for disinterest or something else of the sort, but you had a sinking feeling that that’s the only reasonable conclusion your actions would lead Zoro to.

Which was a bit disheartening, because this was something you wanted, something you’d thought about, a lot, it was just… kind of scary.

You weren’t a complete virgin, per se; you’d had some pretty serious sexual encounters with other men before Zoro, but there was a rather glaring difference between Zoro and your other partners — and that difference was standing at attention, digging in to your clothed core with the heat of a searing brand, thick and long and intimidating.

Zoro was fucking huge, and that was cause enough for your nerves and trepidation; libido and desire be damned.

“It’s just…you’re just… a bit… big…” you mumbled slowly, cheeks flaring with heat and stomach fluttering with nerves — your eyes flicked downward and that faint fluttering turned to full on somersaults when you caught sight of his bulge, right there and straining between your parted legs. How would that ever be able to fit…?

“We don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready for, y’know.” Zoro rumbled, voice thick with amusement, and he slid his hands up and down the length of your plush thighs in a manner that was simultaneously comforting and titillating.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for it,” you muttered with a dry chuckle, attempting to release some of your nervous energy by fiddling with the loose strings of his shirt collar. Zoro’s mouth opened, more than likely to say something similar to “then we don’t have to do anything,” and you quickly cut him off before he could even start.

“But,” you flicked your eyes up to his bashfully, pinning your bottom lip between your teeth, your heart thundering within your chest and skin crawling with ants, “I want it.”

Zoro’s eyes widened fractionally and his lips opened in a small ‘o’, and in the next instant he let out a groan and slipped his eyes closed as he dug his head into the pillow behind him.

“Fuck, you can’t just say something like that.” Zoro wisped, fingers digging ever so slightly into your thighs and hips tensing beneath you, as if he was stopping them from bucking upwards.

Zoro’s reaction had some of your nerves slipping away to be replaced by a strange sort of confidence, and your fingers stilled in their twiddling of his shirt strings. You trailed your hand down until it rested just above his midsection, right between his pecs, and leaned down to ghost your lips over his. An excited tingle ran down your spine at the proximity.

“Why not? It’s true.”

Zoro popped open an eye lazily, drawing a triangle over your face once, then twice, and then suddenly he was shooting up with movements that were far too fast for you to catch with your eyes. You yelped when his hands detached from your thighs in favor of wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close to him. Your faces were now inches apart, and you could feel more than see the smile on his lips.

“Are you sure that’s what you want, baby?”

Zoro’s eyes were twinkling, but they were also swimming with something serious, too. The look in his eyes had you second guessing yourself suddenly, your original fears being ripped back to the surface through your sudden bravado. Fooling around was one thing, but going all the way… that was another entirely, something that Zoro seemed to understand on a surprisingly deep level.

But there was something in Zoro’s eyes that told you he didn’t truly understand the reason behind your nervous hesitation, despite the fact that you’d told him just moments prior.

“I want to have sex,” you blurted out before you could filter it, your blatant admission knocking Zoro visibly off-balance as his face contorted into surprise. Already far enough gone, you pushed away the rest of your bashfulness and rushed out the rest of your conviction before Zoro could fully recover and somehow steal your ability to do so.

“I mean, we’ve been together for a while now, and I’ve been thinking about it, a lot; I know what I want, but it’s just…”

You couldn’t help but trail off, that branding heat between your legs, now crushed against you even tighter due to the change in position, acting as a physical manifestation of cause of your doubt. Surely Zoro — smart, attentive, perceptive Zoro — could grasp what your fear was without you blatantly spelling out once again.

Of course, you’d have no such luck; because Zoro was just a mischievous as he was perceptive, and he would never give up an opportunity to tease the hell out of you.

“It’s just ‘what’, baby?”

Shooting him a glare, you decided not to play into his game; he wanted to fluster you, and at the moment, you couldn’t handle that — and it seemed to have slipped Zoro’s mind that you could give just as good as you got; one of the biggest factors that contributed to Zoro’s initial attraction to you.

“Your dick’s too big.” You deadpanned, a small glimmer of satisfaction burning within your chest when Zoro’s expression turned to flat flabbergasted.

Shoot and score.

Zoro’s eyes narrowed and that flame of satisfaction was harshly doused by resignation.

Or not.

“You keep saying things like that and I may not be able to control myself.” Zoro said, and though his tone was even, his body had ultimately betrayed his true feelings when his cock twitched between your crushed bodies. You’d felt him do that before, the most frequent incident being just about ten minutes prior to this before Zoro had interrupted your heavy make out session, but feeling it do so during this particular conversation affected you in a way it hadn’t previously.

It turned you on immensely.

Goaded by Zoro’s clear interest and your own arousal, you shifted your hips ever so subtly, dragging your core against his hardness and subsequently pulling a breathy groan from the man.

“What if I don’t want you to?” You murmured against Zoro’s lips, dancing your fingers up Zoro’s ribcage in a featherlight touch. Zoro shivered beneath you and his eyes slipped closed momentarily, his cock responding to the stimulation with another harsh twitch.

But then his eyes popped open and your balance was upset when Zoro completely flipped your position, your back landing against the sheets sprawled out over the floor, Zoro’s large hands effectively muffling the impact — but even so, the makeshift pallet wasn’t the most comfortable thing, and you felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Zoro’s back, though the swordsman hadn’t even complained once during your previous engagement.

With the change in position came a shift in dynamic, and with Zoro looming over you, eyes hardened with seriousness and lips in a tight line, that brief flickering of bravado was silenced, and your skin flushed with bashfulness.

Zoro was silent above you for a long moment, his eyes searching, and though part of you wanted to break the eye contact, you couldn’t bring yourself to; something about his intensity demanded that the eye contact remain, and your body was helpless to its inclination to obey, your own nerves and sanity be damned.

“If this is what you want, you need to be sure.” Zoro rumbled, voice husky and deep, sending shivers down your spine.

“You need to think twice before you say yes; because once I start, I can’t guarantee I’ll stop.”

A lump lodged itself in your throat, a composition of nerves, trepidation, and excitement, growing larger with each second of eye contact that passed.

There was so much swimming within Zoro’s orbs, only a few of which you could confidently identify; arousal, excitement, uncertainty, and the faintest wisp of desperation — Zoro needed this consent, you realized with a start; because as much as Zoro wanted this too, he didn’t want to hurt you.

You’d been given your warning, generously so, and part of you wondered if you would get another after this should you choose not to heed it for now.

Part of you wondered if you even wanted another one.

Your stomach was alight with mixed sensations; arousal, nerves, trepidation, anticipation, excitement, love — and your body was itching with simultaneous urges; to pull Zoro’s lips to yours, to run away, to shove him off, to pull him closer, to just get on with it. Honestly, if this continued, your body would burst apart at the seams, until there was nothing left of you but a pile of goo.

To mute that erratic buzzing of your brain and body, you shot your hand up and grabbed Zoro’s nape, pulling him down to crush his lips to yours and initiate a rough dance.

Zoro was quick to respond, lips immediately finding the comfortable rhythm that you had failed to in your haste, caressing yours in that way that always sparked electricity across your skin.

You let out a small moan as you allowed yourself to follow his lead, which was surprisingly gentle and sensual despite the simmering tension the sudden liplock produced, and your body relaxed. This was familiar — the sensations from this was familiar — and it was successfully melting away that buzz that had been tormenting you. Zoro pulled a hand from beneath you and brought it up to your cheek, swiping his thumb across the skin in a tender caress, and your chest warmed significantly.

You were incredibly lucky to see this soft side of the strong, silent, stoic swordsman — incredibly lucky to know Zoro, to know him in intimate ways, to see past the brute strength and raw talent, to see deeper into who he truly was; flaws and all. You were lucky to be able to love him.

Zoro trusted you with this side of him, with his entirety; and you trusted Zoro, implicitly. Trusted him to care for your heart, mind and body.

There was no one else who was worthy of that trust.

You broke your liplock by turning your face to the side, nuzzling into the palm on your cheek and ghosting your lips over it tenderly. Zoro’s breath caught in his throat and his fingers twitched, on both the hand you were nuzzling into and the one still buried beneath your back, and you slowly opened your eyes to meet his.

“I trust you, Zoro.” You whispered, a sentiment breathed only into the bubble between the two of you, meant only for Zoro’s ears. Zoro’s onyx orbs shifted across your face, tracing over every detail etched into the flesh, searching, and after a moment, he smiled softly.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” Zoro asked, voice lowered to the same degree as yours, but shaky with something that stoked those burning embers in your gut. Zoro’s hand was just as shaky as his voice, fingertips sliding across your skin tenderly, his eyes taking on a hue of reverence as he stared down at you.

Trepidation once more fluttered in your chest, but it was heavily smothered by excitement and anticipation, and you swallowed it down as you nodded jerkily.

“Yeah, it is, Zoro.”

Zoro sucked in a sharp breath over his teeth and his lips were once more smothering yours, Zoro’s movements now taking on a hungrier edge, and you responded in kind, flicking your tongue against his bottom lip every so often and pulling trembling groans from his throat — Zoro was being far more vocal than he had been earlier, and it was absolutely stirring you up inside, because he sounded so beautiful.

Zoro’s palm removed itself from your face and slid down your bicep, then your arm, all the way down until he could grab your hand and pull it upwards, pinning it beside your face by enclosing it within his in an embrace. You couldn’t help but notice how much larger his hand was than yours, how easily it caged and encased yours, filling your chest with a sense of security and safety. The action seemed almost like an unspoken promise.

“I’ll take care of you.”

The sentiment somehow thickened the tension within you, arousal and anticipation growing ever more fierce in your gut, and now your hands were working over Zoro’s body — the hand still on his nape had morphed from a resting state to one of movement, fingers combing through the short hairs at the base of Zoro’s neck, and the other shot up to grope at his thick bicep, his forearm, his shoulder, his neck, his jaw; everywhere it could reach comfortably.

Zoro vibrated your lips with an appreciative hum, his other hand slipping from beneath you and trailing down your ribcage, ratcheting up the tension when it reached your thigh and squeezed. His feverish lips never left yours as he slid his hand beneath the crook of your knee and lifted your leg, hiking it over his hip until your heel rested against his lower back. The movement spread your legs and allowed Zoro to slot his hips between your thighs, and when his hand slid up once more to grab hold of your hip and keep you in place as he ground his clothed cock into your core, you couldn’t stop the loud moan that tore from your lips from the friction against your clit, which was now throbbing slightly.

Zoro sucked the sound down greedily, plunging his tongue into your open mouth roughly and exploring every inch of the wet crevice. Zoro’s tongue faintly tasted of the fruity wine he’d sampled earlier that evening, and though you weren’t a fan of alcohol, you found yourself growing addicted to the taste, and you slid your tongue sloppily against his to chase more of it.

Zoro’s hips continued to gyrate against you in slow, almost sloppy movements, his large cock twitching every so often, the combined sensations fogging up your brain and electrifying your skin. Zoro’s size was beginning to look less intimidating and more enticing to your hormone-wracked head.

Zoro’s hand slowly disentangled itself from yours and fell to your other hip, taking it in a firm grip and in working in unison with his other to hoist your bottom half up. Zoro shuffled himself beneath your bottom and then set your ass atop his thighs, your ankles subconsciously locking together behind his back and effectively holding you against his clothed cock while also freeing his hands.

“A natural, baby.” Zoro murmured against your lips, sliding a hand up and down your left leg in approval. You whimpered into his mouth and shifted your hips to move in time with his, electricity sparking up your spine as pleasure bloomed inside your clit from the friction. Zoro groaned in response, his hand stilling over your calf and then gripping it tightly, subtle pain exploding beneath his fingertips that only served to fan those embers in your gut. You could feel wetness forming between your folds, and you were suddenly bit with the need for relief.

The only problem was that you weren’t sure what relief your body was begging for.

The air was tense and simmering — what you and Zoro were engaging in wasn’t uncommon; but somehow, it was made so much more electrifying with the knowledge of the end goal, and it was driving you insane, stoking your libido to intensities that you hadn’t ever experienced in your life. But it was near suffocating, and it was bringing forth trickles of slight panic.

As if innately sensing this, Zoro slipping his tongue from your mouth and pulled away a few inches, taking with him that addictive sweet-wine and pleasant sensations. Zoro’s hips also stilled, and the combined losses pulled a whimper of dissatisfaction from your lips.

“Hey, look at me, baby.” Zoro cooed, and your eyes fluttered open to meet his; but even you could tell that they more than likely appeared hazy and unfocused to him, because you were finding it hard to concentrate with that hot buzz beneath your skin. But Zoro had told you to look at him, so you did your best to focus on his face, currently etched with seriousness.

“Do you really want this baby?” Zoro asked after his was placated enough by your attention, and it took you a bit of time to sober up and digest his words. When you did, you nodded eagerly, leaning your head up to chase after his lips again. But Zoro pulled his head back further, rejecting your advance and bringing a pout to your lips.

“You need to be sure. I need you to be sure.”

The desperation in Zoro’s words pulled you fully from that arousal-induced fog, and when you looked into his eyes, you saw the glimmer of something you never thought you’d see within his eyes — fear. Your voice was stolen from you in the blink of an eye, and your heart constricted painfully within your chest.

“I-I won’t be able to stop myself; I need you to understand that. So if you don’t want this, if you aren’t ready, you need to push me away now.”

On your next inhale your chest filled with much more than just oxygen; it was about to burst with pure affection and love, with adoration and pride, with lust and desire, all directed towards the foreign uncertainty plaguing your routinely stoic lover. You surged up quickly and slotted your lips against Zoro’s before the man had the chance to pull back, but you didn’t try to evolve the kiss into something more.

This was reassurance, and nothing more.

You pulled back after a solid few seconds of contact, and with as much conviction as you could muster, you swiped your thumb across his nape and whispered, “I’m sure, Zoro. I want you to take me.”

The groan your words pulled from Zoro was deep, guttural, and completely unhinged; his hips bucked forward and he shoved his face into the crook of his neck, his breaths fanning hot over the sensitive skin.

“Fuck, you don’t — you can’t — shit, you have no idea what you’re doing to me right now.”

Zoro’s statement had your chest feeling giddy with confidence, and you bucked your hips up to grind your core against his hardness, pulling another groan from him and earning a slight pinch to your calf.

“I think I have a faint idea.” You said cheekily, bumping your heel teasingly into his lower back. Zoro chuckled airily into the crook of your neck, and after a moment’s silence, he retracted his face and stared down at you with that serious expression again, and it was beginning to kind of irritate you.

“If we’re going to do this, you have to do everything I say, okay?” Zoro rumbled, pulling a small smirk and a raised brow from you in response.

“Power play, huh? Kinky. I like it.”

Zoro shook his head but the quirk of his lips told you that he still found some amusement in your statement. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” You retorted back, and found yourself slightly flustered by the truthfulness of your sentiment. The thought of Zoro doling out orders, guiding you on what to do, when to do it and how… it was more than a little exciting.

Zoro’s breath left him in a furious exhale and his eyes clenched closed, the fierce throb of his cock against your clit topping off his rather stimulating reaction.

“Okay, fuck, okay, yeah. For right now, just follow my lead and do what feels natural.” Zoro explained, eyes opening again and near pitch black from the dilation of his pupils. Zoro was so turned on, and it was only serving to turn you on even more.

“Yes, sir.” You whispered back, voice low and sultry, both teasing and genuine, and Zoro growled in response before leaning down to capture your lips in a crushing kiss. His lips moved against yours hotly, fervently, as if he was trying to devour you.

You tried your best to keep up with Zoro, but his lips were fast, as were his hands, sliding and groping and pinching at every bit of skin, clothed and not, that he could reach.

“Fuck, these clothes need to be off,” Zoro growled, hands twisting into the hem of your shirt and pulling it up. You arched your back to allow him better access, and within moments you were left clad in just your thin bra. Zoro immediately leaned back down to place wet, heated kisses along the top of your breasts, trailing hot breaths along your skin as he worked his hands up and down your sides.

“Zoro,” you gasped out, tangling your fingers into the fine hair at the base of his neck, the passionate attention against your skin throwing a stone of pure arousal into your gut, your hips twitching and bucking against the heat of his cock. Wetness smeared along the inside of your panties, copious in its volume and far slicker than anything you’d produced before.

“Fuck, you have no idea how much I’ve thought about this,” Zoro growled into your skin, humping against your gyrating hips and dragging his cock across your clit in a way that sent pure tingles up your spine. “How long I’ve wanted to fuck you. I’ve been so patient.”

Fiery arousal licked up your entire body, Zoro’s admission sending you to just the right side of crazy. You combed your fingers up his skull until you reached the thickest spot of hair, then tangled your fingers within lightly and pushed his head further against your breasts, sighing out softly at the graze of teeth along the flesh.

“Yes, yes, you’ve been so patient, baby.” You murmured, lips tingling with the urge to feel his. “I kept you waiting so long. I’m sorry.”

As if innately sensing your desire, or maybe suddenly overcome with his own, Zoro’s lips retracted from your breast and he leaned his head up just far enough to crash his mouth into yours, colliding your lips in a series of hot, open mouthed kisses. Drool slipped down the corner of your mouth, but your brain didn’t have the capacity to truly focus on the sensation when it was so preoccupied by the pleasure of Zoro’s bucking hips and the branding of his lips.

Zoro was panting and groaning into your mouth, the sounds growing in volume as his hips picked up speed, accelerating to a pace that it felt as though he was trying to fuck you through the layers of clothes. Your pussy throbbed and gushed at the thought, and you moaned deeply into his mouth.

Your other hand traced down the outline of his muscles through his shirt, dipping into the defined ridges and lines and tracing over the heated skin. In response, Zoro tucked his hands beneath your back and raised your torso up until it could press flush against his, crushing your hand between your bodies. Zoro’s thrusts never faltered, and the new proximity had your head completely melting.

But even so you could still latch onto one coherent thought, and that was that Zoro’s shirt should be off. Right now.

Breaking the heated embrace of your lips you slid your hand from his hair and down until your fingertips dipped into his haramaki, fumbling around until they grazed the hem of his shirt tucked beneath.

“Shirt. Off.” You whispered, earning a huffy chuckle from the swordsman and a breathy “as you wish.”

Zoro disconnected your bodies and set you back gently on the sheets, rising to rest on his knees, which were still tucked beneath the globes of your ass. You watched with growing anticipation as Zoro shuffled his haramaki down and untucked his shirt from it, pulling the hem up and over those fucking abs, shit, they were fucking delicious — and that toned chest with those pecs, those strong, broad shoulders, fuck — the sight made your brain fog even more than before. You continued to gawk at his bare torso even as he eventually discarded his shirt to an unknown corner of the room, eyes too focused on the art in front of you to register the sly smirk that pulled his lips.

“Like what you see, baby?” Zoro quizzed, and you couldn’t even find the capacity to dredge up any bashfulness or indignation at his confidence. You only nodded, mouth feeling awfully heavy all of the sudden.

That beautiful sight was robbed when Zoro leaned down and bracketed your head with his forearms on either side, his breath ghosting over your lips as he said, rather sweetly, “so do I.”

Zoro’s lips were soft when he captured yours in a gentle embrace, one that was far different to the hungry, avid caresses of earlier. Even lacking that heat, the sensuality behind it affected you just as deeply, and your pussy once again throbbed, and you found yourself wanting more; more skin, more contact, more Zoro.

To iterate this point you pressed back against Zoro with a bit more heat behind your lips, swiping your tongue across his bottom lip in an effort to draw out his own wine-drenched muscle. Zoro happily obliged the silent command, and once again your kiss melted into a hot, sticky, messy dance, full of teeth and tangled tongues and serenaded by slick slaps and squelches.

Your head was getting fuzzy again. All you could think about was Zoro.

You whimpered into his mouth and bucked your hips, tempting his into driving into your core once again, and the man followed through, his breaths turning to hot pants as he picked up his previous pace.

“Gods, I can’t wait to be inside you.” Zoro growled against your lips, breaking your liplock to lean back and stare heatedly into your eyes. “I’ve been thinking about doing this for so long; ever since you told me you’ve never gone all the way before.”

Your breath stalled in your throat and your pussy gushed out more liquid against his cock, his words stirring your gut up in ways you never thought possible. Wetting your lips you breathed out a shaky, “yeah?”

“Fuck, yeah.” Zoro confirmed, leaning down to rub his nose along your racing pulse point. Zoro gripped your left hip and rocked his hips into yours with more force, your tits bouncing from the velocity of it. The rough treatment to your clit had it throbbing heavily, and your gut cinched in a way that was near terrifying due to its foreignness. “It’s so fucking hot to be your first. To be the first dick to split you open and show you heaven.”

Your back arched and tingles shot through your hips, electricity sparking within your very muscles as moans were pulled from throat and that cinched something snapped inside your gut, and your clit seemed to suddenly develop its own heartbeat as your body tensed completely.

What the fuck just happened?

It felt… like an orgasm, but it was far more intense than you’d ever had in your life.

“Fuck, baby, did you just come?” Zoro growled into your skin, hips slowing to a smooth rocking. You could only nod, completely flabbergasted, as the waves of your orgasm receded until they faded completely and your skin flushed with embarrassment.

“That’s so goddamn hot, fuck. I’ve gotta get a taste.”

Before you could fully comprehend his words and react Zoro had dislodged your legs from around his waist and shuffled down and was in the process of pulling down the hem of your shorts. With a small squeal that you would deny ever making you gripped his wrists to halt his movements. Zoro’s eyes, glimmering with excitement and now frustration, bore daggers into your own wide ones.

“W-what are you doing?” You asked, voice a little shrill, which prompted Zoro to raise a brow and tug lightly on your shorts.

“Getting a taste. Now let go.” He said flippantly, batting your hands away from his, as if his actions weren’t currently heating you to the temperature of combustion. Of all the experience you currently had, receiving oral was not among the list; all your previous partners never bothered to indulge in it, and Zoro’s inclination to do so struck a chord of uncertainty within you.

“But—”

“I thought you were going to do everything I say?” Zoro rebutted before you could get any more words out, and any remaining arguments were stolen straight from your tongue. Satisfied by your complacency Zoro focused on the task of shedding you of your shorts, peeling them from your ankles and throwing them into a darkened corner of the room. You flushed when you heard Zoro take a sharp inhale, and your hips twitched ever so slightly when he ran his fingers over the lacy patterns of your panties.

“Oh, fuck…” Zoro breathed out, fingers sliding dangerously low, stopping just centimeters above your core. “You’re so wet. I can see it straight through them.”

“Shut up,” you whimpered without any real heat, cinching your eyes shut and balling your fists at your sides.

“No need to be embarrassed,” Zoro tutted, sliding a finger directly over your core and pulling a surprised noise from your lips. “It’s hot as fuck. And besides, you’re going to need this if you expect to take me without breaking in half.”

Those words should have ripped your earlier and fear and trepidation right back to the surface, but it did the exact opposite — instead, your body trembled and the moan that fell from your lips was so wanton that you couldn’t hardly believe it came from you. You fucking wanted it, and you wanted it bad.

“Shit, that got you excited baby? Let me see how much.” Zoro growled, hooking his thumbs into your panties and pulling them down and completely off in one swift movement. Cold air slapped against your heated core and your legs slammed shut instinctively — except, they were stopped almost immediately by Zoro’s ribs, and you shot up from your laying position when the cold was replaced by searing heat.

Your folds were parted by Zoro’s insistent tongue, which, after gathering up every bit of slick it could, quickly found a place against your clit, which he abused immediately with firm presses and fast circles.

“Oh, my gods,” you said on a shaky exhale, pleasure zipping through your entire core at each lick and twirl Zoro laved against your clit. You expected your previous orgasm to dull the intensity of the pleasure, but if anything, it only deepened it, and you were helpless to stop the moans falling from your mouth or the subtle rocking of your hips. Your limbs were beginning to feel weak, so you leaned back to rest on your elbows, eyes focused on Zoro’s head between your thighs.

The sight was so erotic, made even more so by the symphonies of wet lapping and groaning that glided up to tickle your ears. Zoro’s eyes were darkened as they peered into yours, tongue completely tearing you apart with fast, firm movements, reducing you to nothing but putty at Zoro’s mercy.

“Fuck, h-how are you so good at th-that?” You asked, a moan catching in your throat when Zoro’s tongue once again dipped down and parted your folds to gather up the slick that had accumulated there during his focus on your clit. Zoro didn’t answer you, not that you necessarily expected him to, but his tongue became ever more aggressive, now alternating between abusing your clit, parting your folds, and even plunging ever so slightly into your tight cunt — he was assaulting you with a myriad of movements, shifting between them at a speed of which your foggy brain couldn’t dare to try to anticipate the next, and you could feel another orgasm building.

Shit, this felt better than you ever imagined.

Zoro knew when you had finally reached that edge, eyes reading your movements like a hawk, and he was quick to up the ante on your clit in order to push you over. Your second orgasm of the night, much more anticipated than the first, crashed over you silently, your entire body curling in on itself and your thighs strangling Zoro’s ribs as your mouth popped open and your legs shook. Zoro continued to lap at your pussy as you rode your high, up until the point that you had to reach down and tug at his hair to pull him away due to the pleasure turning to pain from overstimulation.

Zoro was quick to climb up your body and crash his lips to yours, tongue plunging itself past your lips and spreading your spend across your own taste buds. Your expectations were once again defied as you found yourself finding the taste and action highly erotic, and you hooked a shaky leg over Zoro’s waist to pull his cock flush against your throbbing, sopping cunt as you reciprocated the kiss. You moaned deeply into his mouth as you registered that his cock was even harder than before, straining against his pants in a way that had to be uncomfortable.

You pushed against Zoro’s chest and disconnected your lips. “Y-you too. I wanna do it to you, too.” You whimpered, pulling a groan and faint buck of hips from Zoro.

“You don’t have to,” Zoro murmured, but his tone was shaky and excited, and it was fairly clear to you that he greatly favored the idea. With a small shake of your head you pressed against his chest more insistently, prompting him to clamber off of you.

With as much bravado as you could muster you ordered Zoro to lie on his back, which he smoothly obliged to, crossing his arms behind his head over the pillow. You shuffled up the length of his body until you could plant your rear on his thighs, excitement tingling up your spine as you were able to get another good look at his defined torso — of those broad muscles and that firm chest, those tempting abs and that v-line carved by the gods which led all the way down to his cock, which was standing in a proud tent between his legs. So big and thick.

You swallowed down your sudden nerves and reached out tentatively to plant your palm just beneath his navel, sucking in a sharp breath at the firm muscle beneath. It sent shudders of arousal through your body — his body was just too sexy, all firm and sculpted, every angle sharp and defined.

“Are you just gonna stare or are you gonna do something?” Zoro drawled, snapping you out of your reverie. Your eyes met his, which were twinkling with amusement, and you huffed out a laugh, feeling more than a little awkward at being caught; even though the events that had just transpired should be far more embarrassing than being caught gawking at him.

You slid your hand down, intent on unbuttoning Zoro’s pants, but found a hindrance in the form of his haramaki, which was still wrapped around his waist. You sighed and tapped the red stretch of fabric.

“You’ll need to take this off, Zoro.” You murmured, tracing the lines with the tip of your fingers.

“Nah, just push it up. I’m comfortable here.” Zoro responded coolly, and you rolled your eyes at his antics.

“You’ll still need to lift up a little in order for me to do that.”

Zoro huffed but complied nonetheless, lifting his torso up and surprising you by lifting the haramaki up himself and hiking it until it rested just below his pecs before returning to his original position. Somehow, the sight was incredibly erotic, and you felt your pussy suddenly heat up and clench around nothing. To your relief, the brief interaction between the two of you had wiped away the nervous energy you had developed, and when you finally unbuttoned Zoro’s pants and sprung his cock free, all you could feel was red hot arousal and anticipation.

You knew that Zoro was huge, but what you felt through his pants didn’t do any justice to his true size. Drool accumulated quickly in your mouth as you gazed at his hard-on, standing straight up, long and thick, thicker than any other other cock you’d ever seen, with a tan base nestled into fine pubes and a bulbous tip, which was already leaking clear fluid.

“Oh, fuck.” You breathed out, eyes wide and lips parted. It looked so… tantalizing, and the stretch promised to your mouth and throat was far too enticing for you to stall any longer. You wrapped a gentle hand around Zoro, pulling a small groan from his lips, and pumped it up once, reveling in the way he fit inside your palm.

You shifted your hips and nearly gasped when your bare clit rubbed against the rough fabric of his pants, stretched taut over the muscle of his thigh, and before you could stop yourself you began gently thrusting your hips forward, chasing more of that pleasurable friction.

Your actions pulled a small chuckle from Zoro, prompting you to flick your eyes up to his. With a boyish smirk that shouldn’t have been so hot Zoro asked, “are you gonna get off on my thigh while you suck me?”

“Maybe I will,” you shot back, suddenly wanting nothing more than to wipe that cool smirk of his face, to suck that nonchalant bravado straight into desperation — you leaned down and closed your lips around his tip, dipping your tongue into the slit and gathering up the salty pre beaded within before circling it with the flat of your tongue.

“Shit.” Zoro hissed, hips jerking upward and cramming more of his cock past your lips, the sudden and visceral reaction sending heat straight to your cunt. Zoro’s taste was heady and salty, settling on your tongue almost as heavy as his cock itself — and it was driving you crazy, the effects of his taste more powerful than an aphrodisiac.

You abandoned his tip in favor of swallowing down more of his cock, getting only to about halfway before meeting the resistance of your throat — his tip was already teasing the sensitive flesh of your tonsils, filling out your mouth and spreading a soreness over your jaws that was simply satisfying. You’d sucked others off before, and enjoyed it a decent amount, but with Zoro… you were starting to wonder why you hadn’t done it sooner.

You bobbed your head up and down, stroking what you couldn’t fit with your hand, twisting it every so often, which pulled the most delicious reactions from Zoro; his hips would twitch as if he was holding back from fucking into your throat, and his hand had drifted down not too long after you started, grabbing your hair and wrapping it into a ponytail with his fist, and now he was guiding your speed using the leverage.

“Fuuuck, that’s it… feels so good, baby…” Zoro breathed, cock twitching against your tongue as if confirming his statement physically. You moaned around his cock, pulling another sweet sounding sigh from his lips. Zoro’s words and moans acted as the perfect encouragement, pushing you to widen your lips and take him just a little deeper, pressing on until his tip parted your tonsils and slid down your throat.

But you underestimated the effect that would have on Zoro, and in the next instant you gagged around his thickness as Zoro tightened his hold on your hair and held your head in place as he shoved his hips up, pushing his cock further into your throat and completely cutting off your air supply. You retracted your hand from his cock and placed both of your palms flat on his hips, desperately trying to shove them down and pull yourself off of his cock. But Zoro held fast, and his hips continued to buck against your hold, pulling wet gags and coughs from your throat as it was repeatedly speared by his dick.

“Come on, baby, bear with it. I’ve been waiting so long. Lemme fuck your face for a bit.” Zoro growled out breathily, and the command acted as some sort of relaxant to your muscles as you stopped resisting immediately, pussy beginning to throb from the sensation of your throat being opened up by his thick cock.

“Yeah, baby, good girl. Such a good girl. Sucking me so good. Get it nice and wet, princess. Go ahead and fuck yourself on my thigh, too.”

With that, Zoro set a relentless pace with his hips, repeatedly pushing his tip past your tonsils and forcing you to take him nearly to the hilt with every thrust. It hurt, you couldn’t breathe, but it was so fucking hot, the sounds and feeling of his cock slipping in and out of your mouth sloppily conjuring multiple fantasies of it doing the same to your pussy, ravaging it and destroying it. Zoro was fucking your mouth so fast, so hard, you could only imagine how it would feel inside your cunt. Your hips began to grind in fast, short thrusts against his thigh, your wetness soaking into the fabric of his pants, clit absolutely singing from the friction.

“Fuck, fuck, okay, enough. Don’t wanna cum yet.” Zoro huffed from between clenched teeth, pulling his cock free from your mouth with a wet pop. You coughed and blinked back tears, flicking your eyes up to meet Zoro’s, a shiver running up your spine at the sheer abyss they reflected; Zoro looked absolutely wrecked, his tan skin flushed and lips shiny with spit, sweat beading his forehead, which was dotted with stray hairs slickened to his skin.

Zoro looked fucking amazing, and your pussy clenched around nothing. You wanted to see more of that expression, wanted to watch his face contort into pleasure as he lost himself in your tight virgin hole — you weren’t sure where that scared, nervous girl from before had went, but there wasn’t a single trace of her in you now, and it seemed that Zoro had picked up on that, too.

“Get your ass up here,” he rasped huskily, and you obeyed immediately, skin pimpling when the tip of his cock brushed along the span of your torso the whole way up. God, he was so fucking huge.

“You’re gonna ride me, baby. Does that sound good to you?” Zoro asked, and you nodded fervently. Honestly, any position would be amazing, so it didn’t really bother you either way. Zoro smirked up at you and gripped your hips the moment they were within reach, planting you down just below his cock, which stood straight up, the tip slapping right above your belly button.

Zoro’s eyes zeroed in on the sight, and he breathed a curse under his breath — it seemed that the visual was highly stimulating to him.

“Fuck, baby. How deep do you think you can take it?”

You glanced down as well, nerves fluttering briefly in your stomach as you took in the sheer size of his cock, the visual aid providing you with an example of just how far his dick could actually go — and it was just as scary as it was enticing. That monster would stir you up completely.

“Probably not all the way,” you answered honestly, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth and worrying it. You definitely wouldn’t be able to take it all the way right now, but later on down the road…

“We have all the time in the world for that, baby,” Zoro mused, as if reading your thoughts, cock twitching against your stomach. “But right now, I really need to be inside you.”

Your throat vibrated with a deep moan and you lifted yourself on to your knees, shuffling forward until your core was positioned directly above Zoro’s cock. The nerves were back again, but you swallowed them down and lowered yourself slowly, gasping when his tip parted your folds and pressed ever so slightly against your entrance.

Fuck, it’s a lot bigger than I thought.

You screwed your eyes shut and took a deep breath, holding it inside your lungs as you forced yourself lower. Even with the aid of spit and slick, the press was highly uncomfortable, Zoro’s cockhead feeling too impossibly big to actually fit, and tears pricked in your eyes at the pain blooming across your cunt.

Zoro’s hands tightened on your hips, stilling your descent and coaxing your eyes open.

“We don’t have to do it.” Zoro said, gently, eyes soft and face sewn with slight worry.

For a reason that was completely inexplicable to you, Zoro’s expression and words struck a chord of frustration inside you — because there was something else in his eyes, too, something that said he didn’t think you could do this, that you couldn’t take the pain; and, even more irritatingly, that you didn’t want this nearly as much as he did.

In lieu of a verbal answer you placed one of your palms on his firm chest to stabilize yourself, the other reaching back to grab hold of his shin, and in one swift movement you slammed your hips down.

That one action set off an explosive chain reaction — pain ripped through your entire lower half, clawing its way up until it reached your stomach, which seemed to collapse and twist in on itself; Zoro’s hands flew from your hips and one covered your mouth and absorbed your scream while the other gripped the plump flesh of your thigh; Zoro’s torso had curled up from the pallet so that he could reach your body easier, and the shift in position caused his cock to dig painfully into your walls, which only resulted in more yelps and whimpers into his palm.

“Fuck, baby, shit, why — why did you do that?” Zoro whispered breathily, voice caught between seething and desperate, teeth clenched tightly and brows furrowed — the lines in his face were wrought with barely contained pleasure that bled through the disbelief.

Tears pricked warmly at the corners of your eyes as you stared down at him defiantly, triumph and withdrawal both trying desperately to win dominance over your body. Pain was still radiating between your shaking legs, the spear currently impaled in your cunt stretching you in all ways and to degrees you never once thought possible — you’d only ever managed to have a finger inside you, and even that stretch was uncomfortable, straining against your hymen, bringing forth more discomfort than pleasure; and Zoro’s dick offered that tenfold.

But you’d taken it. Even though it burned, it hurt, even though it was still hurting, pain blooming across your abdomen in frenzied waves — you were finally connected with Zoro in the way you’d craved for the past week. Your relationship had finally been taken to the most intimate of levels, and it was absolutely euphoric. You shook Zoro’s hand away from your lips so you could speak.

“B-because there’s no point in taking it slow,” you gasped out, fingers digging red crescents into Zoro’s flesh. “It’s going to hurt either way, and I’d rather get past the pain and get to the good part sooner.”

Zoro’s torso collapsed back onto the pallet and his lips parted in a heavy sigh. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.” Zoro breathed, eyes glued to the ceiling and wide with shock — and something else that you couldn’t put your finger on, but it stirred your gut nonetheless with its appearance.

You felt so fucking full — it felt as though Zoro’s cock had shot straight into your stomach, and when you shifted your hips ever so slightly, you yelped out at the intense pain that shot through your abdomen.

“Baby, don’t move yet,” Zoro groaned out, his entire body tensing beneath you. “You haven’t gotten used to it yet.”

“Only one way to do that,” you smarted back, holding in a deep breath and gyrating your hips, swallowing back a scream at the intense pain. Zoro’s cockhead was pressing against your cervix heavily and relentlessly — it was so much to take, and you hadnt fully recovered from the shock of taking him all the way in one shot.

“Fuck, stop,” Zoro’s growled, and you obeyed immediately, much to Zoro’s visible delight. His hands met your hips once more, fingers digging into the flesh, and pain zipped up your body when he gently gyrated his hips, his tip completely rearranging your cervix’s position, and at your gasp of pain he stopped.

“This position is too much for you.” Zoro murmured, tapping the back of your hip with his finger. “Lay back and let me do it.”

Truthfully, you were more than happy to let Zoro take control; the weight of controlling the pace when you were in so much pain was proving to be quite heavy, and you trusted Zoro to make it feel good — he could do so way better than you could.

You began to rise, slowing your ascent when Zoro commanded you to, and your pussy fluttered at the sedated slide of Zoro’s thick cock against your walls. It was a strange sensation, not completely painful but not completely pleasurable either — but it was intense, and when Zoro’s cock slid out with a soft, wet pop, you found yourself craving more of that sensation.

Your legs shook when you clambered back and off of him, pain still radiating within your lower belly even though his cock was no longer buried inside, and the rough, flat surface of the floor beneath the pallet felt like heaven to your exhausted body when you laid flush atop it.

Zoro was quick to follow you, climbing up your body and sidling between your legs with a comfortable weight. You couldn’t help but feel that he fit so perfectly between your thighs, as if the space between them was created just for him.

“Wrap your legs around me, baby.” Zoro gently commanded, a hand moving up to help you lift your leg and position it around his waist when he noticed the slight sluggishness of your movements. You locked your ankles together at the small of his back without prompting, which earned you a delicious coo of “good girl.”

“Hold on to me baby, it’s still going to hurt.” Zoro whispered, his voice filled with somethig soft, and you brought your hands up to connect your fingers together behind his warm nape. Excitement was fluttering in your chest, heart beating thunderously and breaths quick and heavy — even the promise of pain couldn’t dull your anticipation, and when Zoro slid a hand down to line himself up with your entrance, it simply multiplied tenfold.

“Breathe.” Zoro commanded, and you did so, only for the air to be directly punched from your lungs when Zoro slid his cock in, your walls spreading impossibly wide from the intrusion and fresh waves of pain crashing into your belly. You knew your hymen had broken when you slammed him in, knew that the tender membrane was no longer intact, but somehow your pussy was still ripping as if it was, the sensation simultaneously painful and breathtaking.

“Breathe, baby, breathe.” Zoro cooed, his voice an anchor to cling to as your body threatened to be pulled beneath the waves of pain, and you pulled his head down to crash his lips into yours.

Zoro’s lips felt like tender slices of heaven, soft and wet, and when they moved against yours in gentle caresses you felt utterly complete. Zoro was inside you, you were wrapped around him, walls fluttering, your bodies connected in a physical deepening of your bond. It was everything; and you wanted everything and more.

“Move, Zoro, please,” you whispered between kisses, body and mind overrun by the desire to please Zoro, for Zoro to please you, for that connection to be taken to new heights. Zoro groaned heavily against your lips, and his mouth swallowed the soft whimpers that were pulled from your throat as he began to pump his hips slowly.

Every thrust brought immeasurable amounts of pain, but it was overrun by pleasure that originated from more than just the physical slide of his cock against your walls; it was addicting, euphoric in its agony, and you needed more.

As if innately sensing your desires, Zoro’s hips picked up speed, his cock now battering into you at a velocity that was near too much, but it felt so heavenly — it put you on the brink of breaking, on the brink of completely losing your mind.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, baby.” Zoro moaned hotly into your mouth, his hips stuttering ever so slightly, his hand reaching up to grope at one of your tits, which were still covered by the fabric of your bra. Your breath hitched at the combined stimulation of his cock splitting your walls and his fingers massaging your flesh, the eagerness behind the gentle touch throwing your brain into a frenzy.

“D-does it hurt you?” You asked tentatively, amazed at your own ability to actually form and speak life into a coherent thought, and your question pulled a deep, dry chuckle from Zoro’s throat.

“Gods, no, baby. It doesn’t hurt. It feels too good, actually.” There was something dark and promising within Zoro’s husky tone, and it sent pleasant trembles up your body. He sounded so wrecked, so fucked out, as if he was completely drowning in the sensation of your wet, sloppy pussy — and wasn’t that a wonderful thought?

“It feels g-good?” You whispered, wanting nothing more than to hear Zoro mutter those words again, to hear his verbal confirmation of how much your pussy was pleasing him, the desire so strong that it was nearly overpowering.

“So good, baby. Your pussy is sucking me in like it can’t get enough.” Zoro held no hesitation in responding, the tone of his voice slightly smug, as if he knew what his words were doing to you — and he probably did. Wet slaps and squelches ricocheted off the walls, your pussy practically screaming its approval of the abuse Zoro was hammering into it with his cock. Your moans were beginning to increase in volume; the pain had nearly completely dissipated, replaced by a satisfying sense of fullness and extreme pleasure. Zoro’s cock was able to hit every single good spot within your pussy, even the ones you had no idea existed; and the gentle bumps of his tip against your cervix were driving you absolutely delirious.

“It feels good f-for me, too.” You punched out between harsh thrusts, though part of you felt the verbal confirmation was unneeded; your moans were evidence enough, as was the increasing fluttering and tightening of your walls around his cock — the drag and slide of his cock was sloppy, aided by the slick your connection was pulling from your pussy. But it seemed as though Zoro appreciated the verbalization anyway, as his cock throbbed within your cunt, and a deep groan fell from his lips.

“Yeah? You like how my cock fills your pussy up?” Zoro murmured hotly, lips tracing down your cheek, your jaw, then attaching themselves to your neck, peppering it with wet, open mouthed kisses. Zoro’s words, thrusts, and attentions pulled a whiny moan from your throat, and you nodded vigorously. Slick gushed around the girth of his cock as his words went straight to your gut, pulling on the strings of that coil and tightening it.

“Fuck, yeah, you like it when I talk like that.” Zoro growled into your skin, the phrase not even a question, but you nodded your confirmation anyway. You really did like it, the way those words and filthy mutterings fell syrupy from his lips, the things they did to your body, the way they intensified the pleasure.

Zoro’s hips were moving at an inhuman speed now, drilling his cock ever faster inside your slick, sloppy cunt, and the sensation was absolutely mind blowing. Your orgasm was building quickly in your gut, effectively melting all coherency from your brain, reducing you to nothing but a moaning, trembling, drooling mess beneath Zoro.

“God, look at you baby. My cock is drivin’ you absolutely fuckin’ dumb. Shit, it feels like I’m corruptin’ you.”

Zoro’s voice was no more than a husky growl, words slurred and punctuated by harsh, pointed thrusts into your pussy, which squelched and twitched with every slide of his thick cock. It felt so fucking good, he was fucking you so good, so fast and hard, you were breaking —

“You’re gonna fuckin’ cum soon, aren’t you, baby? Do it. Fuckin’ do it on my cock, baby.”

You could only answer Zoro with a symphony of wanton moans, your legs tightening around his waist as he drove you into euphoria with his cock, so thick and long, hitting you in all the right places, rearranging your insides and driving you insane. His words were like hot brands in your ear, shooting fire straight through your veins and heating you from the inside out; you were close now, tip toeing on that precipice of complete, consuming pleasure.

“Z-Zoro, please,” you choked out, toes curling and back arching as his cock relentlessly abused your walls, your gut clenching from the build-up of pleasure. You let out a surprised squeal when Zoro’s teeth nicked the sensitive flesh of your neck; it was no more than a fleeting graze of his incisors, but when it was combined with his harsh thrusts and commanding sexual aura, it was nearly too much.

“‘Please’ what, baby? You want me to make you cum? Then beg me.” Zoro’s voice was blanketed with dark lust, commanding and so, so alluring – but frustration nipped at your body when Zoro’s hips slowed, driving his cock fully into you with each thrust, but not giving you anywhere near the pleasure or friction you needed for that coil to snap. Your orgasm receded like waves returning to the ocean, and you whimpered out in frustration.

“D-don’t stop, Zoro.” You pleaded, hands falling from his nape to scratch down the skin of his shoulder blades, pulling a hiss from his lips. His hips continued to simply grind slowly into you, and as if retaliating against you, he stopped thrusting completely, and his cock remained buried with your cunt as he rocked his hips forward. It felt amazing, but it wasn’t enough — not enough to send you over that brink. You needed Zoro to pound into you, to drive his thick cock into your sloppy cunt at inhuman velocity, to use you and break you and ruin you.

“Ask nicely, baby. Use your words, and beg me to make you cum.”

Something sharp and hot speared through your gut, and the authority in his words brought a rolling fog into your brain, and before you could comprehend anything you were digging your nails into his flesh and complying to his order.

“P-please, Zoro. Please, I need it. Please make me cum, sir. Please, I’ll be so good—”

“Shit,” Zoro muttered darkly, lifting his hand from your hip and sliding it beneath your head to bring your head up and bury it into the crook of his neck. His other arm slid into the space that your head had previously occupied on the pallet and his hips shifted, as if he were stabilizing himself.

“Hold on to me baby, I’m not stopping ‘til you cum all over my cock.” Zoro growled, shooting anticipation straight through your muscles and brain.

“Yes, yes, please—” you chanted, voice suddenly cut off by a loud moan when Zoro pulled all the way out, until only his tip remained inside your sopping walls, and then drove forward with a heavy thrust that sent your whole body jolting forward from the impact. Pain and pleasure bloomed across your abdomen as his tip roughly battered your swollen cervix; but Zoro didn’t give you any time to recover, as he repeated the same thrust over and over again at a rapid fire pace.

The flesh of your thighs stung from the harsh impact of his hips against them, and the harmony of slapping skin, squelching, moaning and grunts filled the bubble of heat around your bodies. Pleasure was building so fast within your gut that it was dizzying, your body approaching that high far quicker than you were fully prepared for. Each slide of Zoro’s thick cock within you brought stars to your vision, and your fingers scrabbled desperately along the skin of his back as you lost yourself in the sensation.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, yes, feels so good — d-don’t stop, please don’t stop, fuck me—” Zoro was panting heavily now, his own hips shaking and body dripping sweat, the physical exertion of fucking you into oblivion beginning to weigh on his muscles; but Zoro didn’t stop, nor did his pace falter, hips continuing to drill into you within inhuman speed, and before you could so much as give a verbal warning of your orgasm, it was crashing over you with the force of a tsunami.

“Cumming—” you gasped into Zoro’s neck, fingernails digging crescents into his shoulder blades as your entire body shook, waves of pleasure wrecking every nerve ending beneath your skin. Your cunt fluttered and twitched around Zoro’s cock as he continued to drive it into you, fucking you straight through your high as it crashed against you and slowly tapered out.

“That’s it, baby, so fuckin’ good. Good girl, such a fuckin’ good girl.” Zoro growled heavily, and you squealed when his thrusts grew harsher, fucking into your body at a rhythm that was far more feral than the previous. Your cunt squeezed tightly around him as the pleasure became far too intense, now bordering on painful. You whimpered into Zoro’s skin, which resulted in him shushing you.

“I know baby, fuck. Just bear with it a little longer — I’m so close now.”

You nodded and clutched at Zoro’s undulating body harder, taking deep breaths through your nose as your body was wracked with overstimulation with every thrust. Zoro’s balls slapped heavily against your ass as he pounded into you relentlessly, driving slick and wet squelches from your ruined pussy.

“Almost, fuck, almost. Gonna cum soon.” Zoro panted, hips stuttering and faltering, his cock twitching heavily against your walls, the sensation setting your nerves alight with anticipation. You wanted Zoro to cum, you wanted him to pump it into your pussy and fuck it deeper inside, until it was completely absorbed by your pliant body. You wanted him to mark you as his forever.

“Yes, yes, Zoro — cum in me, fill me up, please—”

“Fuck, here it comes — take all of it.” Zoro growled, thrusts momentarily growing even faster before the man above you stilled and released a guttural groan as his cock hardened inside you, twitching, throbbing, and you whimpered at the extreme heat that bloomed inside your walls in the next instant. That was Zoro’s cum, he was filling you up with it, fucking it back inside with short, hasty thrusts as he rode out his orgasm.

After what seemed like a lifetime of Zoro pumping hot cum inside your body he completely stilled, body trembling against yours ever so slightly as he sucked in lungfuls of air. You did the same, your pussy still twitching and throbbing from the aftermath of your own orgasm, milking out every last drop from Zoro’s softening cock.

“Fuck.” Zoro said with a dry chuckle, and you nodded with a slow-forming smile. Though he’d only said one word, you knew exactly what he was talking about; and you shared the sentiment wholly.

“That was amazing.” You whispered, dragging your lips affectionately across the sweaty skin of his shoulder. Zoro’s fingers scratched at your scalp and his chest vibrated against yours when he hummed.

“Yeah, it was. I can’t believe you let me take your virginity.”

“Why is that so hard to believe?” You asked quizzically, treading your fingertips over his shoulder blade with a featherlight touch.

“Dunno. Just never thought you’d want me to take it.” Zoro said with a subtle shrug, and you swallowed down a whimper when Zoro slowly pulled his cock out of you. It popped out with an embarrassing squelch, and you shivered as hot fluid dripped from your pussy to the sheets — they’d need to be thoroughly washed.

“Shit, we made a mess.” Zoro murmured as he guided your head back down to rest on the sheets, and you let out a breathy giggle.

“It’s fine. I like the mess.” You wisped, sending Zoro a lopsided, tired grin, which he returned. “Now get down here and hold me. I wanna cuddle.”

Zoro shook his head lightly at your antics but followed your command, rearranging himself until he was planted beside you. You habitually turned on your side and allowed Zoro to circle your waist with one of his arms, pulling you back until your backside was flush with his front. Your all-time favorite cuddle position.

Fatigue was hitting you like a raging bull, and you couldn’t stop your lips from splitting into a yawn or your eyelids from slipping close. Zoro planted a chaste, sweet kiss to the skin of your neck and whispered,

“Goodnight, baby.”

You twisted your head until you could reach his lips with your own, and you captured them into a slow, loving kiss. It lacked any heated or sensual passion, but it was full of tender love and adoration. Afterglow was amazing, you mused. You were happy, content, your body so satisfyingly achy and exhausted, and you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else at the moment.

Before you could fully drift off to sleep, you murmured, “of course I gave you my virginity. I love you more than anything.”

Slumber claimed before you could register Zoro’s response, but even in your sleep there was no mistaking the sentiment behind the way Zoro’s arm curled ever tighter around your stomach.

{{:================================:}}

Want to request a prompt? Have a look at the list here!

[violetasteracademic]

What does it take for regifted jewelry to be romantic?

Rambling crap post that will literally only make sense of you have seen the movie The Family Stone but let's do it.

Sometimes I genuinely try to understand other ships. I actually really mean that, in a deeply authentic and non sarcastic way. If this shipwar wasn't so nasty, I'd engage with other people the way I do with my real, human, offline friends- some of whom are E/lucien's and G/wynriels. They are genuinely wonderful people who are not chronically online like we are (and we are, there's no point throwing that around as an insult) and they don't actually care that much. They are just going off vibes - but would be absolutely disgusted to see the violent misogyny and bullying that takes place here. We enjoy talking to each other about the ships, even when we don't agree.

Typically, when I am trying to understand something, I seek out more of it. I've asked my friends for fated mate book recommendations that match E/Lucien's story (meeting your mate, then genuinely falling for another person that is absolutely right for you in every way except for the fact that he is not your mate, and somehow the plot leads to falling in love with your mate that you don't like anyways because fate is always right and never makes mistakes, even if everyone is questioning it because you have feelings for someone else) and I haven't been able to find anything. The closest I can get is meeting your mate when you are possibly already in love/engaged/what have you to someone else and then you find out that person you are already with is actually the worst (aka Graysen) and then you wind up falling in love naturally and authentically with your mate. This is what makes it work. The person who isn't your mate showing his true colors and realizing you were wrong about them.

I think this is why Azriel's character has been rewritten to create a moment of the male Elain is actually into showing his true colors. Otherwise, her moving on to her mate that she isn't interested in just because the guy she likes rejected her literally doesn't make any sense. It can't be political machinations and the threat of violence and exterior motives and interference keeping Azriel and Elain apart. It has to be Azriel's personality and personhood, or the fated mates typical structure that I assume everyone is basing their thought process on falls apart.

I've actually been wracking my brain for years to find a piece of art or story that represents a piece of jewelry being regifted symbolizing the transference of a relationship and I FINALLY realized- my favorite holiday movie- The Family Stone! My God, the movie is literally named for the piece of jewelry, his mother's ring.

Finally having a piece to work with and pick apart allowed me to understand what elements are required to really pull off "regifting" to show that the gift is symbolically landing where it needs to go in a moving and romantic way.

1: The jewelry must not have been picked out and purchased for a specific woman, with deep and thoughtful insights as to why the man saw this piece of jewelry and thought of the woman he loves. In The Family Stone, the ring is an heirloom. It is no one's ring but his mother's. And the journey of this stone landing on the hand of the woman that is right for Emmet is deep, complicated, and heart breaking.

This is not the case for Azriel, who saw the rose necklace (very widely agreed to symbolically represent Elain on all sides) and saw something that the full depth and color was revealed when held to the light, a thing of secret, lovely beauty. And he knew it was meant for Elain. My God. Jfc. That's poetry.

2: The original recipient of the gift must actively show displeasure or disappointment in the jewelry- further revealing that this is the wrong woman.

In The Family Stone, Meredith (Sarah Jessica Parker), the "first" and "wrong" woman sees the ring on her little sister Julie's finger (Claire Danes) and while there is some drama (the ring symbolically gets stuck on Julie's finger lolol) Meredith looks at the ring and hilariously goes- "That's it?" because the diamond is so small. She doesn't like it. She wouldn't want to wear it. Meanwhile Julie was stunned. She lost her breath over its beauty and was overwhelmed.

Elain was also stunned and breathless at how beautiful her gift was. She wants to wear it immediately, and she wants him to put it on her. The act of this beautiful, thoughtful gift emboldens Elain to do something she has never done before: Blatant, unrestricted touching. Even while the man she is supposed to be with, the man whose gifts do disappoint her, sleeps upstairs. So the classic holiday romance trope of one gift is right and one gift is wrong is already playing out. From Elain's perspective, the woman who will demand a say in who she chooses and is the only confirmed FMC, she's been getting disappointing gifts from her mate for years. When she finally sees a gift that steals the air from her lungs and lights up her eyes, a gift she wants to wear and use immediately after years of lukewarm responses to the man she is "meant" to be with, it's romantic as fuck. Unless you don't like her and don't want her with Azriel, in which case it isn't romantic to you personally. However, personal opinion on Elain doesn't actually change the fact that after years of many of us already assuming Az and Elain were into each other, they had an extremely classic holiday romance reveal.

4: The act of changing your mind about who will receive this gift, in order for it to be romantic, must be an act of hope. An act of joy and dreams and revelation. Realizing that there is more out there for you, and after years of playing it safe, of trying to make it work for the wrong reasons with the wrong woman, you are ready to be brave and break your character patterns to act on that dream of happiness.

Near the climax of The Family Stone, we discover that Emmet's mother, the keeper of this ring, has had her breast cancer return. It is already clear she is not going to make it this time.

We learn that Emmet has been acting out of trauma, grief, and loss. He cannot wrap his mind around the thought of getting married without his mother being there. In a heart breaking scene, Sybil finally gives Emmet the ring she has been refusing the entire movie and lets him know it is his decision. But she also frees him from the horrible pressure he has placed on himself to get married while she is still alive. She wishes passion, joy, and happiness for him. She helps him cope with the loss of her, helps him heal the wound and burdens he carries of trying to be the Perfect Son and do everything right. All she wants for him is happiness and love. But ultimately, the decision is his.

In a rush of hope and healing, Emmet asks Julie to try the ring on. He wants to see it on her. It is a culmination. It is powerful, emotional, and restorative. In this story of brothers and sisters coping with the loss of their mother and trying to find their personal happiness, they all wind up together in the end. Meredith winds up telling Emmet she can't marry him, before he even reveals he decided not to ask her, because they both knew it wasn't right. It was so clear that they weren't in love with each other, but just trying to fit this ideal picture for reasons that had nothing to do with love. Still, Meredith isn't a villain, and winds up falling in love with his brother. The next year, everyone but Sybil gathers as a family, the first Christmas without her. The grief is palpable, but so is the love. The image of Sybil smiling at her gathered family through last year's gifted photograph of her ends the movie.

Azriel's regifting of Elaine's necklace was not a culmination. It was not an act of hope, it was not Azriel releasing Elain because he realized his love for her was not genuine and there was real and true happiness to be found in G/wyn. He did not even care to give it to her directly. He gave it to Clotho, who absolutely read the vibes and noted his sadness. He didn't even care if it wound up with Gwyn or literally any other priestess. He needed to relieve himself of the necklace because of the pain of not being able to be with Elain, just like Cassian yeeted his first Solstice gift to Nesta into the Sidra after her rejection. Regifted or getting rid of gifts as an act of pain is not romance. It is not even symbolic of a change. It only reflects a man who is hurting because he has nowhere to channel his love and longing.

What I find odd is that most people do agree that Az regifting the necklace via Clotho is absolutely not romantic, thus Azriel incel fuckboy (which literally makes no sense) was born. For the necklace regift to hold the symbolism that G/wynriels want it to hold (a sort of passing of the torch of Azriel's affection and attention) they agree that this is icky and gross behavior but G/wyn will fix him and he'll stop being icky and gross. I'd ask for recommendations on romances like that to try to understand that thought process as well, but frankly I am not interested.

Azriel getting rid of the necklace was not an act of hope, it was an act of pain. It was lot an act of love, it was an act of loss.

A change in who a gift belongs to can be romantic, with the right elements. The great ACOSF bonus chapter necklacegate has none of them. And yet somehow, even though everyone agrees it wasn't romantic, people are still out here arguing that it clearly symbolizes a new romance.

I assure you, romance symbolizes romance. It shouldn't be tricky or leave you feeling icky or like the MMC is flaky and entitled. I cannot think of a single romance author who thinks it's a good idea to sit down and write toxic fuckbois as MMC's. Even if they were toxic fuckbois in the past, they IMMEDIATELY simp for their women. As of now, Azriel still hasn't noticed G/wyn, his supposed mate, and is hurting and heartbroken over another woman that he would kill for if asked to. He is not coping with it by raking about town and looking for a new girl to fall in love with since he was ordered away from the one he wanted. He's just training, not sleeping, and putting rocks in snowballs.

When trying to determine what is being foreshadowed as romance, if we have to stretch beyond asking the simple question what is romantic, I fear we have lost the plot.

[chaifootsteps]

"Stolas might not be the best father, but he tries!" is so fucking weak argument if you try to think for a moment about other father characters who "try their best".

I watched the first Hotel Transylvania recently (the only good one, second is fine, but everything else can die), and the way Dracula is written is really good. He wants the best for his daughter, but from the start, we can see as an audience that what he is doing is extremely wrong and manipulative. At the same time, we understand that he is deeply hurt and traumatized, and that's the only way he knows how to protect his daughter and friends. He also learns from his mistakes and nearly loses his life to fix them so Mavis can be happy.

Stolas wants to get fucked by Blitzo. That's... all. Amazing. Not to mention how fandom treats Octavia for getting in the way of their favorite ship and calling her cockblocking slut and that she should be thankful for a dad like Stolas. jfc

And that's the thing, Stolas doesn't even try very hard! Dracula in Hotel Transylvania was controlling in a way that hurt Mavis, but by god, he put in the effort. He built an entire sanctuary for the sole purpose of keeping her and every other monster safe. She was his entire world and he showed it through his actions.

The last time we saw Stolas kind of sort of put in a sustained effort for Octavia -- and even then, it was soured by the fact that he brought along Blitz and spent the day sexually harassing him in front of her -- was in Loo Loo Land. Stolas in Seeing Stars has reason to believe she's in serious danger, goes to look for her, then promptly forgets all about her in favor of stealing sunglasses and drooling over Blitz. Stolas post-Western Energy forgets there's an assassin after her.

[fukutomichi]

Might be just me, but Season 2 throws the word forgiveness A LOT these past episodes, it wouldn't surprise me that it turns out to be the central theme this season.

Elrond seems to wrestle with himself in him not being able to see why Galadriel did what she did. And with him already saying that the fate of Celebrimbor lies in his hands, will he be able to forgive himself for what's about to happen?

Isildur NEVER being able to forgive himself for what happened to his mother, yet Theo finds a way to move past it and forgive himself by honoring his mother and continuing in her footsteps, with Arondir being a supportive gentle soul that he is. But can Arondir forgive Adar, who's directly responsible for the death of his love? I have a feeling we have a clash incoming. Is Adar deserving of forgiveness, after all he did what he did to give his adopted orc kids a place to exists.

And we don't even have to mention Númenor and the downward spiral that the island is heading. Can the characters there be able to forgive themselves for what they're about to do? The same goes for Khazad-dûm as well.

Sauron could never forgive himself as well, he DID try, but he could also never forgive others, and after that moment when his power point presentation listing his new age's resolutions backfired on him, now he's gonna make sure that he never asks for forgiveness EVER again.

The Stranger (jfc just confirm that he's the G man already comeooon) is also FINALLY heading to end of his road and a decision he has to make FAST. And he visibly fears it. If he doesn't make it in time, what then? Will he be able to forgive himself for not arriving in time to turn the tide? Wizards are never late, right?

Will Galadriel also be able to forgive herself for being so laser focused on her task that ended up with a dirty grimy maia falling for her hard (can't blame the dude), and she DID resonate with him, is now trowing a temper tantrum all over Middle-Earth cause she rejected him. What if she makes a decision that will cost her when she meets him again? A mistake undeserving of forgiveness from her friends?

HUGE mistakes are gonna be made. We NEED to see them. We NEED to see how hard is to forgive and be forgiven. To forgive yourself.

Forgiveness takes an age.

I dunno man, the Ents made me emotional again.

[sugar-omi]

I need to know… for science… if when merman!Cove turns human, does he end up naked like Ariel in the Little mermaid?

ANON.... THE GASP I JUST GASPED pls i immediately started imagining it and i had to stifle a laugh 🙈🤭<3 anyway this spiraled but i hope this answers your question 🫶🫶 somehow i think i contributed more to your research than you asked for but were thinking (projecting much naeomi? LMAO /lh)

i got another ask before this one for (innocent) mer!cove hc's, it can be found here: ["merman cove headcanons"] related: ["D&D headcanons for OL1+2"]

tags : Suggestive + crack, drabble

+ NSFW under the cut, monster dick? jfc i never thought i'd type that out....., monster fucking (implied/ment)

synopsis : merman cove when he turns into a human. and a bit on what's under his clothes/scales.

well... i would like to tell you no but yeah yeah he is

cove keeps a "sash" around him, so when he wants to shift, he just ties it around his waist until he puts some pants on

(i imagine he has some fins around his hips perhaps? so he keeps it across his chest. at least keeps it there so it doesn't interrupt his swimming)

omg, imagine you plan to meet one day, and cove thinks he has enough time to run into the beach house and put on some pants before you arrive

so he shifts and starts going to the beach house but then, in the corner of his eye he sees a figure clad in your favorite color and-

it's you. wide-eyed, open-mouthed, and you're so obviously flustered

cove is frozen (a mistake)

and when you glance down, blinking owlishly, does cove yelp and dives back into the ocean....

well... needless to say i think you might need to reschedule n cove will see you in like 7 to 8 business days 😬😬

ofc it's before you're dating so cove is freaking the fuck out

for a bit after that, you meet at whatever location you've decided on until cove can stomach seeing you at the beach again <3 poor baby

i had no intention of talking abt his dick but... I must. and someone will ask anyway right? (im projecting n justifying myself LMAO)

+ in his mer form:

of course we got the typical slit in the tail whatever blah blah if you've read mermaid smut before you alrdy know

(im realizing how many.... interesting. fics i've read... no one say ANYTHING<//3)

his dick is so pretty like this but also so intimidating

because cove is so much bigger in merman form than he is in human form, although he's still impressive then.

anyway, cove's dick has the same gradient as his ears

the base is a deep blue-purple color, the tip of his dick is the same flesh tone of his tan but it has more of a purple undertone <3

now the shape

oh lord...

it's fat.

but to start light... his dick has a nice curve, and don't worry! its not a fight to put in kind of fat, but he has a knot of sorts though...

i wouldn't say it grows n you're stuck together like in a/b/o fics, but it is a small feat to pull out (this is the moment I realized imma end up writing a mer!cove smut fic 💀)

i was going to say he has a piercing down there, but i take that back. he does have ridges though on the underside of his dick

they smooth out the closer you get to the tip, and honestly, they are most prominent around the base

+ in his human form

it's normal!

well... if you ignore the way he's a bit thicker than the average man

(especially at the base, although it's not as prominent as his 'knot')

also that he still has the ridges on the underside of his dick...

other than that it's basically the same as a humans!

at least it's not as girthy as in his mer form

your finger tips can't even touch in his mer form, at least in his human form you're...

well you're closer than before <3

of course, he still has that sweet curve. and if anything, it's a bit more prominent since you aren't being stretched out n overpowered by this huge merman 🧜‍♂️

length is this the same 6-6.5 inches though <3

actually i take that back... I think in mer form, he's around 7 inches

if you're worried abt where all that dick is gonna go, dw a good couple inches is his 'knot' so just don't catch him during mating season and you're okay<3

speaking of mating season....

oh man i didn't even think abt it but he's feral

i think mermaids/sirens release a pheromone during sex, no matter what, but during mating season it's stronger

it's just to calm their partner and make them more relaxed. during mating season, though, it also becomes more like an aphrodisiac

and he's releasing more of these pheromones during this time, a more subconscious thing that otherwise he could control normally.

and ofc, unless you're not worried abt it bc you can't get preg, take some type of birth control potion, or want it. cove's one goal is to breed or mate you

if you're unmated, full expect cove to claim you during this time. now i'm not gonna say smth about biting your scent gland or some shit, but i do think it's like some kind of ritual shit

i imagine its something like cove adding a drop of your fluids (spit, blood, cum) into the special ritual juice and drinking it, then when you wake up next you find a matching "tattoo" on you and cove

or if you're basic (or a masochist) then yeah we'll go w the biting thing

besides that need to claim you, he wants you so bad

to fill you up, to fuck you dumb on his cock, and please you...

he just needs you. but he really does try to hold back, especially since if you're not a mer-person than you probably couldn't handle how rough mer-people can be during heat.

okay i...i think i'm done

excuse me while I reevaluate my existence after wtf i just wrote🫡

[thatdeadaquarius]

I have so many ideas but none of them can be put into words, all I can do is just wheeze as they come along🤣

Also remember how wordy and flowery Teyvat speech/dialogue is? ADD THAT TO THE FACT THAT TEYVAT HAS ITS OWN LANGUAGE---

Reader can understand the basic speech which is why they are so blunt (I love this idea so much 🤣) and can piece together an idea what the person is talking about.

*insert random person talking about a commission with a long ass backstory*

Traveller & Co.: *understands completely and making plans to retrieve said commission*

C!Reader: (They said they had a cart.... a bunch of hilichurls appeared... dancing?.... they want us to dance fight the hilichurls???? Dance off???)

Actual story->The person's cart got ambushed by a group of hilichurls and taunted them by dancing around it.

....... it doesnt always translate well

Also imagine Reader heaeing random names and overthinks it as a word instead of a name.

Example: Pantalone means pants in Philippine English (sorry not sorry Pantalone)

Tsaritsa??? Oh do they speak russian there??? - reader

Capitano -> captain in some countries

(I once mistake Sandrone as Sandalone and I just went "... ehh??? Standalone? Sandalone as in Sand Alone???? Sandal (Flip flops)????

Oh wait its Sandrone" ".... as in Sand and Drone??--)

-Vine Boom

VINE BOOM ANON MY BELOVED 💖❤🧡💛💚💙💜✨️✨️

Gif is me writing u anything ever:

AHFLALA FERRRALLL I STG I ALSO THOUGHT ABT THIS!! WHY U COULD ALSO BE BLUNT BC U ONLY GOT THE BASICS 💀 RIP

Man theyre written language looks so scary to learn, kinda like when I looked into trying to learn Mandarin/Japanese (and even Korean), the letters r just inherently so different i was so intimidated

And u dont even read it like left -> right like English

Omg i tried to reply to a arabic comment on my art post once, and i felt so acommplished when i finally was able to type "اشكرك (thanks)" but like, i had to put it on the OTHER SIDE OF THE TEXT BOX, LIKE ALIGN IT TO THE RIGHT INSTEAD OF HOW U KNOW ENGLISH IS INHERENTLY ALIGNED LEFT, IT WAS SO TRIPPY-

Going thru genshin life only understanding minimal words of anything anyone says is honestly how i feel like ive been playing Genshin LMAO

Those analysis videos/lore are saving a bitch's life out here

PANTALONE IS ALSO RLLY CLOSE TO SPANISH FOR PANTS I KNOW WHAT U MEANNN LOL

UR ENDLESS CONFUSION FOR SANDRONE PLEASE ANON U DIDNT EVEN GET IT RIGHT THE FIRST CORRECTION IT JUST KEPT GETTING WORSEEE 😂😭 SAME THO

That would literally be you in genshin tho, like i could easily see it being like, back to back misunderstandings 😭😭

Like u think u got it right (Oh so his name is Rex Lapis, wait what? Morax? Ok his name is Morax...?? What??? Zhongli??? WHO IS THIS MAN-)

.

JFC first they gotta have a whole different language (like u saw in game)

And ON TOP OF THAT THEY CAN TALK FOR 10 MIN STRAIGHT ABT THE WEATHER OR SOME SHIT??

No... just, no.

U quickly decide u like what little bits of language u could pick up so far, which just results in,

U guessed it, simple speech and short fragmented sentences (or broken Teyvatian)

U cant even bring urself to care when u give half the characters a heart attack and send the rest into laughing fits

No fucks given, they wanna make this extra hard on u by being wordy on top of a new language,

Yeah u dont care what comes out of ur mouth anymore

Also, since everybody is raised in Teyvat very few ppl dont know the language, which once again brings us back to ancient/older deities/creatures who have a more simplistic version/outdated version of modern language

.

Omg getting stuff mistranslated bc u cant understand it all/only keywords sounds like hell but also rlly funny

Traveler/Paimon: "Alright, yes, all is well. We will accept this comission, and depart soon."

You: "...they want us to?? Dance fight?? Hilichurls...???"

Traveler just stares at u half in pity, half trying to hide their amused smile, Paimon is giggling

The commissioner is shook bc a supposed ancient creature?? Just accepted?? Their simple commission?? And u think they want u to dance battle???

.

PLEASE U MISTRANSLATE THE HARBINGERS NAMES RIGHT TO THEIR FACES

Signora: "You shall rue the day you crossed the Fatui mortals!"

You: "Lady we don't care, just fight us."

(Signora just means 'Lady')

Signora: *offended gasp*

Traveler/Paimon trying to stifle laughter

Raiden Shogun jaw dropped a little

.

Pantalone: "What a pleasure to finally meet you traveler, and thine wonderful companions!" *little bastard smile*

You: "And it was awful to meet you, Pants."

Pantalone: 😶😧😡 "Pants?! HOW DARE YOU NOT EVEN GIVE ME THE MOST BASE RESPECT, AFTER I GREETED THEE SO KINDLY-"

.

Oh its so funny, everytime you talk about Childe you always phrase it like he's an actual child bc u thought everyone was just calling him a little kid for some reason (u dont know how Teyvat ages work, he could be for all you know!)

Not very long, but Vine Boom anon your brain >>>>

Ur ideas r so on point, i love them sm

That makes perfect sense why u could be talking blunt too, like an in world explanation really

For you, all the desserts🥰 🤲🍪🍨🍰🍮🧋🍦🍡

Cheers,

🌒🌊🌧Aquarius♒️🌌🌘

[lightlycareless]

I saw this video and it made think of Naoya and Naohime. I can imagine she learned that vocabulary from Naobito lol

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTNdX5wP2/

Hello!!

Omggggg another video that isn't here anymore jfc I'm so sorry 😭 but from what I was able to recall it was a (with a daughter or granddaughter) and he says a bad word and she ends up saying the same thing lol it was kind of funny tho 😂

I wrote a little something inspired by it :) though I ended up writing it mostly on Y/N's perspective, cause she's the one that usually hangs around the kids the most (though a protective Naoya does appear, as well as Naomi)

warnings: none. Naobito is a bad influece tho. but overall domestic fluff.

also: a little bit of context regarding Naobito and his relationship with your and Naoya's youngest child.

Happy reading!!

It should come to no one’s surprise that Naobito is Naohime’s biggest, worst influence for a thousand reasons.

And why wouldn’t it be? Honestly, they spent almost every day together, with Naohime constantly following him everywhere, or more like Naobito bringing her along everywhere, citing that his favorite granddaughter had to be there for whatever important clan meeting he had for the day.

By his side when watching anime, or just spending the whole evening sleeping, a little Naobito on the making! It was only a matter of time before she began to mimic him…

Which was a very frightening statement for you and Naoya to ruminate on. To have a child so involved in serious manners is just the tip of the iceberg; both just want her to live out her childhood as happily as possible! 

But, oh, well, at least his father had the decency of not drinking in front of her—yet, this following incident finally made you and Naoya realize how spoiled Naohime had actually become, and how urgent it was for the two to step in.

It happened right after dropping off your children at school, with Naohime by your side since she was too young to attend yet (another matter that worried you—Naobito wanted to homeschool her, you and Naoya wished otherwise. Will this debate ever end?) accompanying you to your newest duty.

Apparently, the Zen’in were to meet a highly prestigious client, and you, wanting to do your part in making a good impression, headed right over to the kitchen to help arrange such an important dinner.

Stress to make this moment as perfectly as possible inevitably befell the staff, especially those that were still new to the (dubious) work ethic of the Zen’in; thus, it wouldn’t take long before one of them eventually crumbled, making a mistake that was easily fixable, but with the pressure of doing everything right the first time, believed otherwise.

“It’s ok, don’t worry—we still have more ingredients, right?” you quickly intercept, the cook nods. “See? Nothing to fret about! Now we just gotta—"

Little Naohime rarely involved herself in your activities, always kept occupied by her toys or any other activity you thought of beforehand, but something about the anxious complains from the staff members struck her with familiarity, like she’s seen this before somewhere else, and knew exactly what to do…

Cue your worst nightmare becoming a reality, having you inwardly screeching, skin pale at the notion of her imprudence.

“Stupid monkey!” Naohime says, with no hesitation, no second thoughts, nothing—just a reckless, albeit innocent, replication of her surroundings.

“Naohime!” you quickly retorted, shocked to hear such an awful sentence coming from your adorable daughter! “Where did you learn to say that?!”

But your daughter, instead of providing an answer, just continued giggling, thinking of your reaction to be a joke, as if you were entertained by her actions and not genuinely upset; it’s how Naobito reacted whenever she did that, after all, obviously the culprit behind it all.

“No, young lady, this is no laughing matter!” you insist once more, she does not budge. “Naohime—you will apologize to the staff right now for saying those awful words!”

“Lady Y/N, it’s fine—she’s just a child. She doesn’t know what she said.”

But that’s exactly what made this situation not fine. If anything, it made it even worse! Her laughter representing the sour realization that you’ve been too lax on your daughter, perhaps too carefree, freeing her of any necessary limits and discipline simply because she was your youngest maybe, your last child, the one you and Naoya had more time to parent together and yet didn’t seem like it.

You should’ve expected something like this to happen when Naobito got interested in spending time with his granddaughter. Yet, far from growing concerned, deep within, you and Naoya were happy that finally his family was retroactively trying to get along with their children, if only one of them…

But those days of carefree endearing were gone, you needed to put your foot down, and quickly.

“Naohime, if you do not apologize, we’re going to have problems.” She smiles, shaking her head playfully, nothing but a game for her you sadly conclude. “Alright, I don’t like doing this, but you leave me no other choice.

So, carefully grabbing her hand, you decided to go with what she considered the worst discipline ever, one appropriate for her age and situation: a timeout.

A decision she received with loud whines and cries, attempting to free herself from your hold but being unable to do as much as lightly tug at your arm, forced to accept the fate awaiting inside her bedroom; 5 minutes to think of the gravity of her actions, understand them, and hopefully, a genuine apology.

“Mamaaaaaaaa.” She would call from inside, pounding at the door. “Mamaaaaaaa!! Let me out!!”

It hurt you to hear her crying like that, your poor baby, the light of your life, one of the many reasons you loved being a mother—but such, it also reminded you that if you truly loved her, then you would discipline her when needed and set up limits that would protect her.

She was just a child and should act like one! Not copy dubious behaviors from people you’re going to start distancing from! Just as your husband would come to support…

“Care to explain the things you’re teaching my daughter?!” Naoya is quick to reproach his father as soon as you inform him of what happened. Somewhat afraid of Naobito, you usually let him handle these types of matters, but never alone, standing by his side as your protective husband gave him a piece of his mind. “I will not allow you to spend any more time with her if you’re just going to be a bad influence on her!”

“Ah, it’s nothing but a stupid expression! Just something to say to people that are being a bit foolish, motivate them to do better, nothing more!” Naobito dismisses, as always. You press your lips together, seeing the anger building up in Naoya’s face.

“Regardless of what it was, as his father, I do not want her replicating such behavior. So, you either behave for the first time in your life, or I won’t allow you to see Naohime ever again!”

“So now you’re threatening me?” Naobito chuckled. “She’s a much better, promising daughter than any of you ever were. A shame you don’t see it.”

You sigh; it’s nothing but obvious that he’d been drinking, kind of. Alcohol only made his defensive, intolerant nature worse, and subsequently, impossible to engage in a conversation with him.

But it’s not like either expected any different, he’s always been like this and would continue to do so until forever it seems. Thus, after brief consideration, you and Naoya decide to follow through with what both thought best: spend a few days with your father in hopes of giving Naohime a breath of fresh air, a break from the estate, as well as the opportunity to get along with the rest of her relatives, ones both hoped she’d take after.

Something she clearly didn’t like, that much Naomi was able to assess after seeing the tantrum her little sister was throwing.

“No! I don’t wanna leave, no! No!” Naohime cried, fists closed tightly as she thrashes all around her bed. “Mama and Papa hates me!”

“It’s hate Naohime—and no, they don’t hate you, peanut.” Naomi says, carefully sitting by her side and placing her hand behind her back, hoping to stop her before she either hurts her or herself. “You just did something they didn’t like, that’s all.”

“No, I didn’t!” she protests. “I never do bad!”

Naomi raises an eyebrow; so young and already so sure of herself. Well, can’t say they aren’t related.

“You do realize you insulted the staff, right? The same people that feed you every day? How would you feel if someone from our family said the same thing to mama? Or papa? Call them stupid.”

Naomi frowns, disliking the mental image of her parents being belittled—or being told anything ugly! It’s one thing what she does, and another entirely different when pertaining to others. Her parents are off limits!

Regret soon fills her senses, but too embarrassed to admit her wrongdoings, she responds with the only phrase she thinks works the same.

“I don’t wanna leave…”

“…Just apologize, Naohime. That’s all Mama and Papa want from you.” Naomi says, patting her back once more. “And stop mimicking all that the old man does, ok? He’s not good for you.”

“But he’s funny…”

“Papa can be… funnier if that’s what you really want.” Naomi couldn’t believe what she was saying, but here she was, defending her father!

But it was true, in a way; and necessary to stop her baby sister from turning into a small Naobito.

“No, he’s silly…”

Naomi chuckles; well, at least she’s not easy to fool.

“Mama and Papa love you and want nothing but the best for you.”

“…I know.” Naohime eventually admits, finally giving way to the first step of her so-called redemption, an apology that the staff warmly received, her parents briefly taken aback, yet happy.

…

If not curious as to know why she’d done so in the first place; perhaps a sudden change of heart?

“I just spoke to her, you know. She’s still capable of hearing and understanding.” Naomi says. “Don’t give up without trying.”

“Oh, I know.” You lament, and the notion you’ve been dragging along of being the worst parent ever sank deeper into your mind. “I just… I guess I was just shocked to hear her say that! Something so terrible, and of course, how close she actually was to Naobito. I knew they got along, just not to this extent!”

“I should’ve known, my love. They spend the whole day together, and she rarely listens to us when she’s with him!” Naoya frowns, feeling equally incompetent. “Don’t solely reprimand yourself, I too was at fault.”

“Well, if you must know, she was really upset at the thought of you guys being angry with her.” Your eldest added. “And honestly, you aren’t such bad parents. Maybe a bit… embarrassing, but nothing she couldn’t tolerate and appreciate. She’s still your daughter at the end of the day.”

You and Naoya look at each other, as if silently discussing what your daughter just said before smiling, quickly acknowledging her words as truthful—that no matter what happens, regardless of the issues that would naturally arise as time went on, and everything else… Naohime was still your and Naoya’s daughter: the energetic, joyful, but most importantly, caring girl you raised her to be.

She just needed guidance from time to time, like everyone often does. Some more than others, but even that didn’t lessen your children before your eyes, stop you and Naoya from seeing them as what they really are: perfect.

To be given such wisdom through your daughter Naomi made the two also realize how much she’s grown. The once adorable, rosy-cheeked baby who followed you everywhere you took her was now a woman in her own right: one that is supportive of her parents, as well as a good older sister both always knew she’d be.

Ah, time sure flies by. Best to enjoy these moments while they last.

“Thank you, mochi.” You smile, approaching to give her a quick pinch on the cheek, a gesture that has her quickly flustered, tensing her shoulders as she looks away, hoping no one had seen so. “For being a good sister to Naohime and a good daughter to us.”

“Mom, seriously—can you stop with the names… I’m not a little kid anymore.”

“Hmmm, really? You still act like one though?” Naoya snickers, she rolls her eyes.

“Don’t you two have more important matters to tend to anyways?? Like Grandpa?? He’s been telling me non-stop how excited he is to have us over since it’s been so long since he last saw us and to let him know if there’s any food I’d like to eat over there so he can buy it! And I just promised Naohime you guys wouldn’t take her if she apologized, so…”

“Oh, shit!” You gasped, looking over to Naoya, wide-eyed just as he was, at the notion of unwittingly getting into another problem just as soon as you got rid of the other! “What are we going to do? We just can’t cancel on my dad; you know how upset he gets! And he’s been feeling awful as of lately too… I think he just figured out that Naohime prefers being around your dad over mine!”

“Naohime is going to be upset with us again… and your dad too.”

“Not if you bribe her.” Naomi suggests. And even if it were an idea that would essentially label the two as bad parents, you end up taking her proposal—call it a white little lie, a necessary evil, whatever it took to keep your family happy!

It may have been easier to not spoil Naohime that much from the very beginning… ease Eiichi, your father, from sending her toys whenever one crossed his path; Naobito from badly influencing her, and Naomi from trying to be the cool sister (though she’d always deny it), the one she could always rush to whenever none of the former were collaborating with her, however that may be done.

Well, there’s only so much that could be done in these circumstances—it is simply the blessing curse of being the youngest child.

:') cool sister Naomi; I can't believe that one day I'm writing her as a baby and the next day she's Naohime's favorite hahahah 🥺 they grow up so fast....

Well, now I gotta turbo those tiktok requests because I fear I will forget them and THEN I WON'T KNOW WHAT TO WRITEEEEE

Anyways, this was a treat to write, as always. I love it when you guys indulge in my domestic stuff 😭 the Naohime acceptance makes me very very happy 😭😭😭😭😭💖💖💖 thank you so much!!! (though I gotta say, I hope we didn't come out as a horrible parent here hahah I don't know much about kids but I know for sure it's impossible for them to be perfect angels soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo 🥺)

Now, take care, and hope to see you soon!!

[msmarvelouswinchester]

If We Love Again

Summary: Whatever problems we had back then don’t exist anymore. It’s why we have this second chance, and we can’t throw it away. -Michelle Maddow

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Y/N (Reader)

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader

WC: 1942

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending. Post-canon where DEAN IS ALIVE, kinda sappy, body-shaming (not by the boys), hugs and kisses

Square Filled: Your hands are tough, but they are where mine belong ( @taylorswiftbingo )

A/N: Alright. Alright. Hello you people! Jfc, how long has it been? A lot of things happened (personal matters and fandom problems too) so I took a break. Kind of gave up writing for a bit. Then two boys - Alex and Henry (RWRB fandom, I'm looking at you) got me back to writing! And of course I had to write for my baby, Dean Winchester!

And I've also lost my taglist. So sorry for not tagging anyone in this.

Completely unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.

“What’re you doing here?” The usual routine of the bunker had been thrown off-kilter when Y/N had appeared, looking…frazzled. Maybe a tad smile but her eyes shone with unshed tears. And she was drenched to the bones and panting like she had run a mile to get to the bunker. The man welcomed her inside, saying, “Come in first, you are fucking wet.”

The words slipped and the man’s eyes widened, expecting a snobbish remark from her about the word and its placement in the sentence but soon enough, he frowned because Y/N didn't comment on the…apparent opportunity of turning the entire conversation inappropriate. Like she always did. But today, she wordlessly accepted the man’s gratuitous welcome and headed inside the old establishment.

Once at the end of the stairs, she said, rather whispered, “Hey Dean. Can you do me a favour? I need a hug.” If Dean didn't know what heaven looked like, he would have guessed he had ascended to heaven at Y/N’s request.

Dean, who had sprinted down the steps, looked at her and nodded, opening his arms. Y/N stepped into the hug and wrapped her arms around his torso, hands finding the nape of his neck. Dean’s hands had also instantly found their shelter around her body. They stayed in the position for a while. Y/N inhaled deeply quite a few times. The unforgettable scent of cinnamon and gunpowder hitting her and she let the tears fall as she let her guard down for the first time that night and Dean’s hold around her tightened. The sobs that left her, wrecked his heart. Each wail was like a dagger to his chest. He hated seeing her sad. He rested his chin on the top of her head, the familiar smell of her shampoo gave him whiplash as the memories of…everything queued up inside his head. But he still didn't know what had prompted her to show up at her place. “Y/N, sweetheart, can you look at me? I need you to look at me,” Dean murmured, “please.”

His voice washed over her and the sobbing turned into sniffles. She sniffled against the now wet, snot-covered spot on Dean’s tshirt before her red-rimmed, puffy eyes found his worried green ones. “‘M sorry,” she whimpered.

“Hey, shh, what're you sorry for? For ruining my shirt? Oh, I'll just bribe Sammy to do the laundry,” Dean grinned but the worry never left his eyes.

“I just—Dean, I'm sorry for…s-showing up tonight unannounced…I shouldn't have…what was I even thinkin’? Dean, I’ll—uh…see myself out.” Y/N said, and fidgeted in Dean’s grip but he was reluctant to let go. Not when she had just shown up a few minutes ago and broke down in his arms.

Dean said, “Stop, Y/N. Stop. It's alright. That's what best friends are for.” Nope, not letting you go this time.

“But…” Did you forget the part where we dated and broke up and vowed to never see each other again because it would break our hearts even more?

“No buts,” Dean said, as if he could read the thoughts in her head, “Whatever happened…happened. You were my best friend and you still are. If you need me, in a heartbeat, I'll be there for you. Do you understand that?” He glanced up, Jack if this is your doin’ because I pretty much dreamed about second chances last night then thanks, buddy.

Y/N nodded.

“Now let's go sit down. I'm gonna go find Sam and let him know you're here. And then we can go and kick some asses.” Dean gently guided her to his room in the bunker and sat her down on his bed, asking if she needed anything to drink, water or beer or anything to eat, knowing all they had was pie and a greasy two-days old burger in the freezer. They really needed to stock up their fridge more now they have started to live normal lives.

Y/N, though just asked for water.

Dean winked and said he would be back in a minute. And he was, with Sam in tow who had scooped her up in a giant hug. Oh, she had missed them.

“Hi, Sam. You look…different.” Y/N giggled at Sam in his formal clothes instead of the layers of plaid she was used to seeing on him. She had heard that the Winchesters had retired from hunting but seeing them bask in their post-retirement glory was astonishing.

“Yeah, had a makeover sorta, got myself a job and everything—”

“And a girlfriend,” Dean wiggled his brows and his brother blushed furiously. In between the conversation, Dean had handed Y/N a glass of water and sat down beside her on the bed.

She sipped on the water and hummed thoughtfully, “Who would have thought? Our little Sammy, all grown up!”

And for the first since her alarmingly sudden visit to the bunker, Y/N smiled.

“Oh shut up. Enough about me. Dean said something to me about kicking someone's asses. Do we have to bring out our hunting gear?” Y/N’s eyes widened at the question.

“No! Jesus, no guns. And no violence.” She warned the Winchesters.

“Can’t promise on the violence part, sweetheart!” Dean smirked. “So what happened?”

“Honestly. I think I'm good. It was a moment of…sadness but I'm oka—”

Dean cut her off, saying, “Y/N you were wailing. That was not nothing. Come on, tell us, we swear we'll be good.”

Y/N hesitated and Sam decided to put her out of her misery, “Whatever Dean says, if you don't feel comfortable in telling us. Don't tell.”

“Oh…” Dean sighed, “Yeah, I…I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. You seriously don't have to tell us, if you're not up for it.”

“It's just not that,” she swallowed hard. It should be easy to tell them, right? They were her best friends. She took a deep breath and said, “The guy, I am…or rather was dating—” She felt Dean tense up beside her and Sam side-eyed his brother but she continued “-well, he was an asshole. A dickhead. A fucking son of a bitch.”

Sam chuckled. “That's quite a description.”

“Yeah. So I applied for this job in NYC and well…I got it—” her heart soared in her chest as she watched the brothers’ faces split into a huge grin “-but this moron of my ex-boyfriend decided to throw my insecurities to my face because he didn't want me to go to NYC.”

Now looking back, Y/N didn't know why she was sad. She was angry. No, she was pissed because how dare a pathetic little man order her around about whether or not she should work in New York. “He was worried that I wasn't too pretty for the NYC girls, that I was too soft to survive in a big city like New York—”

This time Dean chuckled. Because Y/N wasn't soft, she was a hunter. Born into a hunter family only to give it all up because she wanted a quieter life. But she knew how to fight, how to wield a gun. And she was pretty. Too pretty and even after four years of breaking up, Dean’s heart still skipped a beat when she called his name, looked at his face and he was still enamoured by her very existence.

“So I told him that I would leave his sorry ass,” Y/N’s lips trembled, “and he said it was going to be the best thing because I wasn't worth enough for him to fight for because I…I am ‘too much’ and I…I don't put an effort into being the woman a man wants, no…needs. And in that moment, I got so sad, I needed to see you. Because I missed you guys so much. I missed this where no one judged me or at least didn't use to until…well, I…yeah. So, this is how I showed up here.”

“You're always welcome here, Y/N. And I'm sorry, things haven't been…good for a few years but don't think for a second we will judge you or not let you back into our lives,” Dean’s hands had snaked back around her waist, pulling her closer while she continued, “Well, he was kinda right. Don't you think? I talk too much. Sometimes I go on a ramble. I don't watch my diet—”

“That son of a bitch body-shamed you?” Dean was seething.

“Yeah. And he said, I was too much of a work to stay with. I have always been told that I'm too much of a work but it still hurts—”

Dean said, “Well the guy is an idiot. You aren't too much of a work, sweetheart.”

Y/N, this ain't gonna work. You want me. I want you but you don't want this hunting life while THIS hunting is my life. This relationship is going to be so much of a work and with Cain on the loose, I don't think I can put that much effort in this. Y/N gave Dean a soft smile, “I don't want to bring up old memories but you also said that, pretty much four years back.”

Sam’s mouth fell open. “What the hell, Dean?”

“W-I? I was under the influence of the mark, Y/N and you knew it. I pushed away so many people. Letting you go was my biggest mistake. And I regret it because I still fucking love yo—” Dean’s mouth snapped shut.

And for the second time, Sam exclaimed, “What the hell, Dean?”

“Yo–love…what?” Y/N whispered.

Dean turned towards his brother, “Sammy.”

“Yeah.” Sam quickly stepped out of the room.

“Y/N. Letting you go was my biggest mistake and never calling you up was my biggest regret. I should have called because I still need you. And now I have this life. You know I start a new job next week? It's a construction but yeah. And it got me thinkin’ about you. Yeah. I was thinking how I fucked us over and never got to tell you the truth. I never got over us, you. I…I never wanted you to go—”

“I remember very clearly you throwing me out of the bunker and telling me never to contact you again. You know what, showing up tonight was my bigges—”

“Son of a bitch, I can't believe I'm fucking doin’ this,” Dean murmured.

“Wha–” The rest of the question turned into a squeak and Dean’s lips crashed into her. And then the thoughts crashed into him. Fuck.

Dean immediately jumped back from her. “I'm so sor—”

“If you dare to say sorry for this, I am telling Sammy to shoot you in your dick, asshole,” Y/N panted, “Fucking come, kiss me, you moron!”

“You sure? You just had a breakup and…”

Y/N looked at Dean, “I know. But Dean, I had kept loving you all along and maybe by some, heaven’s grace—”

“Jack’s grace.”

“Who’s Jack?”

“God. Well, new God. Jack had been living with us…its a long story for another time.”

“Yeah so, by Jack’s grace, maybe it's my second chance at being with you. Loving you.” Dean’s breath hitched at her words, “Your hands are tough, but they are where mine belong.”

So he walked up to her, and pulled her into a loving kiss. It was soft, eager and…just like old times.

They separated but their foreheads touched as they panted for air. “Second chance?” Dean asked

Y/N nodded, “Second chance.”

He smiled, “This time I'll leave no stones unturned to make this work. Because Y/N, sweetheart, you are worth everything.”

Oh boy, I'm kinda rusty XD

Let me know your thoughts! Comments are highly appreciated!

[starstruckodysseys]

hi i’m back with posts exclusively for me. the bad kids as how to build an ocean: instructions songs!!

fig: all you get is confetti

(you’re bleeding?? you’re begging for tissues all you get is confetti?? you can’t be everything for everyone but you can be everything to someone?? when inspiration comes i’ll ignite it?? come ON that’s so fig coded)

gorgug: things that look like mistakes

(there’s something about the mental breakdown via energetic beat that gives me gorgug energy. like how he felt he couldn’t be angry to not disturb others yknow. also “i write little poems each day inside my head” is SO gorgug i feel)

adaine: i wanna feel calm

(“i see visions of violence” DUDE. adaine’s anger is so interesting and i want to see it explored more. i love her. also “i try not to let my trauma do the talking” babygirl… it’s okay to have feelings and burden other people with them… if they love you they won’t care)

fabian: tai chi with my dad

(okay. yes. suspension of disbelief but it’s mostly the “empathy is painful, but if you want to eat the fruit, you gotta feel the rainfall.” PLEASE talk about ur emotions jfc)

kristen: i don’t wanna be angry

(something about the chorus is so kristen vibes to me. like yeah. when i step onto that ferry and the man demands his pay i WILL see everything was temporary. she’s died enough times i’m sure she already has at this point tbh. lowkey cassandra vibes idk)

riz: injured crow

(there’s something to me about riz “trying to keep his friends together as much as possible” gukgak with the song about moments passing/nothing lasting. yknow. also “he asked too many questions/maybe this is my brain simply making the same suggestion” you’re KIDDING me)

[darcytaylor]

Hi there, I stumbled upon your blog and I am so glad I did! I really enjoyed reading your deep dives. I agree with a previous commenter; your posts have been articulate, understanding and compassionate while also being on the nose with your critiques. With all the heightened emotions right now, thank you for keeping things calm while also being able to explain your take on everything - it’s been very interesting to read! I’ve been desperately trying to find other posts/people that have similar vibes because this whole… situation-ship has been a bit much. I have to admit I learned a lot about Luke from your deep dives, mostly because I wasn’t really paying much attention to him until the press coverage started in earnest earlier this year. And I’m not entirely sure what to make of him now; it was very eye opening and gave me plenty to think about. I genuinely liked him up until this all happened, and I think I still do, but my god, has he (and his team) created a mess for himself. Some thoughts, in no discernible order: 

Saying he was most like his character/Colin. I 1000000000% agree with you here! I think that’s why it was so jarring when people found out about the (not so secret, I now realize) gf. “Colin as a character made them feel seen. They couldn't separate Luke from Colin because he kept saying he was like Colin” Ugh, that’s some heartbreak right there. 

I also feel very strongly about the age thing, and I’m heartened to hear I’m not alone in this. The age gap would be one thing for a “normal, everyday couple,” but I agree when there’s also a power dynamic involved, it just makes me feel even more uneasy. Then you add in his comments about how he remembers being in his early 20s…

His social media is a fucking mess. Someone else needs to take control ASAP. Especially if he claims he was moving it into a more professional direction. JFC, there are literal professional who get paid to do this; hire them.

I agree that he should be booked for, like, the next 2 years from this point, and that’s a huge mistake that he isn’t. He can’t just seriously think he can fuck off to Fashion Week and this will all blow over, right? Right!?!?

I think we can all agree that Nicola is fucking perfection. 

(Can you tell I have a comms background? Everything about how all of this has been (mis)handled has made me want to cry, scream and throw up - and not in the funny meme way. But seriously, how can his team bungle all of this SO POORLY???) Anyway, I have a lot more thoughts but I’m now worried I’ve flooded your ask box. Thanks for humoring me!

Thank you for taking the time to read all of the deep dives and your kind words!

The whole situation has been wild to look at from the outside. I could see so much hate going around from all sides and felt that maybe if I put everything together, people could look at the situation with clear eyes.

I think that Luke still has the potential to go places in his career and hopefully the situation that he has found himself in will help him. You know the saying "sometimes you have to hit rock bottom", this could be that for Luke.

[ganondoodle]

i am so extremely confused on how you can acknowledge belly dancing not needing to be sexual yet. still insist that nintendo is sexualizing young gerudo with the attire. the makeup, heels and how impractical it is to wear the shit they wear in the desert i understand. im not defending those design mistakes. but??? jfc.

oh. so, assuming you are the same anon as before, you WERE asking in bad faith then, or are intentionally missunderstanding what im saying, got it, and now you are trying to twist my words around to fit your little narrative about me being the problem and not mega corporation uwu nintendo with a history of racism (to which this issue is extremely attached to)

so, since you apparently didnt understand what i said, and didnt watch the video i attached either, bc that goes into detail of everything as well, im gonna spell it out once more, and i will even EMPHASIZE words like THIS, so its easier to understand, just for you <3

i did NOT say that the 'belly dance' outfit doesnt NEED to be sexual, i SAID it is/was not sexual IN ITS ORIGIN, BUT was TURNED INTO what boils down to nothing else but a sexy strippers outfit by western people and has been used as NOTHING BUT sexual for decades in the vast majority of media of all kind-

which MEANS, that although in ORIGIN it might not have been sexual, the unfortunate PROBLEM is that through its extreme popularization as such you now have to assume IT IS sexual, bc that is pretty much ALWAYS the intent, people dont even know it as anything but a sexual thing

and before you can even say the "well maybe they didnt intent it a such" blah blah, this is NOT SOLELY about the outfit itself being the only problem here, its the whole package, even if they DID have good intentions or did it subconsciously (which, mind you, should also tell you just how much this kind of picture of middle eastern people has been spread, how common it is to see them like this that its what most people actually think they are like) it nevertheless sends a certain message, and again, ITS THE WHOLE FUCKING PACKAGE, everything, from outfit, to design elements, to dialog, to lore, to even camera angles, you cannot view it as a seperate thing bc it is, inherently, not able to be seperated from everything, its as if you took an incredibly racist caricature, zoomed in and said "LOOK they used a realistic kind of skin tone, its totally not racist!!"

you also called these design decisions "mistakes", but they are not, in fact mistakes, a mistake is when you notice after posting a drawing that you forgot to color in a strand of hair, however, ALL of these design and writing decisions are deliberate, they had to sit down, in a giant team of people, to come up with it, then proceed to design and write it, approve it, make it, and ship it, and saw no problem with it, which is a problem

now, im not saying nintendo personally is telling you "its ok to fuck kids", but things have meanings, and if you are making something, ESPECIALLY using something that isnt of your own culture, you should think about things, and what meanings a thing can have attached to, they are a giant corporation, not a single, very uninformed at best- or very racist at worst, human being, they have the means to do research, but they did not do it or think its fine, maybe even good, which deserves to be called out

i am a big, and longtime, zelda fan, but beign a fan of something doesnt mean you cannot criticise it, or aknowledge that its in many ways flawed, part of being a fan is being able to recognize things that are bad and demand better

if you send me another ask spouting bullshit or purposefully missunderstanding what im saying im gonna punt you into the filthy barrel of blocked porn bots, bc i dont have anon messages enabled to receive shit like this but to allow people who might be too shy to send normal asks to talk to me.

jfc.

[bougiebutchbitch]

made the terrible mistake of reading youtube comments under a cast interview, thinking they'd be fun and like

damn

some people really think Reggie doesn't 'deserve' a redemption arc because he killed a couple people? If we're exaggerating a LOT, and including Supersonic and that Homelander guy who dated Monique, neither of whom he killed but he was sort-of involved in their deaths...

His kill count is FIVE.

On the killing people show.

Of the three people he actually murders, one is an accident caused by his negligence (Robin) and one is a murder-suicide against the racist cop who almost killed his brother, where the murder is successful but the suicide isn't. As far as I recall, the only person he kills in cold blood is Popclaw, and it fucking breaks him???

FRENCHIE has killed more innocent people. Like. Way more?? skdlfgjhsdfg. We just don't see the murders on screen?

Nobody has to like any character, but jfc, just say that rather than trying to moralise it lmao...

I am once more tapping the sign that I tapped while glaring at all the Ed Teach stans who insisted he did nothing wrong. It reads, 'in order to have a redemption arc a character must've done some bad shit to begin with', and 'there is no such thing as 'deserving' a redemption arc; anyone can be take steps towards becoming a better person (within a fictional narrative or in real life). What matters is how believably their redemption is written'

And they're doing a really good job with Reggie!! Leave my li'l guy alone!

[finalfrontierpublishing]

Process - or really Nic doing random shit and hoping it works

Recently, a few bookbinders have been describing their creative process and i love how aspirational and amazing they are. these people are amazing, my friends- they come up with so much cool shit in the setting of their home, with things they have on hand, and it shocks me at how great these bookbinders are. 

i think comparatively, my process is fairly simple (i.e. chaos gremlin), and I've decided I'd like to use a previous book i took process pics of as a general outline as to how i come up with what i want to do. 

My first step is usually to fixate on a particular design element and move on from there - this is usually a chapter font or an image header or a cover image i’m interested in using, and then moving on to putting things together to form something cohesive. most of the time i have to see how it’ll look visually before i can decide, which does make choosing design elements challenging and hence made me a little into a pantser (despite being an asshole who likes to measure things). half the time, i change things like endpapers or endbands or colour of bookcloth or even the whole freaking design right down to the wire because i just won’t know what will work until i can see it.

To make this a little fun for me, I'll outline the general stream of consciousness (let's face it, it’s not that much of a process, I just think things and sometimes a book happens) along with 45% of the foul language that accompanies it when I try new things with books.

(Please be aware that I am 90% made of foul language and i sometimes frequently blaspheme like a sailor)

See below for thought process, process pics and much swearing. 

Day 0 minus 14 - Ok, let's be smart about binderary, shall we? I have a week of leave in February, let's make it count... Proceeds to prepare 10 typesets with 2 ready-made ones and then an additional notebook for a total of 13 books for Binderary. Ooh boy. Yeah, that’s achievable. 

Day 1:

Attends queercore workshop at 0630am in the morning. Fuck, am I sleepy. Did I succeed in making a book? Not really. Okay, let’s fudge it. Converts glueless notebook with nice stitching into case bind. Convenient gift for mothers day - booyah, 1 gift done. 

Oh hey. I have a thing. What about the Oh Mercy // Oh Love book. Hmmm, I have a nice image for this that I didn't use for the typesetting. Wonder if I can stitch it.

20:00 hours: Oooh, Neenah Illusio Laser paper - it looks so shiny. And Metallic. Very circuit board-y. Just what i was going for. Is it a paper? Is it cloth? I have no fucking idea. Hope it takes foil alright.

20:30 hours: Ooh ok, success - Jesus that's a lot of holes to poke.

Day 2: 

Okay, procrastination. Gotta make a case. 

JEsus i hate the turn ins and THE SPINE DFJKLSDFKLJ;SDF;LKSDF paper why you gotta do me a dirty?! Stiff and crinkly!!!!

17:00 hours: okay, case is nearly doneish.

Time to use foil quill to outline the holes to give it that soldered look and then do all the hole pokery. Dinner first.

19:00 hours: Dinner sorted. But like you know, let’s do some hammering with an awl in an apartment complex and pray none of the neighbours complain.

Shit these holes are small.

22:30 hours: I might finish this by Christmas, maybe. 

JFC i am collapsing under my hubris. THE FACT I THOUGHT I COULD DO THIS. Oh god @&£#'€¥ what possessed me to try this - oh I know, I thought it would look cool (90% of why I do things when I make books).

Go easy on the thread - do not rip it through the space between two holes. JESUS FFFJB;N;KLGH CHRIST WHY.

Okay I can do this. I can do this. Stitches for 4 hours and nearly collapses.

Stitching is done!!!! Hmmm design looks a little plain. And awww shit you can't see any of the gold around the holes anymore. Okay let's try going over it in foil quill again.

00:30 hours: OH FUCK OH FUCK WHAT A FUCKING BAD IDEA.

Jesus djdjsbsbdjdsbdbddnc * MAKES MISTAKE and adds dot of gold on the side of a hole, plainly not in the hole*

Frantically googles ‘how to remove we r memory keepers heat reactive foil from paper’

Tries to remove it with an eraser and tape as per google recommendations- but removes a fuck ton of the green colouring on the bookcloth as well. JESUS.

I am ready for death.

Day 3:

10:30 hours: Okay I am ready for a new day. Am I really ready? Unclear. Time to weed the shit out a fucking complex design and go blind in the process.

12:30 hours: Ok fuck, that only took 2 hours.

But oh shit endbands and glueing of the spine. Time to do some glueing. At least it’s somewhat therapeutic. Jesus my endpapers and mull are still not on.

14:00 hours: On to the case it goes

14:30 hours: Time to do some HTV application

Fuck why isn't the HTV sticking JESUS cricut is an evil corporation out to take my money and yet I did not want to use Siser HTV today because I Was Not Ready for Death and Ruination. 

Proceeds to iron for the next 1 hour. 

16:00 hours: Fine it's finally fucking on?

Is the spine done? Hmmm. that little blemish isn’t covered. Should I cover it? Ugh. 

Cuts out little squares of gold foil - but it looks foul. Okay, nope, not good. 

Fuck I need a nap. Somewhere along the way, spouse comes home. Dog has been fed. My job is done. 

Naps for 3 hours just because.

20:00 hours: Okay moment of truth. Time to case in. Book is gonna be held together with glue and prayer. Shit why do the squares look so small- fuck it's because there's some stitching on the spine so I can't push the textblock all the way in. I DID NOT PLAN FOR THIS EVIDENTLY. please do not stick out please do not stick out please do not stick out

20:30 hours: hallelujah it is FINE - into the press of a million books it goes

So that was a wild ride-- i wish i could say i exaggerate, but this is how it is with me tryin’ to do a book especially when trying new things i haven’t previously done before. Will a book happen? Sometimes I don’t really know. 

[yourwildsimp]

dreams and daiquiris

includes: Ghost, Soap, Price

warnings: nightmares, PTSD, graphic gore, mention and brief depiction of suicide

length: 6,008

summary: Ghost can't stop dreaming, always. They're getting bad. He's loosing pieces of himself and he can't take it anymore. Luckily, Soap is there, ready and waiting with two fancy glasses.

A/N: Make sure to look over the warnings! Anyways, this may or may jot be a vent post... Of you squint... A lot. Also, don't "take care" of yourself like Simon jfc

"Hell's bells, it's bloody boilin' oot there," Johnny whines, stretching himself out on the scratched up wooden floor with a groan. He's long since forgone his shirt, the top tossed carelessly somewhere over the couch. "Th' floor ain't even braw nae more."

"English, MacTavish."

Soap gives him a rather crude look. 

"It's really fuckin' hot. Floor isn't cold," he spits, the anger more directed at the sun rather than Ghost. "Ah just ken yer aboot to burn, L.T," Soap stresses, ruling onto his stomach.

"Can it, Johnny."

Although in all fairness, Soap is right. Ghost's mask is a sopping puddle at the base of his neck, under his jaw, and around his hairline. The desert isn't exactly accepting of black cloth wrapped around his face.

He doesn't know why they're here, doesn't know their mission and the details and whatnot, but he does know Johnny is with him. 

That's all he cares about.

He busies himself with cleaning his rifle, back to Soap as he keeps his eyes on the void-like horizon out of the window.

"Ghost…" Johnny whines, and Ghost rolls his eyes, ignoring him.

The heat is unbearable as is, he doesn't need bitching along with it.

"L.t." Johnny says again, voice high and tight. "'t's hot…"

Ghost huffs obnoxiously to get his point across for Johnny to shut the hell up.

"It hurts, Simon."

And, fuck, that pinched and ragged tone, the way Johnny's fighting for every word, makes Ghost whip around so fast he might have whiplash.

"Johnny-"

The words get caught in his throat, and he can't breathe anymore. 

Soap's burning. 

Johnny is on fire.

"Johnny!" The name tears from him before he can help it, and he's scrambling from the window to save him and-

Christ, Soap is screaming. Screaming bloody murder as the smell of charred flesh and thick smoke fill up the safe house. He's screaming and screaming and burning and Simon can't stop him, can't put him out-

Johnny is going to die.

He rushes to the sink, stumbling over himself on the way there, but the faucet is busted and dry as the desert they're in.

The screaming isn't stopping, not even letting up, and he's going to go deaf with the sound of Johnny fucking burning alive.

All of a sudden, Ghost is screaming too. He is in agony, his shoulder flaring up with the heat of the sun. He forces himself to turn around, to find why it hurts so much.

Soap is grabbing at him, at his shoulders, scrambling for a hold but… He isn't Soap anymore. He's not Johnny. 

But Ghost knows him.

It's a civilian, one from years ago. A young boy, barely twelve. And he's still fucking on fire.

"Why didn't you save me?!" the boy screams, reaching for Ghost, reaching to set him ablaze, reaching for help.

"I-" and Ghost is gagging on the smell of burned flesh. His throat burns with it, eyes water, and he blinks through it to look around.

I tried.

"Why didn't you save us?!" 

And Ghost screws his eyes shut, trying not to breathe.

I wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry.

He hears the boy choke on his last breath, hears him crumble into the dust. He makes the mistake of forcing his eyes open, to see where they are, to find Johnny again. 

There are people all around him, each one of them lit up like a bonfire.

He's with Roba again. 

Simon can feel the way his heart drops.

Please, not again. I can't go through this again.

Simon starts to run- run as fast as his legs will let him.

He doesn't get far.

He screams when a metal hook tears through his back and out in front of his ribs. Caught, like a fish on a line.

His fingers claw at the dirt, the screams now choking in his throat as he dragged backwards, back towards the burning, towards him.

Roba pulls him closer, like he were nothing more than a tug-of-war rope. And no matter how hard Simon claws into the dirt, how hard he forces himself to breath through the agony, how hard he begs-

He can't escape.

Simom wakes up screaming so loudly that he can feel it tearing the inside of his throat raw. With the tail end of a plea on his lips, he crashes to the floor, his legs tangled up all kinds of ways in his thin sheets.

Christ alive, he can't breathe. He can't even move and fuck-

One of his hands clutch at his pounding heart while the other claws against the floor in hopes of escaping him.

He needs to get away, needs to get out of here as fast as possible- but his legs won't move right and he can only crawl so far with one lousy hand and he just can't get any traction-

The door slams open, rattling on its hinges, and the room floods with blinding light. Someone's yelling, and he barely makes out, "Get down!"

Simon can't see. He can't see. Can't move or breathe and some is yelling, and he's fucking terrified, so he buries his head in his hands and curls up into a ball the best he can.

He feels like he needs to vomit out whatever is caught in his throat so he can catch a breath, to rip his heart out of his chest just so it'll slow down, to carve out his brain so the screaming will stop.

"Ghost?! Creepin' Jesus, what's-" 

"Ghost? Ghost where-" the yelling pauses, catches itself in the air before settling into a low, hurried, murmur. "Ah, hell- Simon…" The door cracks almost shut, and the voice orders, "Go on back to your barracks! False alarm, everything's fine." 

But it's not. It's not fucking fine because he knows he knows that voice, but he can't place it, can't stop hyperventilating to put a face to it-

The voice doesn't speak up again, and there's footsteps, a few, that shuffle away and down the hall. 

And, eventually, somewhere in the midst of the calming chaos, his ears stop ringing. The high pitched whining fades away, and after a moment, his vision slowly clears. The black fuzz in his peripherals let up and nothing is blurry. He blinks, and notices the lights in the room aren't as assaulting. 

"You with me, soldier?" Price murmurs from where he's crouched down across the room. 

Simon opens his mouth to say he's fine, but all he can do is choke on his breath.

"Hey there, easy, Simon. You're alright," Price soothes, a sad look in his eyes. "Just breathe, kid. No rush."

¤¤¤¤¤

When he does calm down and he's no longer in his head, he speaks. His voice is gravelly and raw and it hurts just a bit, but Ghost speaks.

"What was with the bloody search party? Everyone wakes up yellin' now and then. Comes with the fuckin' territory."

Price presses his lips into a thin line as he hands Ghost his mask.

"Yeah, but not everyone begs for their life. Certainly not you, Simon." The name earns him a harsh, tired glare.

"I wasn't…" he feels his lips curl down more without his permission, the nightmare still whispering its giggles in the back of his mind. "I wasn't begging for anything. I don't beg."

Price gives him an odd look, one he's seen before but can't quite place. 

He's fucking sick of that, not being able to place what he's experienced before.

"What were you dreaming about?"

Ghost clenches his jaw instantly, trapping his confession far behind his teeth. He beats the words down until they are nothing but a speck deep inside. Buries them together into the ground, in an unmarked grave, in the middle of nowhere.

Price runs a slightly shaking hand through his tousled hair and sighs, "Don't do this to yourself anymore. Just one word, that's all I need." 

Ghost closes his eyes, and the image of Johnny and the boy and flames and the hook flash in the darkness. He shoots them open and feels his breath stutter in his throat. 

Ghost can't. He won't. He's not that god damn pathetic.

"It's alright, son."

Fuck it all. 

What else is he supposed to do but talk? How can he say nothing when Price talks to him like that? Like he's worth waking up for?

"Roba," he whispers like a curse.

And Price understands, because of course he does. 

¤¤¤¤¤

He has another terrible one within the next week.

It's his fault this time. He should know better- he does know better.

It's all because tries to sleep with a weighted blanket. 

Ghost figures he needs a tiny, controllable change. Besides, he read somewhere that the weight would help him sleep soundly.

God knows he needs a good night's rest.

So he wills himself to go out into the world off base and brave his local 24 hour convenience store for the stupid thing. He buys the first one he sees that isn't psychedelic and bleeding with color. It weighs a good 20 pounds through the whole blanket, but Ghost figures he's a lot to cover.

After an odd look from the short man at the register, Ghost goes back to the base to call it a day, a bit bitter from the silent interaction.

So what if he buys blankets an hour after midnight? Piss off.

He just… Wants to sleep everything away.

And so he tucks in for the night, hopeful, swapping the military grade sheet for his new weighted blanket that, actually, is quite nice. Eventually, after forcing every muscle to relax one by one, he falls blissfully asleep.

Soap's stupid mohawk was a mess of blood as he was dragged, kicking and begging, through the mud. Ghost was murdering men left and right to get to him, killing without a thought to save him, the blood soaking into his hands, leaving nothing but thin scars behind. 

And then he sees it; the all too familiar grave. Unmarked and hardly four feet, just like he remembers.

And the Sergeant- Soap, MacTavish, John, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny- is carelessly tossed like a rag doll right into that grave.

And Ghost dives after him.

He has to save him because he couldn't save everyone else.

He has to.

But he can't.

Now that they're here, he can't get them out.

The dirt is piling on top of them too quickly, and he can't dig them free fast enough and Johnny is screaming and crying and fighting and-

And then he's silent. Quiet as the earth.

Ghost searches for him, wide-eyed despite the dirt all around him. And he sees. He sees his Johnny.

Sees that he's a corpse. 

Rotted, at that. Old- days old, at least. There's no grin on his melted face anymore, no glint of mischief in his rolling eyes.

Ghost is too late. None of his sacrifices matter. 

Still, he tries. 

He tries to get out, scrapes and digs and hopes to get free, get on top, look down at the grass.

But he's only getting deeper- so, so much deeper- into the ground and he doesn't know why, he doesn't understand how-

It's Soap. It's Johnny. He's digging the wrong way, rotted flesh and tiny bones scraping in the wrong direction.

"Other way!" Simon shouts past the dirt in his mouth. 

And John stops, skin sliding off of his face as he rattles his bones at Simon, unable to talk with his lips a puddle in the hole they're in. But he sees it, Johnny's wicked smile of teeth and a touch of gums. 

Hears it, when he speaks into his brain: Oh? But, Simon, hell is this way.

¤¤¤¤¤

He's going to personally hunt down the author of the book that told him weighted blankets were a good idea.

Hell, maybe they are a good idea. At least, for anyone who doesn't dream of being buried alive.

The clock tells him it's been hardly two hours, but his body says it's been a lifetime. 

Everything aches, more than normal, but he can't manage to sit still with these nerves eating at his skin. It feels like he's clutching a live wire instead of his pillow that's planted in front of his stomach and held up by his arms and knees.

It's going to be a long fucking day.

¤¤¤¤¤

He was right.

The day drags on forever.

By the end of it, Ghost considers killing everyone in the building, and then himself.

He feels too big for his skin, like he has to shed it like a snake, grow another one that's a better fit. Every breath he takes, he forces it to be slow and deliberate, focusing on filling his lungs completely. 

Ghost spends most of the day in the gym. He tried working on what little paper work he's yet to do, but the words kept blending together and dancing from the page. And even if he wrangled them back, they weren't sticking. He had to read the same line four or five times in a row because his brain decided that English wasn't going to work today.

So he stays his ass in the gym.

Can't think if everything hurts, can you?

He starts with the treadmill and sprints for a mile, until his knees threaten to give way and he nearly slips. He moves, shaking, to the bench press, and makes the choice to work on lighter weights so he doesn't need a spotter. When that isn't clearing his mind, he makes his final destination the punching bag.

Maybe he gets lost in his head regardless. Maybe he loses himself. Maybe he bends a finger.

He only stops when Price practically drags him into the kitchen, still sweaty and gross and dead on his feet.

It wouldn't have been all too bad, if Price had kept the silence going.

"Therapy is a normal thing, Ghost, especially in this line of work. Everyone on the task force goes, even Kate."

And Ghost knows this. He knows how much it has helped Soap through the aftermath of Las Almas and Hassan and everything before, in between, and after. 

Ghost knows therapy worked for them. 

And he knows he's too damaged for therapy to fix. 

Ghost moves his jaw just enough to pass as a nod, just to appease Price.

He can't find the honey for his tea and he's just a breath away from giving up on it and heading to the sniper range with a raw throat and trembling hands.

He doesn't understand where the honey went. It was right here. He left it right here yesterday morning. It's always right here. Always. 

So where the fuck is it?

Price makes a noise, something between clearing his throat and huffing.

Ghost faces him at it, and snags the small container of honey before Price can question him. 

Fucks sake, he almost spiralled because of honey.

He's pathetic.

"Where was it?" he murmurs, because it'll drive him up the wall for the rest of the day if he doesn't know.

"On the counter, Ghost. Near the fridge. No need to get ansty over it," Price answers easily before adding just as quick, "you know, I could enforce that therapy be mandatory."

"You wouldn't." 

Price wouldn't.

Right?

"But I could."

"You could do anything, sir."

"Except help you, apparently."

"I don't need any help."

"You did with Roba."

The tea scalds his hand when he spills it all over the counter. Seeps into his glove and threatens to burn him alive, and he grits his teeth hard enough to feel his jaw creak. He pulls the glove off with his other shaking hand, and gives a once over to his pale hand that's now quickly turning an irritated shade of pink.

"Simon, at least think about it," Price sighs with the weight of the world. He's already carefully cleaning the hot tea from the counter.

"I have," Ghost bites, moving to the sink.

Price goes quiet as the cool water from the tap runs lightly over Ghost's hand, over his oddly bent finger. Ghost hopes that the conversation is over. He knows it's not.

"New orders, soldier."

Ghost takes a breath, stiffening and resisting the muscle memory of moving at attention, or at least parade rest.

"Sir?"

"You're drinking with the 141 at the end of this month."

Ghost lets himself whip his head around, and he can feel the fire in his eyes, the protest on his tongue.

"Don't cut me off."

And Ghost clenches his jaw to shut himself up. 

Price hardly ever pulls rank on his team; he doesn't need to, with the respect the 141 has for him regardless. This? This right here is the closest he ever gets.

Price quietly huffs, looking over Ghost's hand that's still under running cool water. 

Price holds the tone he always has when he's discussing the workings of a mission. "You'll drink with us, here on base in Soap's office. You'll try to enjoy yourself. Then, after two hours, you can peel off. Fuck about for all I care, but stay involved for two hours, at lease. Understood?" 

Ghost thinks the old man has gone fucking senile.

"Understood."

"Involved, Ghost. Offer your two cents here. Say a shitty joke there. Have a drink or two."

"Sir."

Price huffs again, his mustache twitching with the force of it. He carefully cradles Ghost's burned hand. He's got a rag, wets it with the cool water, and lays it gingerly over Ghost's hand. 

"Just… Consider it, Simon. Really, this time." Price murmurs, patting Ghost's shoulder with his dry hand. "And get your ass to medical before you terrorize the gym again."

Ghost doesn't know if he wants to strangle the man or hug him. 

¤¤¤¤¤

They're standing on Ghost's favorite watch tower, Soap and Ghost, overlooking the quiet woods behind the base. 

Johnny had wanted to see his knife collection, and for some godforsaken reason, Ghost shows him.

And as Ghost hands Johnny his favorite one, perfectly balanced and sharper than the devil's tongue, Johnny speaks something dangerous.

"I love you, Simon."

And Simon startles, gasps quietly as his heart beats faster and faster.

Is that just how it is? Effortlessly said, as if those words haven't been plaguing him for months? As if it's really just that easy? 

Simon hopes so. Hopes that it comes naturally to him like it does to Johnny.

But he knows better than to hope.

There's not love in the world for people like him.

"Let me show you how much I love you," Johnny beams, switching his grip on Ghost's knife.

"Johnny…?"

Johnny stabs himself just above his navel with Ghost's knife, the slick shhk of the blade echoing in the abyss as Simon can do nothing but watch. 

Blood pools over John's hips, down his strong legs, puddles at his feet, but the man is standing there, smiling and looking at Simon like he just hung the moon. 

"John- Johnny," Simon forces, rising from his spot on the ground, trembling hands refusing to move from his sides.

"I have a gift for you," John smiles, like he isn't forcing the blade up his torso, carving himself open like a fish. He flexes what's left of his abs, and his small intestines tumble out of him like a massive snake. They fall on the floor at first, but a section somewhere in the middle tips over the side, and gravity sends the organ free falling from the edge of the watchtower, and his large intestines peek out from behind John's flesh. "Ready for it?"

Simon doesn't speak. He can't, mesmerized by how Johnny's free hand pulls the rest of his intestines free like they were as normal as rope.

Johnny then holds the bloodied blade between his teeth, taints those perfectly pearly whites, and uses both hands to dig inside himself.

His left kidney, maybe his pancreas, and his liver are carelessly tossed onto the floor. And Johnny is still smiling at him from beyond that knife. Standing there playing Operation on himself with hearts in his fucking eyes. 

With a handful of yanks, his lungs are pulled free, dropped to the floor like the others. They're still functioning, too; expanding and relaxing, providing oxygen for a body a yard away. 

And then finally, finally, he tugs his heart out of place with a fond chuckle from behind the blade.

He passes Ghost his heart tenderly, both of John's hands cradling it like it was the most precious thing in the world. And, fuck, it is. Of course it is. Simon tenderly takes the still-beating heart into one of his hands. The rhythmic beating of it sings to Simon, lulls him into a trace.

It's not bloody, Simon notices numbly. It almost seems to be glowing, even. Perfect and radiant and lively, all beautifully John Mactavish. 

And Ghost crushes it. 

Closes his hand in a fist so suddenly, so violently, that Soap's heart practically explodes. 

He doesn't feel a thing when he does so. Blanky watches as Soap's face pales impossibly further, and his lungs, that are still on the floor, stop filling up. 

Soap's dying.

He's murdered Johnny without a second thought.

Funny, how that works.

He really is a monster.

Simon wakes up with wet cheeks and blurry eyes. He gasps, shaking and silent. Tears slip down his face again when he blinks away the teasing remnants of the dream.

He gets his bearings together relatively quickly, but not even honeyed tea could stop the shaking in his hands.

He avoids Mactavish for the entire day.

It comes with a little bit of trouble, as the man sticks to him like glue, but Ghost manages. It's his job to disappear, to be a ghost, to be dead.

But fucking hell, maybe Mactavish is a medium.

Ghost will catch glimpses of him, in the mess, in the bath, in the gym, the range, the track, the gym again, the barracks hallway, near Price's office- everywhere.

He eventually gets cornered when he has to take a fucking piss.

Ghost hears Soap coming from miles away, but it doesn't matter. The determination in the man's steps alone make him huff as he tucks himself away. 

Hell, Ghost is already running from his past. Adding MacTavish to that list isn't helping him.

He starts washing his hands the best he can with the small splint medical gave him when he feel eyes on his back.

"Sergeant," he murmurs.

There's a scoff, full of bravado and vinegar. "Lieutenant."

Ghost feels his jaw shift as he cuts the water to dry his hands. The bitterness in his chest at the title, foreign coming from Johnny, processes. 

He's being hypocritical. This is how Johnny must feel.

"Can I help you?" Ghost says anyway.

"Can I help ye, he says," Soap grin to himself but it doesn't reach his eyes, doesn't sit right with his snarky tone. "Aye, ye can bother t' explain why ye've been dodgin' me like th' bloody plague."

Because I don't want to hurt you.

Because you're important. 

Because I'm scared.

Ghost sniffs once, tossing the paper towels into the trash.

"Need some time to myself. Ain't nothin' personal, Johnny."

At that, Soap loses some of that tension in his shoulders, stops looking like a caged dog. He lets out the smallest of breaths.

"Aye…" he murmurs, hesitating. He licks over his bottom lip- Johnny often does that when he isn't sure what to say, tries to taste the words before deciding to serving them out or not- and takes a glance at the suddenly interesting floor. "Just… ah'm here, ye know? If… Ah don't know… If ye don't want time to yerself for too long."

"Yeah…" Simon lets out, accidentally. He recovers quickly, or tries to, anyway. "We'll see."

And Johnny licks his lips again, after a quiet nod. But he doesn't say anything. Maybe he didn't like the taste of his words this time.

¤¤¤¤¤

He dreams again and again. Always, he dreams. 

Most recently, he dreams of Johnny.

Simon can't stand it. 

It's affecting his waking moments now. It's making him affect Soap's waking moments.

After dreaming of that night in Chicago, of missing that shot on Hassan, of watching, hearing Johnny fall just about 50 stories to his death, Ghost spent a week straight making sure Soap stayed away from the high watch towers. He went as far as swapping patrols or having something 'suddenly come up' that 'needs the Sergeant right fucking now'.

After dreaming of missing Hassan, and shooting Johnny, he trained for hours and hours straight at the sniper range, foregoing meals and drinks and piss breaks just to make sure that his aim was perfect every time. Soap was forced to waste his evening by slowly convincing Simon that enough was enough, that he needed to eat, drink water, and get some fucking rest. 

After dreaming that Johnny blew up into dozens of pieces of meat chunks protecting him, Simon had a panic attack when Soap was at the demo-range and an explosion went off. Despite not even a cut on him, Ghost forced Soap to medical (once his own breathing was stable enough). He banned an outraged Soap from the range for two days.

Once, he dreamed that Johnny killed himself. Put a barrel in his mouth and looked at Simon. Pulled the trigger without hesitating. Simon knew, just knew, it was his fault.

After every dream of Johnny dying in front of him, or worse, by his hands, Simon crumbles. Loses another piece of himself.

He doesn't know how many pieces of himself he has left to lose.

¤¤¤¤¤

When the night comes to drink, Ghost considers going AWOL. 

Thinks about staying true to his call sign and vanishing into thin air, never seen again. He plans it out, even, knows what little to bring, what time to leave, where to walk to.

He stares at the mask he wears on base, just the balaclava with the infamous skull print. His gloved thumb runs over where a piece of the jaw design is cracking. He shifts his own jaw in time with his thumb.

Maybe there's no Simon left, he thinks, delusional. 

Maybe it's just Ghost, after everything.

Now would be the time to slip away, Ghost reminds himself, and his grip on the mask tightens, threateningly pulling at the jaw bone design.

Now.

He slips the mask over his head, and slowly breathes. He considers.

The faint smell of cigar smoke worms its way under his door and into his room. He hears Gaz laugh somewhere down the hallway, hears Soap's soft footsteps padding towards his room.

No. 

He stands wearily, takes another deliberate breath, and stalks to the door.

There's a knock, just as his hand reaches for the knob. A familiar pattern, one that makes him force a feeling that could possibly be described as giddiness down into the abyss behind his ribcage. 

Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock.

He could still run. Now's the very last chance he'll get. Johnny won't let him out of his sights when this night starts. Ghost should vanish- it's now or never.

He swallows past the sting of bile in his throat and returns with a quiet knock of his own.

Knock, knock.

He hears Soap laugh quietly on the other side.

Never, he choses. Never.

Ghost opens his door, and there is Soap, leaning against the wall with a grin so wide that it could crack his face. His eyes brighten when he sees Ghost. His grin drops a little when he sees what look Simon has in his eyes.

Johnny furrows his brows slightly, darts his eyes up and down in a quick one-two. 

Ye alreit?

Ghost shifts his jaw before steps into Johnny's space, just a little.

I'll be fine.

Johnny squints at him before dropping the silent conversation. He pushes himself off the wall and starts talking about a new project he's working on at the demolitions range. 

Ghost follows him to his office, and hangs on every word.

¤¤¤¤¤

Soap's 'office' is more of a play room than anything, all regulation thrown to the wind.

Spotless, but filled with personal trinkets and such. Soap reminds Ghost of a crow, collecting little shiny things to bring home to show others. It would be almost cute if Ghost would allow himself to think that way. 

Gaz isn't here, though. Neither is Price or Laswell, or anyone else.

Just him and Johnny. 

He doesn't think about it too much, because if he does, he knows it's the old man's fault.

Johnny doesn't pay any mind to the lack of the other three, and instead buries his head around his thousand-and-some shelves to find 'the right glasses'. 

"What are we drinkin'?" Ghost asks when the sound of rummaging starts to grate on his nerves.

"Oh, he does speak. Bless th' Saints, ah thought ye went mute,'' Johnny grins at him. Ghost narrows his eyes. Maybe he should have ran. The hum Johnny gives while pretending to think on it, possibly, changes his mind again. "Daiquiris," he settles on.

"What?"

"Ye know, those fruity, fancy cocktails."

Ghost could walk out the door right now. He should. 

"Fuckin' hell, Johnny," Ghost drawls, casting his gaze to the draw that seemed to be the one Johnny was looking for, if his air fist bump was anything to go by. He pulls out two daiquiris glasses, one of them clear around the middle up and with the base a cool blue. The other- "What the fuck."

Johnny laughs at that and holds the other glass up proudly. It's hot pink with a little touch of purple at the rim and with a mini pink boa scarf at the base.

"Don't like it?" Johnny grins so bright it feels like Ghost is getting flashbanged.

"You would have that," he murmured instead.

"Yeah, yeah. Yer lucky 'm givin' ye the blue one. Gotta keep up yer masculine image, eh?" 

"Whatever you say, Johnny," Ghost huffs, settling into the plush spare seat across from the desk. "Make it strong, yeah?"

Johnny hums quietly, his eyes lingering on Ghost's face.

Two hours. That's all he needs before he's calling it a night and fucking off. 

¤¤¤¤¤

He doesn't know exactly when he got drunk, but he does know that he ended up with the pink glass two drinks ago. Maybe four. 

Johnny isn't wasted like him; the fucker's been nursing his second drink for about an hour. 

Right, fuck, he was supposed to leave…

He forces his eyes to drag up to the oddly silent clock on the wall. Ghost remembers Johnny telling him all about how he managed to rig the clock in a way the ticking sound doesn't happen. He said it drove him bat shit crazy, having to hear it over and over again. It was adorable.

Fuck, no, he needs to focus. The clock, the time. 

Ghost tries again, squinting at it for extra measure. 

Jesus, he was supposed to be out of here three hours ago. 

"Ye alreit?" Johnny asks from his spot next to Ghost on the floor. Ghost hums at him in question. "I asked if ye're alreit, Ghost."

Ghost blinks at him, considering the question for an awfully long time, long enough for Johnny to sit up and gain that adorable furrow between his eyebrows.

"L.t? Seriously, are ye okay?"

He takes a small breath.

"Nah," he offers simply, running his hand through his tousled hair. 

Simon dropped the mask all of thirty minutes ago. He finally got pissed off about having it bunched up on his nose and abandoned the thing.

Johnny blinked at him a time or two, the gears turning in his head at Ghost actually being honest.

"No?"

"Yeah, no."

Johnny blinks again and that furrow grows.

"Yes?"

"Nah."

"No?"

"Yeah," Simon grins at the stupidness of the conversation. 

Johnny shakes his head with an exasperated sigh. 

"Alreit, what th' fuck," Johnny tosses his hands up.

And Simon laughs.

He doesn't know that he is laughing until his sides ache with it. Johnny's laughing too, at first in disbelief and then with Simon at the situation. And when Simon comes down from a high he hasn't felt in decades, Johnny is staring at him- through him, deep into what's left of his soul. 

"Wha'," Simon slurs, lips morphing into an odd, lazy grin.

"Nothin'."

"Nothin'?"

"Aye." Johnny's eyes linger lightly at his mouth before they harden and he sits up a bit. "Hell, Si, ye've got me all side tracked. This is important."

"Wha's important?"

"Ye are. Ye not bein' alreit," Johnny insists.

"Ah, sure," he murmurs, laying his head back on the side of Soap's desk.

"Ah'm serious," Johnny shifts closer, and Simon's eyes open lazily. "Why aren't ye alreit, Simon?"

Simon.

The abomination almost sounds pretty coming out of Johnny's mouth. 

Ghost gets his shit together.

"You wanna know?" Ghost rasps, drinking the rest of his too-sweet daiquiri in his too-frilly glass. 

"Aye. If ye'd tell me."

And Ghost gathers his drifting thoughts, pieces them together as he breathes slowly.

"I have killed you… Countless times." Ghost waves his hand simply, almost like he were shooing a fly. "Shot you, stabbed you, lit you on fuckin' fire, made you-" he forces a sharp breath. "Made you off yourself, just like that." His throat is getting tight, and he lifts the glass to his scarred lips again, knowing damn well it was empty. 

"Simon," Johnny breathes, slow and steady hands taking the glass from him to set it aside. His hands return quickly, and it's placed on top of Simon's.

"I don't- I won't take it anymore." A sob desperately tries punches through Simon, and he covers his face like the coward he is. "I want to hold you, want to have you, Johnny."

And the fucking gleam in Johnny's eyes could fly Simon to the moon and makes him bring back arm fulls of stars for him. 

"But- but everything I touch dies. And I can't… can't lose you to myself." The sob tries Simon again, and this time, it wins. He's crying, and he doesn't know how to stop, and it scares him. Scares him so badly that he can't do anything but press the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn't care that Johnny's hand falls away.

Really. He doesn't. Not… Not at all.

Christ, he is absolutely shameless.

Seriously, has he no pride? Breaking down over a couple of dreams? Crying in front of his Sergeant?

He feels his teeth grind together, feels his skull build up with the pressure of a thousand words, and by God and the devil, he has to let at least some out before they kill him.

"They felt so fuckin' real," he seethes past his locked jaw. "Woke up sometimes, 'n' I didn't bloody know if you were really dead or not. Felt like seein' a ghost everytime we passed."

Johnny's hand comes back, steady and tender, and guides Simon to lessen the pressure on his eyes. 

Past the blur left over from the tears and the force, he catches Johnny licking his bottom lip.

"Ah'm not dead. Ye've touched me and ah'm still breathin' jus' fine, Simon. Promise- Swear I am," Johnny carefully caresses Ghost's forearm. "Ah'm not goin' anywhere." He grins a little. "Yer not that lucky to get rid'a me."

Simon takes a deep breath, one that shakes his rib cage and stretches his lungs. With Johnny's encouragement, he breathes slowly. 

"Yeah," he murmurs, leaning his shoulder on Johnny's.

"Aye," Johnny agrees, leaning in time with him.

They sit there for some time, taking each other in, feeling each other's warmth. Simon nearly doses off to the feeling of Johnny's chest rising and falling. 

"Yer gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow," Johnny chuckles, combing through Simon's hair.

And, honestly, Simon is powerless against the chuckle that breaks through.