#I was working on figuring out / drawing out time's armour | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

probably-writing-x · 2 years ago

Text

Armour

Rafe!AU x Reader

Summary: Having your heart broken was one thing. But Rafe watching somebody break your heart? That was something nobody could prepare for.

Warnings: Suggestions of a toxic relationship, cursing, mentions of alcohol / drug dependency, I think that’s everything??

Word Count: 4.1k

Author’s Note: I LOVED writing this - it took me ages but I just had the idea from this gif and went for it. Let me know if you like it <3

It wasn’t a feeling you could describe. Because, really, it felt like there was no explanation. You’d been in love. You’d been consumed. And now? Nothing. It felt like a part of your future had been torn away in front of you. And you didn’t know why.

For nine years now you’d been dating your boyfriend, James. He was your high school relationship, turned college relationship, and the two of you had returned to the Outer Banks and bought a place together - planning on staying here so that he could work for his father now that the two of you had graduated college.

You’d been living in the house for a year now, down the road from his parents’ home, where he’d grown up. It was weird really, you’d been so certain that you wanted to get off the island. But he’d suggested moving back here and you agreed. That was what was going to keep him happy, anyway. And, plus, him working for his Dad’s company would mean that the two of you were practically set for life. Though it felt strange to think that your life would begin and end here. You’d done it for him, for your relationship, your future with James.

And yet you couldn’t figure out where things had changed. You couldn’t pinpoint a day, a moment, an argument; nothing. One day he was yours and the next he was disappearing. And, as much as you wanted to keep him, there was only so much it was in your control.

It was a day burned into your mind, one that would remain burned there for a long time. The way he’d looked at you, cold and heartless. The way he’d spoken, yelled and screamed when you disagreed. And, just like that, he’d packed a bag and walked out towards his parents’ place, telling you that it was over. Nine years of a relationship slipping away, disappearing into the dark of your first night alone.

Sarah had come round that night and stayed with you, her baby bump growing into her fifth month of pregnancy. She’d stayed with you on the couch as you cried, still been there in the morning when your eyes were tired and puffy. She’d stayed the entire day and helped pack up as many of your things as you could, called John B to get him to help take your stuff to their house.

They lived where the chalet used to be, in a house John B had built with the boys, much bigger than what they used to have. One of the rooms was taken up by the starts of their nursery, and they’d already set up an air mattress in the other room for you, a spare sheet and comforter folded on top. You didn’t sleep much more than a couple of hours that night either, or the night after, and you only slept from exhaustion on the fourth night.

“Hey, (Y/N),” Sarah knocks gently on the door before letting herself in, “How are you doing?”

You pull yourself to sit up in the bed, pushing yourself back against the headboard, drawing your knees to your chest, “I’m okay, just tired.”

She frowns and comes to sit on the bed beside you, her hand squeezing your knee, “So, you don’t have to see him if you don’t want to, but my brother is flying back today.”

Rafe. Her older brother. The boy you’d grown up with. He’d been your first kiss at a party when both of you were too young to know what you were doing. He’d been the boy that picked you up from your first drunk night when your parents couldn’t know you’d been drinking. He’d been the one your eyes were drawn to in a crowd of people since you could remember. You hadn’t seen him since the summer after your first year of college. He’d decided to move to New York - taking up a job in the city. The two of you had sat on the dock and spoken for hours and he ended the conversation by telling you he was leaving in the morning. Since then, your paths hadn’t crossed. He was barely home nowadays. But, you suppose, with Sarah being pregnant, it was a better time than any for him to return to the old stomping grounds.

“He’s coming here?” You swallow the lump in your throat.

She nods, “He’s going to sleep on the couch for a couple of nights. I haven’t told him anything about you and James - I figured it was up to you if you wanted to tell him or not.”

You take a deep breath and nod too, “Okay, thank you.”

Sarah squeezes your leg again and places her other hand over her bump, pushing herself up to stand, “John B is making some food if you want any breakfast. I’d make the most of it, he hates cooking normally,” She laughs, the sympathy still casting a shadow over her bright eyes.

Sarah knew how things were with you and Rafe, as much as she never mentioned it to you - it was a conversation that it felt like the two of you had already had without any words being spoken. She’d seen his face after the two of you kissed, the way he blushed and stuttered afterwards. She’d watched the way things had changed between you when you and James got together, the way Rafe seemed to distance. And she’d watched the pain in your eyes the day he left, like a little window through to the ache that seemed to never leave your heart. And, right now, she’d seen the slightest glimmer of hope in you at the mention of him coming home.

For the first time in a few days, you find yourself actually wanting to get up, get ready, feel a little human for the day. You shower and do all of your skincare, spending a little longer on it than you usually do. You half-dry your hair and plait it instead of leaving it to frizz around your head, and you change into clean clothes from the duffle bag of things that you and Sarah had packed up from your house - well, what was your house.

By the time you come downstairs, John B and Sarah are sat at the dining table, tucking into plates of food with a fresh pot of coffee and a jug of orange juice on the table. One of his arms is around the back of her chair, his eyes bright as he listens to her speak.

“Hey! You’re up!” He looks over and grins as you come down the stairs, “How are you feeling today?”

You smooth a hand over the two braids on your head and smile, feeling like you have to force it just a little less than before, “Better, thank you.”

“Good, well there’s food here if you want it,” He gestures to the table, “And eat up quick because Sarah’s eating enough for two at the minute.”

You laugh and make your way over, sitting down at the opposite side of the table. From the angle, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror in their lounge and the sight doesn’t feel like yourself. Your eyes are dark underneath, something no eye cream would fix after just one use. And your body seems weirdly shrunken in the sweatshirt around your figure. It sits long over your arms and so baggy that you can’t make out the shape of your torso. Your skin looks drier and your lips are chapped. But you remind yourself that you feel a little more human today and it seems to ease the worry for a while, your breath feeling less shaky as you turn back to the food.

“Oh shit, I didn’t realise the time,” John B glances at the clock, “I promised I’d go and help Pope build their crib before I went to pick your brother up - apparently I’m a pro at it now.”

Pope and Cleo were also expecting, due just a month after Sarah and John B’s baby would likely be born. They lived in a house not far from his parents’ place. JJ and Kie had come back to the Outer Banks a few months ago after travelling for a year - though they said it was less travelling and more finding as many places to surf as they could. Before that, Kie had been working on turtle conservation in a few different projects and JJ had been flying out everywhere with her - experiencing the world as a pair. They had no plans of marriage, or kids, or even where to settle, but that was perfect for them; chasing another adventure until it felt like they’d done it all. And you - whilst it felt like all of your friends were starting a new chapter, yours had just ended and the author was yet to think of where the story would go next. It was as if one of the main characters had just dropped out of the pages, leaving the story in ruins from here on out - all chapters of marriage and pregnancy and growing old together disappearing as quickly as James had told you it was over.

John B kisses Sarah a quick goodbye and grabs the keys to his truck, disappearing outside. A chill flurries through the house but it dissipates quickly, settling back into the home they’d managed to make together. You weren’t sure if you could remember your house feeling like that, and when you think about it for too long, you settle on the fact that maybe it never had.

~~~

It’s early afternoon when you hear the sound of a car in the driveway. And you’re sure your ears prick up to the noise, your heart seeming to pause a little in preparation. You set down the book in your hands and stand up from the couch, glancing at your appearance in the mirror quickly and dragging your fingertips underneath your eyes as if to push the fatigue away from them.

“I think that’s them back,” Sarah comments as she comes downstairs, making her way over to the door, “Yeah, that’s them! Are you okay?”

You glance at her and regather your words, “Of course.”

And, just like that, the door clicks open and the sound of two rumbling voices tumbles into the room, a deep laugh that pauses halfway through.

“Hey little sis!” Rafe’s voice seems no different than when you last heard it, deep and intense but seemingly so comforting.

He grins as he wraps his arms around his sister, cautiously as if the bump between them is the most fragile thing he’s seen. His eyes flick down to the baby bump and back up, shaking his head with the slightest reflection of tears in his eyes.

“I still can’t believe it,” He chuckles, hugging her again, “I was just saying to John B that I-“

As he pulls away from her, his eyes flick back to the only other body in the room. The few metres between you. His shoulders and features soften, his body relaxing just slightly. His smile falters, somewhere close to shock, before returning as bright as it had been before.

“(Y/N)…” His voice seems to trail off, Adam’s apple bobbing and the sound of his duffle bag hitting the floor seeming to echo in the space between you, “Long time no see.”

With that, he strides the short distance between you and wraps his arms around you tightly, tight enough that your feet just slightly lift from the ground. He smells like dark cologne and coffee and his hair is longer than when you’d seen him last, his face seeming fuller and sharper as if he’d grown into himself, a shadow of stubble growing darker around his jawline.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” He comments, settling you back as he steps away from you, hands still gripping your forearms - his eyes seem to graze over you as if checking over.

“Yeah I-“ You clear your throat, voice seeming scratchy as your eyes find it impossible to leave him, “I’m just staying for a few days.”

“God, it’s good to see you,” His brows raise with his smile, a light laugh warming the space between you before Rafe seems to come back to himself, clearing his throat and letting go of his hold around your arms, one of his hands flying up to scratch at the back of his neck.

“I’ll leave your stuff down here if that’s okay, Rafe,” Sarah comments, “Are you sure you’re okay with sleeping on the couch?”

He turns away from you and takes a second to rejoin a conversation away from you, nodding, “Yeah, of course. We all know I slept in way worse places after drunk nights before.”

You’d learnt from Sarah that Rafe was completely sober now - he’d stopped the drinking and the drugs not long after you’d gone off to college, and Sarah still swore it was like a weird shift into his old self coming back. You weren’t sure that you knew what she meant - he’d always been Rafe to you.

“Alright, I’ll bring down some pillows and a blanket,” John B nods, jogging upstairs.

Before you can say anything else, your phone starts to ring on one of the side tables by the couch, buzzing loudly against the wooden surface. The screen flashes up with “James” accompanied by a blue heart emoji and a photo of the two of you on vacation that you still hadn’t removed.

“I-“ You feel your cheeks heat, “I should take this.”

You grab the phone and flee down the corridor, only answering the call when you’re outside, the door to the garden remaining ajar behind you.

“Hello?”

“(Y/N),” He returns, his voice seeming cold even through the speaker of your phone, “Are you still at Sarah’s?”

“Yeah I’m just staying here for a few days I-“

“Okay, I have more of your stuff to drop off,” James cuts in, “I’ll swing by and leave it at the front door.”

“James can we just-“

He hangs up then and the phone feels heavy in your hand, still lightly pressed against your ear as if any part of him still remained. Your heart seems to clench and your bottom lip quivers but you pierce your lips together tightly to stop it, clenching your nails into your palm until the slight sting centres you back into where you were. This morning had felt like a better day, a few steps forward, and within just a few short words you seemed to have tumbled all the way back to square one.

When you turn around and go back inside, it’s just Rafe left in the lounge.

“Where did-“

“Something to do with pregnancy,” Rafe narrows his eyes a little, a small smile on his lips, “But I have no idea what she actually said.”

You nod and wrap your arms around yourself, avoiding his gaze.

He frowns, standing up from the couch, “Is everything okay?”

You nod again.

“I saw you were reading To Kill A Mockingbird, do you like it? I realise I never asked you,” He picks up your copy from the table and brushes a thumb over the worn cover.

He’d given you that book when you’d graduated. You’d read it front to back at least four times since then, sometimes just reading the annotations that he’d put in the margins instead of the printed words on the page.

“It’s the one I gave you,” His brows drop as if in sudden realisation, and his eyes seem brighter like they’re swelling with the hints of pride in his heart, “I didn’t even realise it was the same one. I can’t believe you’ve still got this.”

You fiddle with the material on the sleeves of your jumper, noticing how it seems to scratch at your skin more now, “Yeah, same one.”

Rafe glances up and the pride in his eyes seems to etch towards worry, “(Y/N), what’s going on?”

You shake your head again, “Um, I think I’m going to go and lie down. I should probably give you a chance to settle in anyway, you’ve been travelling and everything.”

With a slight stumble over your words, you hurry towards the stairs, disappearing out of his sight before he has the chance to stop you.

~~~

Somewhere between then and now, you’d fallen asleep. You wake up hours later and the sun has shifted to the afternoon angle that meant it no longer came burning through the window in the spare bedroom. The house is quiet but you can hear the sound of conversation downstairs, quiet voices and hushed tones.

When you open your bedroom door, the conversation becomes clearer - Rafe and Sarah.

“She’s not herself, why won’t you tell me what’s happened?” Rafe says, and you can hear the worry injected into his words.

“Rafe, I can’t tell you for her, you’ve just got to wait until she’s ready to talk about it,” Sarah explains, “It’s been years since you two have seen each other, you can’t blame her for not wanting to talk to you about stuff yet.”

“We used to talk about everything, I knew everything about her,” Rafe returns, “I’ve just… I’ve missed her. And I’ve come back but it still feels like I haven’t got her back.”

You feel the weight settle and flutter on your chest, a weird combination between wanting to run down to him and run away from it all. It felt weird to have Rafe back when you felt so distant from yourself. The closest to him you’d been in years and yet feeling like the furthest from you.

One of the floorboards creaks beneath your feet and their conversation quickly ceases. You take that as your sign to go downstairs, feeling a little more human now that you’d caught up on another few hours of sleep.

“Hi honey,” Sarah smiles warmly, “There’s a box of stuff for you on the counter.”

“Of course there is,” You roll your eyes at her and she laughs a little, “Thank you.”

It’s an unlabelled box, likely one of the small ones you’d used to move into the house in the first place. But you take the lid on top as a sign to not open it - whatever was in there you probably didn’t want to be thinking about now. It could be opened on one of your bad days when you needed to cry. Until then, it could definitely be ignored.

“Alright I’m just going to call John B and get him to pick up some dinner on the way home,” Sarah comments, walking out of the kitchen and into the lounge instead.

Rafe is leaning back against one of the counters, a red solo cup in his hand, his eyes looking down as he swirls around the liquid in the cup.

“I thought you stopped drinking,” You comment, gesturing to his hands.

He chuckles a little and looks up at you, “Yeah, yeah, I did. It’s just water. This was the first cup I could find.”

You nod and walk over to him, leaning against the kitchen island opposite Rafe so that you were facing him, your arms folding over your chest.

“So, how’s New York?”

Rafe smiles, “Very different from home. Sometimes a good different, other times not so much. Just a lot to get used to, you know?”

You nod in agreement but don’t say anything.

“Makes me realise how much I miss from home.”

Your eyes find his again and both of you smile just enough for it to be visible. The air feels warmer between you, warmer still every time your eyes meet.

“So, you moved back here, to the Outer Banks, glad to come home?”

“I don’t-“ You purse your lips for a second, “I did, when I first got back. I don’t know anymore.”

He’s silent in return and your eyes lose contact, yours flicking to the floor. Rafe stretches out one of his feet and nudges at your ankle, tapping you, “Hey.”

You look up and let your eyes return to his, his gaze softening as his words quieten. The tension in you seems to relax just enough.

“What happened, (Y/N)?”

You feel the lump reform in your throat, the way it seems to constrict any chance you have of speaking, the way your muscles feel weaker, like you could crumble there and then, “I don’t know.”

The words come out barely audible, scratching from your tongue as your bottom lip trembles a little.

“One day we were fine, the next he told me it was over,” You half-laugh because you’re certain it’s the only way you can avoid crying, though tears are already blurring your vision, “I don’t know what happened.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Rafe steps forward and pulls your arms from around your torso, guiding them around his back before wrapping his own arms around you too, letting your head bury onto his chest. He brings a hand up to your hair and keeps you close to him, tightening his hold on you as much as he possibly can.

You let yourself cry into him, tears staining the t-shirt as you grip onto the material at the back, holding him like you’re terrified that he’ll slip away too. Despite the way you need him to hold you, you’re sure that he needs you too - in the way his chin rests on top of your hair, the way he adjusts every few seconds as if reassuring himself that you couldn’t get any closer.

The pair of you stay like that for a short infinity, neither of you wanting to be the first to move, both of you certain that years of emotion is pouring into the single gesture, the single contact after years without. A short infinity.

~~~

That night, you sit down for dinner with Sarah, John B and Rafe. They all make sure that you fill your plate of food first, and encourage you to have the last slice of pizza. They look at you with a sense of relief on their features, like you were back just a little more than you had been. Rafe’s arm settles over the back of your chair, his other hand wrapped around a glass of water. He looks at you when you speak and chuckles deeply when you make a quiet joke. You feel the most human you’ve felt in years.

And when you go to bed that night, it feels less likely that you’ll be lying awake questioning everything, much more likely that you’ll sleep soundly. You change into your pyjamas - a baggy t-shirt and a pair of shorts - and get under the covers, tugging them up to your neck.

Just then, there’s a knock at the door, a little tap like it isn’t sure if it wants to be heard.

“Come in,” You announce, pushing yourself to sit up a little against the headboard.

It’s Rafe on the other side, only his silhouette visible against the dark of the room, the light of the corridor illuminating him from behind, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” He whispers into the dark, “I was just downstairs and I realised you left this.”

His hands are wrapped around the copy of your book, the pages slightly folded at the corner.

“Oh, right, yeah, I forgot it,” You smile, “Thank you.”

“You just, you normally always read before bed,” He continues, bringing it over as the bedroom door starts to shut slowly behind him, “Well, you used to, I don’t know if you still do that anymore, I just remember when you used to- I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”

You laugh a little and he sets the book down on your nightstand.

“So, you promise you’re okay?”

“I will be,” You return, watching as he stands awkwardly at the side of your bed, like he’s completely out of place, “Do you want to sit down?”

His mouth opens and closes like he’s not sure what to say but he nods, walking around to the other side of the bed and sitting down beside you, looking out of place still in his clothes from the day.

You’re both silent, illuminated by the slither of light coming through from the ajar bedroom door. On the far side of the room, there’s a vanity stretching across the wall, it’s scattered with a few of your belongings, and right in the middle sits the box that James had dropped off earlier.

Rafe nods his head in the direction of it, “So, have you opened that?”

You look at him and frown, “No, no I haven’t.”

“Don’t you want to know what he’s given you?”

You laugh a little, “I can tell you want to know. Go and get it, let’s open it.”

He chuckles and scrambles to stand up, grabbing the box and bringing it back over. Rafe settles himself back into the bed and sets the box down between the two of you, “Go on, you do the honours.”

You laugh and take the lid off. The box is only half full, littered with a few relatively meaningless things. There’s a couple of your tops, a jewellery box you took when you went on vacation, a couple of bracelets, a photoframe - empty, though that had once held a photo of you and James together.

“Holy shit! You kept this?” Rafe exclaims, picking up a shot glass that had been buried under a few things.

The glass had come from a night the two of you had snuck into the bar near the port. You’d managed to pick the lock on the door, spent hours just the two of you chatting and figuring out random drinks to make. Rafe had poured you shots of every liquor he could find and you’d shared each one, grimacing a little less with every shot as the alcohol started to take effect. You’d left some time after sunrise, managed to stumble your way down to the beach, and woke up hours later with the shot glass still held in your grasp. It had come with you to college, and came back when you moved back home. A little pocketed story that only you and Rafe knew.

“Of course I did,” You giggle, “That was a good night.”

Rafe traces his thumb around the top of the glass, “Yeah, it was I loved that night.”

“Do you remember it?” You scoff, “We were wasted.”

You remembered it. You were so sure he was going to kiss you, then. To kiss you for the first time that wasn’t controlled by a party game. To kiss you for the first time away from a party of laughing eyes. He’d looked at you like he was going to kiss you, but he never did. Though, when you slept, he’d linked his fingers with yours, squeezing three times before both of you fell asleep. His hand, just like the shot glass, had still been in yours hours later.

“I remember.”

The silence falls once again as both of you pick and pull at the rest of the objects in the box. Nothing takes much interest after that, but you find yourself instead drawn to what was missing.

“It’s not in here,” You mumble, pulling through the box one more time to check again.

“What isn’t?” Rafe frowns, “What’s not there?”

“It’s um-“ You clear your throat, glancing up at him, “It’s stupid really.”

He shakes his head, “It’s not stupid, what is it?”

“Do you remember that little giraffe I used to have? My nana got it for me when I was a kid, it’s not in here, and I couldn’t find it when me and Sarah got my stuff. It’s not here,” You frown again, taking out the shot glass and closing the lid on the rest of the box.

“Well, it’s got to be at the house somewhere,” Rafe shrugs, “We’ll find it.”

You half-laugh, setting the box down on the floor beside the bed, “What are we going to do? Break into the house?”

Your laugh continues but Rafe’s stops after a split second, shrugging his shoulders, “Let’s do it.”

You halt in your movements, looking at the way his eyes seem so set on you, like nothing could tear them away, “You’re serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

~~~

That’s how, within the hour, you’re walking up towards your old house, it looking eerie and dark in your absence, the flowers you’d planted outside looked dry even after a few days without you here and it bubbled a new sense of loss inside you, like a part you hadn’t thought you’d lose - a mundane part that just added to the rest.

“Do you still have a key?” Rafe hisses from beside you as you both walk up the driveway.

“No, I left it at home,” You return, glancing up at him.

“What?” Rafe raises his brows, “We came all the way here and yo-“

“Kidding,” You smile, pulling the key from your pocket, “This is still my house too until he settles everything.”

Rafe grins, “I like the way you think (Y/L/N).”

You step up to the door and go to unlock it. Rafe steps forward, his hand wrapping around yours before you can move. He looks at you and presses the index finger of his other hand to his lips, guiding his hand around yours to turn the key in the lock. The door creaks when it opens and you both wince, letting it close slowly behind you.

“Damn, this is a nice place,” Rafe whispers, glancing around the downstairs rooms of the house.

You look at him and roll your eyes, “That makes me feel better.”

He laughs quietly and clasps his hands together, widening his eyes at the quiet noise that seems to echo around the house, “So where are we going?”

“I don’t know where it would be,” You shake your head, “Maybe the lounge?”

He outstretches a hand, “Lead the way.”

You take Rafe’s hand in yours as the two of you go towards the lounge. You bump into the couch as you step into the room and he stumbles behind you, hands flying to your waist to stop you from falling.

“We’re not exactly pros at this,” Rafe laughs, letting you balance yourself again as you stand up, your back pressing against his chest.

You glance down at yourself, a baggy hoodie over a pair of shorts, a pair of crocs on your feet, and him, a pair of slacks and a checkered shirt with a couple of buttons undone. He steps back from you and glances around the dark room, pulling out his phone and flicking on the flashlight. It casts a circle of light across the room as you start to look around, noticing the empty spots where photos of the two of you used to decorate the space. There are a few takeout boxes sprawled over the coffee table and a line of empty beer cans, one of them rolling along the floor when you step beside it.

“I can’t see anything,” Rafe hisses, flashing the light in your direction before you squint at the sight, blocking the brightness from your eyes, “Ooh sorry I-“

You both freeze then as a light flicks on upstairs, the hallway light.

“Who’s that?” Rafe mouths in your direction and you look at him like it’s the worst thing you’ve heard, watching the realisation sink onto his face just a second later.

Before either of you can say anything, there’s the sound of feet padding down the stairs, picking up their pace as they near you. Rafe takes a stride across the room, bumping shoulders with you as he comes to a stop.

“Who the f-“ James rounds the corner, “(Y/N)? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I ju-“

“Rafe?” James interjects, “What? Did you hear (Y/N) was single and catch the next flight back?”

“Hey, no, that’s not what-“ You begin again.

“Fucking unbelievable,” James interrupts you again, “What are you doing in my house?”

“Cut it out, asshole. Stop interrupting her,” Rafe cuts in, and you can instantly sense his change in demeanour, the way he shifts on his feet, “And this is (Y/N)’s house too, you got that?”

James scoffs, folding his arms over his chest, “What? So you brought Rafe here to fight your battles?”

“No, no,” You blush at the discomfort, “I just needed some of my things. Well, no, not some, just one thing actually, it’s stupid, just a little thing… I just-“ You swallow the lump in your throat, “Seb. He wasn’t in the box of stuff.”

“What? That weird giraffe thing you brought everywhere,” James scoffs, “That’s really that important?”

“Um,” You laugh a little to relieve some of the awkward tension clenching your chest, “No, I guess it’s not important but we were just talking, well, we were looking through the box and we realised it wasn’t there and Rafe, um, Rafe said-“

“Rafe?” James scoffs, “You’re kidding, right?”

“Seriously, man, cut it out,” Rafe repeats, stepping forward just a little as if he’s protecting you, not enough to block you off but enough for you to know that he was there, “I don’t care if you don’t think it’s important, you’re done making her feel bad for things she cares about - do you understand that?”

James lets out a laugh that seems to echo around the room and scratch at your ears, sending an uncomfortable shiver up your spine, “How the hell do you know what she wants? What’s this? The first time you’ve been home in how many years?”

“Yeah, well, good timing I’d call it. Something about some asshole that didn’t realise how lucky he was,” Rafe cocks a brow.

“Rafe…” Your voice is quiet, as if you’re shrinking into the room but he looks back at you and nods just gently, reassuring you. And you’re surprised when it works, settling the fear in your heart.

“So what? You think you come back and know everything about her? Like you’re some sort of knight in shining armour?” James scoffs, “You don’t know jackshit about her, let alone our relationship.”

Rafe laughs and steps away from you, narrowing his eyes at James before letting out a slow breath, shaking his head as he walks the length of the room, “Oh you really are an asshole.”

James doesn’t say anything, watching as Rafe strides the room, a harsh air about him you were sure he hadn’t shown in years, perhaps since he’d last seen you.

“You’re dating a woman like (Y/N) for nine years. Nine years. Nine fucking years you had her there for you - picking up the phone when you’d call, letting you complain about your bad days, not thinking to mention it when your cooking was terrible, always always thinking of you before anything else. And what? That wasn’t good enough?”

“This is nothing to do with you Cameron,” James defends, shifting his stance.

“You hurt (Y/N),” Rafe steps forward until he is less than a foot from James, staring at him coldly, “That means it does have something to do with me. In fact, it has a hell of a lot to do with me.”

You’re watching the scene unfold as if it’s fiction, as if this is a cross between a dream and a nightmare that you were about to wake up from. This Rafe isn’t the same boy that he was with you, he’s never this cold with you. But with someone that had done you wrong? He was a completely different version of himself.

He’s close enough to James now that you’re practically counting down the seconds until he’ll swing a fist at him, it’s inevitable. But you shift in your spot and he glances back to look at you, his eyes softening when they meet with yours. His brows relax and the features of his face do with them, settling into himself a little. His lips smile a little against the tension in his jaw and he takes a deep breath in, turning back to James.

“I don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t know what you think you’re gaining from all of this. But we’re gonna go now,” Rafe’s words don’t shift from their blunt tone, each word feeling calculated and exact, “And you’re going to go to bed, in a house that’s not fully yours, in a bed you used to share. And you’re going to wake up the next morning and the morning after that and again and again, and every time you’ll be on your own. You might not realise it now, maybe not tomorrow or the day after, but you’ll realise it. You’ll realise that every single day you’re waking up without (Y/N) here, you’re missing the one damn thing that made your life worth it.”

He clenches his jaw again and watches as James swallows the lump in his throat, his eyes flicking to you.

“Oh, here it is,” Rafe reaches down to the couch and picks up the toy giraffe you’d been looking for, holding it in his hand, “Good seeing you, James.”

He hits your ex on his chest as if a friendly gesture but it knocks James back just enough for him to be reminded of his place. Rafe looks back at you and offers you the same smile as before, offering you your exit as you make your way over to him. He lets you step in front and places a hand to your back, guiding you out of the house, slamming the door behind the two of you. And for the first time since you’d left this house days ago, you feel alive.

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codgod · 1 year ago

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y’know generally i try to limit colour palettes to as few colours as possible to make things more cohesive but despite my best efforts only jay ended up being able to stick to that </3

ANYWAYS here’s the as-of-right-now fully updated designs for these dickheads. these will no doubt undergo even more tweaking as i draw them more but this is a start i guess. also pls open the pictures to look at them properly i worked so hard LOL

some random notes under the cut yaaaay

chip —

he jingles when he walks. somehow he’s still stealthy. i do not know how

kept the platinum ring that bonded him to gillion in the block! because hey he doesn’t really have a reason to take it off (and it’s a nice reminder of how much gill cares about him, and how far their friendship has come since that ice arena)

his tattoos shift and flicker like actual flames, and sometimes (harmless, purely aesthetic) sparks fly off them when he’s excited

i just think smoke coming out of his mouth when he’s angry would be cool :]

chipped teeth from biting rocks and coins all the time :/

he has scars from the red lightning, they’re just mostly contained to his back and shoulders. they’re a similar red to his coat even once they’ve healed

gillion —

the tail sleeve thing is so he can rest it on the ground without damaging his scales, he doesn’t usually wear it when he’s just on the ship because the wood is soft enough that it’s usually fine + it can hinder swimming a bit. it’s mostly meant for places where there’s cobblestone or gravel streets and such. i think his armour would probably have a version that looks similar but covers the whole tail minus the fins, maybe with some armour plating of its own. i didn’t draw it because there wasn’t any room lol

his scars from the lightning are pink mostly because red stood out too much tbh. they softly glow in the dark the same as his coral and the pink parts of his fins

also kept his ring! his hands aren’t really made for jewellery, though, because the webbing means it won’t sit very secure on his finger. so he keeps it on the same chain as the necklace he got from aslana to keep it safe

tried to make him look a bit bulkier and more his age than in my original design? i feel like i was leaning too much into the naivety and. shortness. originally lol. he also has thicker eyebrows now and i’m still trying to decide how i feel about them but i think? i like it? i don’t tend to give many character thin eyebrows so it could’ve been a unique thing for him but alas

i think i made the sword too small but like ignore that

also forgor to include pretzel </3 that’s okay though she can get her own design sheet later. she’s special like that

jay —

i believe in tall jay supremacy

blue magic! i was considering gold but that’d look a bit more like a canary than i wanted for her wings so. blue jay :]

her hair is supposed to look kinda like fire to mimic her dad ! kinda showing that even if she runs from her family and the navy they’ll always be a part of her. and also i just like drawing messy hair

i gave her sturdier gloves just because i feel like it fits her better. also changed up the shirt to more of a button up solely because i don’t like tank tops very much LOL

i did WANT to make her outfit a bit flashier to match the boys better but i couldn’t quite figure out where to Put the flash. maybe that’ll come later, the way the story’s going i might get to design some cool prosthetics for her or something

overall —

because there’s just so many fucking colours i triiied to add at least one or two colours from each of them into the others designs. jay has her necklace with each of their main colours on it, her wings are the same blue as gillions eyes, her jacket and right eye are the same dark blue as destiny’s blade, her hair is the same orange as the lighter part of chips tattoos. chip has a dark green sash under all the belts, the same as the hilt of destiny’s blade. they all use the same shades of black, gold, and brown

the only real exception is gillion doesn’t have anything from the other two because he has Such a specific colour palette and he already had so much going on as-is orz jay was obviously the easiest to do this with because she has both warm and cool colours in her palette by default lol (and i did her design last, so that helps)

#.png #jrwi #jrwi riptide #just roll with it #jrwi chip #gillion tidestrider #jay ferin #jrwi spoilers #THEYRE FINALLY DONE zoo wee mama #the lines are thicker on the little armour drawings because i did the sketch thing and then went yk what. good enough. and just coloured tha #also got rid of gills button nose it was too annoying to draw #i’m so used to straight and aquiline noses #another thing that could’ve been unique for him in terms of my character designs #but nah #pls ignore that i drew them all standing on diff planes/angles btw i wasn’t trying very hard w that #weirdly proud of myself for managing to give them all pretty unique profiles #that’s normally something i kinda get stuck on. drawing people from the side #in different ways besides nose shape

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theavianlady · 3 months ago

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...tw? Tw.

TW: Gore, Blood, Injury, uh...Pain and Sadness-

@psychologicalwarclaire

Ha ha! Tis I! I was the anon!

(Cue dramatic exclamations of disbelief)

Ahem. Tis the anniversary of Spider's Web with Strings Attached, and I wanted to make something! Go and read the fic if you haven't already; it's incredible.

Lots of ramblings and other versions under the cut (if anyone wants to see any other parts with or without different lighting and stuff that I didn't include, just let me know; I'm happy to share).

===============================================================

This is the first (almost) completely original thing I've drawn digitally! Poses are really hard for me, so I'm super proud of this. No tracing, only references!

...so. Many. References.

Except for the bricks, which I'm not counting, because bricks are scary. And the chains. I used a brush. Chains are scary too.

I started July 28th, and then spent almost 40 hours across various canvases planning, experimenting, and actually working on this. Not including research. It took me absolutely forever, but I regret nothing.

Except for the fact that I spent over 6 hours just shading bricks. I didn't even draw them! I took a pattern for the grooves from google and filled it with black, (rotated and edited for some variance in their cells), and then did the red lighting and some shadows you can't even really see. For 6 hours.

I tried to draw their spider brooches many times, but I could not get them to look right (especially from a side angle), so I gave up. Let's all just pretend they're there until I come back later. Eventually. Maybe. Oh, and Leo's chains. At the time of posting, I really just want to get this up and posted, so they're not shaded, but again, I might do it later.

I wanted to have this set when they're both in their separate cells, right after Viper was, uh...in the cell with Leo. So, Donnie is all stitched up and healing, while Leo is...not doing great (not certain about the timeline, because I'm paranoid about everything, so it's probably fine). But, I wanted to convey what happened to Donnie, so I drew that weird glowing spine thing to indicate some kind of mystic healing something. I don't even know.

It didn't turn out as well as I wanted it too, but I'm probably biased. Because there was so much gore on Leo's side, Donnie's looked boring. I couldn't figure out how to do the lighting. The values could be better. It could do with more time spent on the shadows. Etc, etc. I'm a perfectionist.

===============================================================

Uh, in order of posting, behold!

1. Big version.

2. Big version without lighting (except on the bricks) or Japanese characters.

3. Close up of magic spine representation thing because I'm proud of it.

4. Close up of gore-covered-Leo because I'm also proud of that. I have never drawn such...messy gore before.

Fun fact, the group of layers all of that was on is called "Bad Stuff".

5. Close up of Donnie's shell stitches without the spine thing, because I worked hard on those. It was also pretty tricky, because I couldn't find any references for large stitched wounds. Only open ones. If anyone knows any good places for references like that, t'would be greatly appreciated.

Also, they don't usually stitch puncture wounds, because it could trap infection, but I feel like with something so large and deep as dragon teeth it would be necessary? So I tried to include those.

But also, would they just stitch the skin in such deep wounds? Is there still a gaping hole under the skin? Do they also stitch muscles with the dissolvable sutures or something? I'm like, going to go to med-school just so I can draw more accurate wounds and stitches and stuff.

6. Close up of Leo without the gore because he's pretty and I'm really proud of the plastron. And the right forearm armour piece. I couldn't get the other ones to look as nice, much to my dismay.

The Japanese characters write out to Omae wa hitoribocchi da, which translates to You are alone. I think. Google Translate says it's You are all alone, but translation services that I trust slightly more, like Reverso.net and ChatGPT (the most reliable of sources, I know) just say You are alone.

Omae is the equivalent of anata, for those familiar with Anata wa hitori janai. They both mean you, but omae is more...condescending, from what I can tell. Informal and rough, often used to express disdain or superiority.

Wa indicates that anata or omae are the subject of the sentence.

Hitori is present in both, meaning alone, though from what I can see, hitoribocchi is more...desolate and painful. It's a more emotional term for being alone.

Janai kind of means is not, or are not, while da is just like...closing the sentence. A firm, declarative ending particle.

I tried to paste the actual Japanese characters from different translation services (I am not fighting with using a keyboard from another language), but Tumblr wouldn't let me. Boo. So, you can all suffer with my English-Japanese. Also, don't trust anything I say. I'm learning Japanese on Duolingo, but I've only just started and it gets way more complicated. So, pretty much anything I just said could be wrong. I just did a lot of research.

If anyone does speak Japanese, and knows a better way to convey this, please tell me. I crave knowledge and accuracy.

I should get like, a personal human translator. No AI or program can truly understand a language like its people. Especially comparing Japanese and English. From what I've learned, there are a lot of words that could be translated many ways, depending on exact feel. It's complicated, and I'm scared to get farther into Duolingo's course.

===============================================================

I also just discovered yesterday that today is also the anniversary of the Rise Movie, so yay! Happy Anniversary to the movie that literally changed my life. And Curly, you're awesome. It's authors like you keeping this fandom alive, so thank you!

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decembermidnight · 1 year ago

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Ner Mircet'ad (My Slave)

Summary: The Mandalorian breaks into the Imperial safehouse where you're held captive and kidnaps you to use you as his slave... and you're not complaining. Kinktober 2023 special

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: no plot - just smut, 18+ mdni, CNC, kidnapping, handcuffs, use of gag, bondage, dom!Din, sub!reader, unprotected sex (p in v), oral (m receiving), tease and denial, edging (m and f), creampie, cumplay, degradation kink, Mando'a speaking kink, dirty talk, face slapping, glove kink

A/N: Happy Kinktober! Here's my contribution! This should have been a fantasy of the reader in another story but I got a little carried away and it became its own oneshot. I'm feral about how it turned out. See below for Mando'a translations. I hope you enjoy it!

Divider: @saradika-graphics

You only saw him a few hours before, when he entered the Imperial safehouse where you’re held captive, forced to work as a scientist at the facility.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him - tall, broad shoulders, mysterious, a dark and raspy voice that made you melt in an instant. You have heard he’s one of the best bounty hunters in the outer rim. He acted disdainful towards the Imperials, pointing his rifle at them as soon as he perceived a hint of menace.

You looked at him completely entranced the whole time, devouring him with your eyes. You noticed he tilted his helmet towards you more than once, and felt his hunter gaze scouting your figure as he barely paid attention to the Imperial officer talking to him.

When he left, you felt the urge to immediately go touch yourself.

You locked the lab door behind you and slipped your hand in your panties. You sighed when you reached your slit and felt you were drenched at the mere thought of him. You started circling your fingers around your swollen clit and rested your head against the steel door behind you. Your mouth let out a groan too loud and instinctively your free hand went covering it to muffle how much thinking about the Mandalorian warrior was getting you off.

You let your body slide down until you were kneeling on the floor with your legs spread open. You thought of how hot his masculine voice would sound moaning your name while you’d be on your knees sucking his cock. You circled your clit in a frenzy, trying to be as silent as possible, but the wet noises of your arousal were betraying you. You thought of his heavy, thick body on yours, of how hard he’d fuck you, of him panting in your ear. Those thoughts drove you over the edge and felt the hot spark of the orgasm setting you aflame. You squeezed your eyes shut and had to hold your breath as that hot wave of pleasure was traversing your whole body, reducing you to a weak, trembling mess collapsed on the lab floor.

The very same night he comes for you.

He breaks into the safehouse, exterminating everyone in it, mercilessly, using his huge rifle, and then he opens the door to your room and finds you there, laying in your bed, still half asleep, scared and disoriented by all the noise, dressed only in a light nightgown.

In a second he is on you, his heavy armoured body is preventing you from moving. You do not even attempt to resist him, you stay completely still and carefully observe every action he does.

He’s holding both of your wrists in the tight grip of one of his hands, as the other one rummages in his utility belt to take out handcuffs, which he immediately uses on you.

You feel a tingle of excitement as his fingers slowly loosen their grasp and start to lightly trail down your naked arm, until they reach your neckline, where they delicately pull the fabric of your dress down to free one of your breasts.

He admires your hardened nipple, tilting his helmet sideways as his middle finger gently brushes it, drawing circles around it. You sigh at the tender touch of the leather against your sensitive skin, and when he hears that sound, his inscrutable visor immediately jerks towards your face, to look at your aroused expression.

To your disappointment, his hand stops touching your nipple, goes back to his utility belt and takes out a piece of cloth with which he gags you - not because he needs to prevent you from screaming and pleading for your life, no. You immediately realise that he’s turned on by it - treating you like one of his preys, hunting you, kidnapping you, making you his. The thought of it gets you more and more aroused the more this unspoken, borderline wicked dynamic plays between the two of you.

He then picks you up from your bed and carries you on his shoulder like his trophy through the dark, desert streets of Nevarro, all the way back to his ship, where he lays your body down on the cold steel floor and fixes your handcuffed hands to the bottom rung of the ladder leading to the cockpit.

He kneels before you and rips your thin clothes off with his hands, rabid and longing, making you gasp in arousal at that vulgar display of strength, and looks at your naked body and at the marvellous way it responds to him, so eager at the thought of being owned by him.

When his hands start to touch your body and you feel the leather of his gloves against your skin, you let out a deep, muffled moan and pathetically try to follow his movements with your body, craving for more contact.

He indulges on your breasts, tender and soft, groping and squeezing them. His touch is unexpectedly delicate, and you carefully follow it with your eyes, seeing the way he makes you simmer as he takes all the time he wants to reduce you to a whimpering mess.

He plays with your nipples, feeling how hard they get with just the brush of his fingers circling them, making them hard and stiff.

Use me. Use me. Use me. You beg for him with your muffled voice and body language.

His hands then trail down to your soft belly and round hips. He caresses and squeezes your feminine curves, longing for the moment when he'll finally dig his fingers into them while using you for his pleasure.

You can’t help spreading your legs for him, letting him have a look at your glistening core, already so wet for him, warm and inviting. He lets out a low, guttural hum when he sees how yearning and desperate you are for his touch, knowing his painfully slow teasing is working wonders on you.

His fingers trail so close to your wet folds, and the whimpering noises you make are absolutely pathetic as he taunts you, softly brushing your inner thighs and outer lips without touching your most sensitive spot yet. Your breathing gets laboured as he gets close to your clit and barely brushes it, teasing you, making you stutter with a brief, imperceptible touch, only to proceed down your slit and slide two fingers inside of you, making you arch your back in pleasure, moaning as loud as you can as you clench around them.

"You like this, don't you?" he asks as he takes out his fingers, completely soaking wet. He seems so pleased as he admires the leather of his gloves glistening in your arousal.

"Go on. Taste yourself on my fingers." he ungags you as he pushes them inside your mouth.

You obediently suck his fingers, gently licking them with your tongue, tasting the salty of your arousal, the bitterness of the leather and the faint metallic taste left by his guns. You look at him with lustful eyes right in his visor as your tongue swirls around his fingers, letting him know with your gestures that you'd suck his cock any time he wants, that all you care for in the galaxy is just to give him pleasure.

He hums in satisfaction, thinking of the way your sweet mouth will welcome his cock, how far it'll go into your throat, and how badly he wants to cover your pretty face in cum.

He takes out his fingers from your mouth and gags you once again. After that, he stands up and goes to his well-stocked armoury, taking some ropes out and coming back kneeling between your legs. He spreads them even more open, to the limit, and enjoys the view of your achingly needy cunt, drawing a few circles on your clit with his thumb, driving you insane as he looks at you whimpering and rolling your hips towards him.

He starts by tying each of your legs to the same ladder where your hands are, so that it’s impossible for you to close them. After that, he patiently wraps a rope around each of them, tying your thigh and ankle together, immobilising you, so you’re always available, at his mercy, any time he wants, and the thought of that gets you even more aroused. You’re drenched by now, you feel your sleek coating your inner thigh and dripping on the floor below you. Maker, you've never been this wet in your life, ever.

He looks at your helpless body, trailing his gloved fingers on your inner thigh, making you feel leather against your skin once again, rejoicing in the fact that you can’t move, making you quiver with lust as he smirks under that damn helmet seeing that you are so wet for him. He sees the way you react to his body, to his dick, to his touch, and Stars, he is so turned on by that.

He unfastens his utility belt and unzips his pants to finally take out his big, thick cock. It's throbbing and veiny and its tip is deliciously red and glistening in precum. You mewl just looking at it, feeling your walls clench in anticipation.

He immediately starts sliding it painfully slowly between your folds and it’s fucking debilitating after all of that excruciating teasing. You arch your back while moaning hysterically, begging for more as your eyes uncontrollably cross as you try to keep your gaze on his tip teasing your aching cunt. He keeps rubbing, keeps rubbing it on your clit and you feel so close already, and right when your body starts shaking in preparation for the imminent orgasm, he stops, taking it away from you, and starts stroking himself at the sight of you - so desperate for his cock, getting off from your agony. He gropes the soft flesh of your thighs and keeps giving himself pleasure in front of you. You can barely hear him panting under the helmet and oh, damn, he sounds even hotter than you’d imagined. It's such a pleasurable torture to be forced to look at him without being able to do anything, to hear the wet sounds of him fucking his fist so close to you when you wish you were the one who makes him feel so good.

He gives one last squeeze to his cock, letting a drop of precum out, then he slides his tip inside of you, making you roll your head back, sighing at the feeling of having him inside of you, finally.

When he feels how welcoming and hot you are, he groans in pleasure. His raspy voice makes you clench around him. He feels how tight you get when your muscles clench, and he lets out a barely audible curse.

He takes it out and immediately slides it back in, just the tip, just to play with you, to tease you, to get you on the verge of your orgasm and who knows, maybe he won't give it to you. You're at his mercy, you have to accept anything he's willing to give you. Will he make you come? Will he fuck your pussy, or will he just tease you like that indefinitely, leaving you crying and begging for him, as he gets off in your frustration, covering your body in his cum?

He goes on tormenting you like that for what feels like forever. A long, pleasurable torment where you desperately beg for him to put it back in everytime. Your whole body is shaking at the cruel game he's playing with you.

You wonder what he looks like. You bet he's handsome and he's smirking sadistically under that helmet, getting off from your desperation. His body exudes sexuality and confidence, his voice is deep and sensual - he is hot for sure.

He puts his tip in one more time, but now he's pushing all his shaft inside of you, and he's looking at your tearful eyes and how they widen in wonder when you feel him sliding slowly inside of you - deep, so deep, like you've never been fucked before, making you feel owned, marked, his property, his. He knows how good his cock is making you feel and that you'll never be fucked this good by anyone else in the galaxy.

He can't help sighing at how tight you are, and he sounds so hot when he does. You're so wet, the obscene sounds of him sliding in and out of you fill the hull of the ship. He's grabbing your legs, thrusting deep and slow, his head leaned back, completely sinking into the pleasure that is fucking you, controlling you, owning you.

When he picks up the pace, he starts cursing in a foreign language, gasping and groaning at the way your walls clench around his cock.

“Bid pel bal piryc par ni.” he growls in between sighs. He sounds even hotter when he speaks what you assume is his native language. There's something about the way that ancient language of warriors sounds that fits him and his husky voice so well. You don't understand a word, but you can tell by how pleased his voice sounds that he's praising you and the way you feel around him. You too are enjoying his cock so much. Maker, the pleasure he is providing you with is one you’ve never felt before. You’re forced to take him in any way he wants, completely subjugated by him and his desires, and it’s so perverse and thrilling that you’re already addicted to it.

You feel every ridge and vein of his cock as he thrusts into you, hitting your clit at just the perfect angle, building your pleasure gradually, until you feel on the edge - your breathing is getting laboured, your body starts to shake, you’re just there… but he takes it out and you feel like you’ve been robbed of air from your lungs.

You're so desperate, your whole body is shaking, your handcuffs rattle against the ladder behind you in protest and you let out cries. You must look pretty pathetic to him, who is enjoying the sight of your desperation and the sound of you whimpering by viciously stroking his cock in front of you, letting you see and hear how wet you've made it, his helmet is cold and won't betray any emotion. You can only arch your back and roll your hips begging for him to put his cock back into you.

When he's satisfied and has seen you beg for him enough, he slides it back in, the both of you moaning at the same time at the feeling. He immediately picks up his rhythm and grips your throat in his hand, forcing you to look at him while he’s choking you.

"Mircet'ad." he growls as he thrusts into you. "Ner mircet'ad" rasps again.

You look at him, not sure about what it means, but his voice is hot like lava against your skin as he speaks that foreign language.

"Yes, that's what you are. Do you know what it means? I want you to. It means slave. My slave. Ner mircet'ad. That's the only way I'll be calling you."

He made a point of what you are to him - nothing more than a sex slave that he will use when he comes back after his hunts, to let off steam after catching his quarries. Bounty hunting is tough, and you'll be his relief, something warm and giving always waiting for him with open arms and legs and that will make him feel so, so good any time he wants. His Mircet'ad. That word keeps echoing in your head and you drench yourself at that thought. He feels the way you're spasming around him and how aroused that made you.

"Do you like being called like that, little whore? You like being used?" he wraps his hands around your throat even tighter.

You nod as you look at him with needy, lustful eyes.

When he sees that, he goes crazy and just starts jackhammering you, digging his fingers in your hips as leverage, making you lose control over your mind and body, completely overwhelmed by the way he's fucking you brainless.

"What a fucking slut. Feel how wet you get when I call you my slave. Fuck, you’re such a whore. Wanted to fuck you so badly since I saw you. Do you think I didn't notice the way you were looking at me, whore? Made me walk out of there rock hard, thinking of the things I'd do to you. Gonna fucking wreck your pretty cunt. You feel so good, ner mircet’ad." his voice alone could make you come, and you both feel the way your pussy reacts to him, uncontrollable spasms of excitement that further add to the already overwhelming pleasure, hoping he maintains that promise.

He takes it out again when he feels you're on the edge. And again, your body begs for him. You know he's enjoying seeing his slave begging for him.

"Fuck. Killed so many people to fuck this little pussy. Let me enjoy it. Let me hear how much you want my cock." he pants as he looks at you.

Your back arches and you let out desperate moans as the hand wrapping your throat grips your jaw instead, blocking your face in that position, letting him look at your face.

"Beg for it like the needy slave that you are." he lowers the gag from your mouth.

"P-please, please put it back in. I want your dick inside of my pussy. Please, I need it." you let out in a pleading voice on the verge of tears.

"Hmm. Go on. What do you want me to do to you?"

"Anything you want. I am your whore. I'm here to please you. I want you to wreck me and fill me with your cum. I want to come on your dick so badly, so fucking badly, please! I want you to make me scream until I beg you to stop. I want to give it to you any time you want and hurt for days. I want you to use me, please! I want to be your slav-"

He slaps you in the face, stopping that flow of obscenities from coming out of your mouth.

"You are my slave." he snarls as he grips your jaw tighter, bringing your face so close to his helmet. You look at him right in his visor, so heavily aroused by the rough way he's handling you, asserting his dominance and ownership. You are his slave. His slave. The thought of it sends a thrill of arousal down your spine and turns you on so much.

"What a filthy little mouth you have. Let me use it before we're done." he growls as he takes a good look at you.

"Damn you're pretty. Wanna ruin this beautiful face. Look at these perfect lips. Can't wait to see them wrapped around my cock." he says while tracing your lips with his thumb.

He positions himself over you, with his dick right in front of your face and you can't help elongating your neck towards it, sticking out your tongue to lick the salty slick of your arousal from its shaft, making him grunt as he feels how hot and velvety your tongue is.

"Yes, yes, lick it. Feel how wet you've made it, ner mircet'ad." he slides his wet cock inside your mouth and you welcome it, brushing it with your tongue, tasting yourself on him, adoring it.

He gasps at the feeling and goes on sliding all of his length in. You take it in greedily, keeping your gaze on his visor. He pushes it in your throat without resistance on your side. The Mandalorian is amazed at the way you take his cock.

"What a greedy whore you are. You want it all, don't you?"

You moan at that, sending vibrations to his cock, making him throb and choke a sigh as his hand grips tight to the ladder.

He loses it completely at how obedient you are and starts thrusting into your throat, making you feel used like an object for his own pleasure - you can feel by the way he's panting that he's loving it… and you are, too. When he takes it out it’s completely drenched in your saliva, and he grabs you by the hair and looks at you.

"Ner mircet'ad, I knew your mouth would be perfect. You take my dick so good. All of it, deep in your throat. Good girl, you deserve to be fucked so hard." he praises you, then he positions himself once again kneeling in front of you, lifting the gag over your mouth.

He grabs his cock in his hand and slowly slides it back inside of your desperate, throbbing cunt, letting you feel every inch of him.

"Oh, fuck, you take it so good" he lets out in a low, pleased whisper.

He immediately starts to rail you once he's buried deep inside of you, making you uncontrollably moan and tremble.

"Bet you never had a cock this good. No one's ever fucked you like I am right now. Gonna give it to you anytime I want, and you'll be taking me like the fucking whore that you are, ner mircet'ad." he buries his cock deep inside of you and he stops, as he’s close to his own orgasm this time. He’s panting and shaking as he grips tight to the ladder with both of his hands, towering over you with his broad figure. You can see the outline of his biceps from under the thick layers of duraweave and Maker, it's such a delightful view. You roll your hips against his so as not to stop stimulation, moaning provocatively. It’s so good, you don’t want him to stop just now.

“S-stop it.” he grunts as you keep moving your hips, disobeying him, getting even more aroused by the way his voice sounds when he's restraining himself.

“Fuck. Greedy slave, you want all of my cum, don’t you? You want me to fill you up and drain me, to be my cum slut, huh? If you k-keep moving like this I’ll - I’ll - fuck” he lets his dick slip out of you with the very last inch of self control he has left. His whole body is trembling and he is panting as you beg for him with your muffled voice.

“Fuck, you’re a temptress. An insatiable slave. A fucking cocksucking, cum addicted whore. Stars above, if you want it so badly, I’m gonna give it to you. You make me want to fuck you so hard and fill you so deep. Damn, take it.” he puts it back in and starts to rail you at a debilitating rhythm, making you shake your legs out of lust and roll your eyes because of the pleasure.

"Shit. I'm so close" he grunts as you look at him with pleading eyes, making your handcuffed hands rattle on the ladder.

"Do you want me to make you come, mircet'ad?"

You frantically nod your head.

"Yeah - bet you did. I will make you come. If you ever make it out alive from my ship, I wouldn't want you to say that the Mandalorian didn't satisfy you. It would be bad, wouldn't it?"

You keep nodding your head, feeling your cunt throbbing with need and lust at the thought.

"Get ready, I know you're close."

The angle at which his cock is hitting your clit is sending you to heaven, just as the thought of him restraining from his own orgasm to give one to you first.

"Let me hear you. Let me hear how fucking good I'm making you come" he finally frees you from your gag and you can finally let him hear your desperate, loud moans.

A few more thrusts of his thick cock inside of you and you feel the devastating force of the orgasm blazing through your body, making you burst. Finally, after a never-ending edging torture, he lets you come. From the position you're forced in, with your legs completely spread open, the power of your orgasm seems even more shattering than ever, nothing like you've ever experienced before. You can feel your pussy uncontrollably spasming around his cock, making him grunt as you let out the hottest, headiest moans he's ever heard.

"Fuck. F-fuck. How can you feel so good?! M-maker you're tight. Fuck. Killing me. G-going to fill you. Fill you with my cum. N-now. My slave. F-fucking mine." he snarls and fills you with his hot load, his cock pumping it deep and hard inside of you as you groan loudly and sensually and won't stop looking at him. He tries to muffle his own moans by gritting his teeth, and Maker, he sounds even hotter when he gives up, letting those heady moans out, losing control, wholly abandoning himself to that overwhelming pleasure. He grips tight to the ladder with both of his hands, preventing his body from collapsing on yours, burying his cock deep inside of you as you both slowly come down from your high.

“I’m your slave.” you softly whisper in your post orgasmic haze, smiling.

"Ni gar mircet'ad" he teaches you. He trails his fingers on your mouth and you kiss them sweetly, looking at him in the visor.

“Ni gar mircet'ad, Mando” you repeat in a sweet, tender voice.

“Gar serim, ner mircet’ad. So fucking hot when you speak Mando’a to me.” he lightly wraps his hand your throat once again.

"You too." you reply.

"Oh, you like it when I speak Mando'a to you?" he lets his hand trail all over your body, making you sigh when it stops between your legs and starts rubbing your clit.

"Yes. So hot. You're so hot." you go on praising him in between moans as he picks up the rhythm of his fingers.

"'lek, ner aikiyc mircet'ad, k'olar tug'yc par ni bat ni cere. Come for me again on my fingers." the sound of his dark voice, sweetly whispering those words while touching your clit drives you wild and you can't help obeying his order, coming again after a few rubs of your clit, so unbelievably aroused by that. His visor is locked on you, on your eyes that uncontrollably cross and roll because of the pleasure, on your mouth letting out filthy sounds of pleasure, all while he keeps speaking his native language throughout your orgasm, encouraging you.

"'lek. 'lek. Jate, ner mircet'ad. Bid mesh'la. K'olar par ni."

After that second orgasm you feel completely debilitated and just collapse, exhausted but so, so satisfied.

When he slips out of you, he enjoys seeing your exposed cunt slowly leaking his cum out, wrecked and still spasming in aftershock. He uses his cock to gather all the seed that escaped from you and push it back inside of your hole. When he’s done, he looks at you in the face, his cock is still hard.

“Will you clean it for me, mircet'ad?” asks gently as you have already opened your mouth wide open for him.

“Good girl.” says as he slides his cock in your mouth. You taste both of your orgasms in your mouth and hum, sucking it avidly and licking it clean.

“Damn you’re perfect” says as he tucks his softening cock back into his pants.

"So hot when you come for me. Taking my cock like a hungry whore. I will keep you here on my ship. You'll be my slave. No one except for me will ever lay one finger on you. You belong to me now. You're my property.” he tells you as he frees you from the handcuffs and ropes. You swear you are so tired you could fall asleep right there, right now, but he picks you up in his arms and lays you down in a cot - his cot, you will learn later.

Translations:

I have used mandocreator.com as reference.

- Bid pel bal piryc par ni = So soft and wet for me

- Gar serim = Yes, that's right

- 'lek, ner aikiyc mircet'ad, k'olar tug'yc par ni bat ni cere = Yeah, my desperate slave, come for me again on my fingers

- 'lek. 'lek. Jate, ner mircet'ad. Bid mesh'la. K'olar par ni. = Yeah, yeah. Good, my slave. So beautiful. Come for me.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 months ago

Text

Same as it ever was 13

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as neglect, bullying, manipulation, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Between your home life and work, you just can’t catch a break. Especially after you draw the ire of your boss.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen ft. Pete Brenner

Note: I am not doing well with the time change lol

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You wallow in the jagged fragments of reality, skipping through the cracks into delirium. The pain is dull but tolerable as you languish on the couch, forgetting now and again where you are, even your own existence. Figures pass by you and vaguely familiar voices waft in the air.

“See ya, sweetheart,” Hansen's face comes clear through the haze as he leans over you and taps your thigh, “don't have too much fun without me.”

He struts away, fading back into the obscurity of your prescription laced coma. The relief is more than physical, it feels nice just to stop thinking. No kids, no scummy husband, no skeevy boss. It's just you and the sofa.

Your lashes flick as you sense another shadow. You can make out your name but nothing else. The world shifts painfully around you as a grunt cuts through your brain. Your eyes open as Pete lays you sideways on the bed.

“Honey, you okay?” He asks uneasily as he peers down at you. He leans over to touch your forehead, “hey, I'm gonna get you changed, alright?”

You garble and stay as you are. You could just fall asleep right then and there. He sighs and you sense him pacing along the foot of the bed.

He returns to you, undressing you clumsily. Each time he jars you, you whine and he apologises. You barely register each sorry as he strips away your armour.

As he unhooks your bra, you wave him off. You cover your chest, clinging to the pilly satin blend. He touches your wrist gently.

“Hey, I got a shirt,” he waves a length of fabric over you, “come on, honey.”

You pout as he pulls your arms apart and slips your bra off. You close your eyes, the mortification the only feeling to break through the medicine’s blur. He helps you sit up and unfolds the tee shirt, opening the head hole only to pause it just in front of you.

You feel him staring.

“Babe,” he rasps, “you know I still love you, don't you? It was stupid mistake–”

You groan as a surge breaks through the muddy waters of your mind. You snatch the shirt from him and hiss, your back spasming. You ignore the vicious twinge and throw the shirt over your head.

“Babe, please, let me prove it to you.”

You scoff and shove his shoulder, “look what you did,” you snap, “you did this. You hurt me.”

“I didn't mean– I was trying to make it up to you–”

“I told you to stop,” you lay back with a whimper, “but you never fucking listen.”

Your eyes roll back and you heave a shaky breath.

“Honey,” he squeezes your shoulder, “please, just give me another chance.”

“Leave me alone,” you sneer as you hide beneath your eyelids, “I got enough pain as it is.”

🗄️

You plummet into a shroudlike sleep. Your head is foggy and swimming as you body detaches from your mind. You are nothing in the ether of your subconscious.

The depths of your drugged coma recede slowly, like crumbs falling away from a scone. Little by little, the tension coils in your muscles and the ache becomes less dull. It isn't until the thrumming becomes an agonizing pounding that you escape your medicated stupor.

Your eyes snap open as a tickle along your thigh sends tendrils through you, knotting between your hips as you whimper. God, you hurt so bad. You need more of your pills.

Your discomfort is made little better by the stiff bend of your legs. At first, you don't understand why you're splayed like that, knees at an angle, hips wide open. The cool sensation along your folds has you gasping as you throw your hand down to ward off your assailant.

You lift your head shakily and stare at your husband bent between your legs. If you hadn't already uncovered his sliminess, you'd be in disbelief. You're only dazed by the dregs of your prolonged slumber and the intensity of your tortured tailbone. You push on his head, his hair slightly greasy as it dangles down to tickle your pelvis.

"What..." you eke out, "are you... do--"

You drop down and wrack with pain as he prods along your folds. Your tailbone is on fire. He continues he violation as you squirm and whine helplessly. You're nearly blinded in agony.

"St-st-stop," you stammer between shallow breaths.

"I told you, baby," he purrs as he pokes his fingers past your entrance, "I can show you how much you mean--"

"It hurts--" you babble, "Pete, please, you're hurting me---"

He hushes you and bites into the tender flesh along your thigh as he dips his fingers into the knuckles. Your eyes well up as your muscles draw tighter and tighter. You want him to stop but you can't fight your own weakness.

"Stop," you snivel as your head lolls back and forth, "stop, please..."

"Baby, you're wet," he snarls and laps at your folds, "you were wet..." he breaths humidly against you, "before I even touched you."

"N-n-nooooo," you mewl and close your eyes.

This isn't happening. You said stop, you said no, but he's not listening to you. When does he ever? But that's about the chores and schedules and responsibilities.

"P-p--" you puff out.

"Shhhh," he purrs, "gonna wake the kids..."

His tongue delves along your cunt again and he rams his fingers in deeper. Your tears spill down your temples as you clutch rumpled duvet to one side of you. You can't believe this is happening. And you can't believe after the months you spent pleading for you to touch you that it feels so rotten. He doesn't want you, not really, he just doesn't want to lose what you do for him.

You close your eyes, trying to forget what's happening, trying not to feel but it's too goddamn painful. Flashes glimmer in your mind. Another man, another touch. Lloyd's silty slither taunting your mind. You're back on the couch and he's crowding you, touching you, but it's not the same. You can't find that peak. The final release.

Pete slips his fingers out of you, growling as he lifts himself over you. You sense his shadow and the bed jostles you, drawing several squeaks from your wrought lips. He bends over you, his breath scalding you as his body heat roils across your skin. He rubs his tip against your folds and sighs.

"You came," he snarls, "I felt it."

You don't even have the strength to argue. You can't feel anything but repulsion for him. You're not even close to orgasm. You're only delirious because of the ringing at the base of your spine.

He angles himself along your cunt and holds his breath as he leans his weight into you. He forces himself inside, jolting you as he loses all patience. Your cheeks are a flood of horror and helplessness. Your legs fall flat as he begins to thrust, short, harried bursts that have him panting into the crook of your neck. He growls and grits out your name as he ruts.

It doesn't last long. You don't even have time to wish it's over. He's done. He collapses on you and your voice fizzles to a weak rasp. Ow.

"Figure we could get some of that tension out," he nuzzles your neck.

"Get. Off," you gnash through your teeth.

"Huh?" He gurgles and raises his head to gape down at you, "honey--"

"Why--" you gulp back your disbelief and push on his shoulders, "get off!"

"Woah, woah, the kids are sleeping--"

"Yeah, so you do that," you sneer as you slap him, your hand only weakly glancing off his cheek, "get off of me."

"I was only tryna make it up to you," he whines as he slides out of you and sits back on his heels, "come on. What do I have to do to get through to you--"

"Owwwww," you sit up with as much strength as you can must, nearly sobbing from the agony, "stay away from me."

You push yourself off the bed and crumple to your knees. The shirt clings around your middle as you quake, putting your hands flat to the floor as you crawl across it. The bed lurches as Pete bounces off behind you.

"Here, let me help--"

"You touch me again and I am going to lose it," you snap, your breath laboured around your threat.

"I..." his protest shrivels up. "I'm sorry."

"Fuck off," you reach to pull open the door, ready to break down as you think of the trek ahead of you. Two floor down to the cot in the basement.

You hear him harrumph and can picture the pout on his lips. You hate him. You hate him so much that you don't even feel bad about what Hansen's going to make you do. You might even like it.

🗄️

You only make it down to the couch. You manage to drag yourself onto the cushions and get under the throw blankets. You think of snagging some more pills but think better of it. It'll be up to you to get the day started, as always.

You don't sleep. You just lay in the aftermath of what happened. Of what Pete did. It churns your stomach so violently it makes you hurt even more.

It's over. That's what really keeps you awake. Your marriage is done. It's not just his doing, it's yours. You need to cut the fat and yet you feel guilty at just the thought.

You wake up at your usual time. You swallow a single pill with a cup of bitter coffee. You pause as you look at the label of the amber bottle.

‘Take one pill every six to eight hours.’

You think back to the two tablets in Hansen's palm. You should've known better. You do. You just can't think straight through the pain.

You climb the stairs one at a time and hobble down to the kids’ rooms. You get Simone up first and she helps you with Malik.

“Mom, you look tired,” she says as she takes a sleepy Malik by the hand and tugs him away from his bed. “Did you sleep at all?”

“A little,” you answer evasively, “come on.”

You usher the kids downstairs, gripping the railing for life. As you come to the bottom, your legs wobble. You can’t hide the moment of weakness from Simone as she turns to watch you.

“Mom, please, sit down,” she begs, I’ll make cereal for Maiik and get him ready.”

“Sweetie–”

“Where’s dad?” She interrupts, “he should be doing this?”

You blink. You think of telling her to go find him but given the last time you saw him, you’re too nervous to do that. You wouldn’t want her to find him in a certain condition.

“He’s getting ready for work,” you sigh, “I got some time off for my back, I can handle the morning.”

“You won’t get better if you don’t stop–”

“Simone, I get it, okay? But I’m your mother, it’s my job to take care of you, not the other way around,” you say firmly, “you can get Malik his cereal and you get yourself some too, okay? You two can catch the bus with Erica today.”

She frowns but accepts your order. It’s a compromise. You know you can’t drive. Just the thought of getting in the car makes you want to vomit.

You grab the inflatable cushion and add a few breaths to it before setting it on the couch. You lower yourself with a grunt and shift, your comfort dangling just beyond grasp. The problem is you can’t stop fucking tensing up.

You lean your head back and blow out a breath. You listen to the soft clink of two bowls and the fridge, the pouring of hard cereal into porcelain. It’s not that bad. You’ll get up to help them brush their teeth and brush their hair and all that.

“Come on, Malik, you have to eat at the table.”

“I’m sleepyyyyy,” he grumbles as you hear him stomp across the tile.

“So am I, be quiet,” Simone snaps and the bowls clink down. “Sit down and eat.”

You rub your forehead, yawning as you commiserate quietly with Malik’s struggle. A dash of colour flits by and before you can call after her, Simone is rushing up the stairs. Dammit. You can’t keep up. You’re old and fat and hurt and useless. Explains a lot.

You cringe as your ears tweak, listening above for the commotion.

“Dad, get up! You have to come down and help mom,” Simone’s voice is loud as she nearly hollers at your husband.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m up, I’m up,” he grumbles as footsteps come muffled through the ceiling.

The stairs creak as they descend. Pete wears a pair of boxers and a grey tank. You look away, mortified.

“I can’t get Malik dressed by myself and I don’t know how to make coffee,” Simone says.

“Right,” he utters as he lingers by the kitchen door.

Simone goes back to the table and you hear her spoon hit the bowl as the chair legs scrape on the floor. Pete stares at you as you ignore him for the wall. He huffs before passing into the kitchen. You hate this. You hate feeling so futile.

You flinch as a knock hammers on the front door. You whine as a pang strikes up your spine. Pete comes back in, a coffee filter in hand. He clammers across the room into the entryway and the lock loudly grinds back.

“Oh, hey, uh, Lloyd?”

“Sup, Petey Pie,” Hansen’s voice chirps back, “hope you like Dunkins. They got a cinnamon roll ice coffee I thought the missus would love. Got you a tall black and the kids some donuts.”

“Wow, you didn’t have to do that.”

You hate these men and how fake they are. More so, how pestilent they are. Two sides of a sleazy ass coin. Counterfeit at best.

“Figure you could use the help,” Hansen continues, “get the kids out the door. Oh, I also called my specialist. Can get her in for scans at noon, make sure nothing’s totally broken.”

“That’s great,” Pete croaks, “uh, come in, I guess.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Hansen sings.

#same as it ever was #lloyd hansen #pete brenner #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #dark pete brenner #dark!pete brenner #lloyd hansen x reader #pete brenner x reader #pain hustler #the gray man #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au

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mirroringdust · 8 days ago

Text

For @hellghoulweek

"Who's that?" she asked her maid, who was sitting next to her on the wooden stand that overlooked the tournament grounds.

"Oh, that..." her maid paused for a moment, almost hesitant, and looked up at her. "That's the Black Knight."

"The black night?" Lady Galadriel turned her head towards her, as if she could hear better that way, "I can see that he wears black armour, but who is he... where is he from, where are his lands?"

"My lady," Mirdania said, stuttering, "that's all I know... I think that's all anyone knows. He's just the Black Knight."

"Is he?" Galadriel raised her eyebrows and turned her head back to the tournament. She would have to ask the king later how he could allow someone who did not reveal his true identity to take part in such a joyous occasion. It was her birthday, after all. But before she could think about it, or even anticipate it, her eyes remained on him for a while longer. The armour made it almost impossible to recognise any of his features, but his demeanour was enough to make the people around him cheer whenever he mounted his horse, and his habit of always winning did the rest to give him a lasting impression. Galadriel felt a slight smile escape her lips, for she did understand it, in a way. His stature seemed to tower over the others by just a little, but enough to make him stand out, and his dark armour made him seem even more striking.

For a moment she thought he was looking at her. She quickly looked away but immediately returned her gaze towards him as soon as he left the tournament place. She followed every step of his tall, sheltered figure flashed between the colourful tents, clinging to the sight, unable to look away from the shadows until they grew longer, for the sun slowly began to set. It was like a blemish on an otherwise unspoiled, solemn scene. A disturbance, yes, but also a pull, like a dark cave drawing her in. What was it that kept her eyes to his movements? There was a mystery that dared to be discovered, something like a secret hidden underneath the all embracing mask.

Yet after the tournament, she occupied herself with other things for a while, and when she sat next to Gil-galad in the great hall to greet the winners, she did not ask him who he was.

The great hall was the most festive room in the entire castle of Lindon, and it was now being used to celebrate her birthday, to welcome their guest, to honour the beloved daughter the King never had and who was most dear to him. Galadriel smiled all day, not necessarily because she was happy, but because she knew the occasion demanded it. She did enjoy the celebration, of course, but after a while it became repetitive and tiring.

The procedure was always the same. One of the knights who had taken part in the tournament stepped forward, bowed to the king, knelt to pay his respects and pledge his allegiance, before turning to her, still on his knees. She sat on a slightly smaller throne to the king's left, wearing a gleaming white dress and a shimmering coronet on her brow. Most of the time, the knights bowed their heads before looking up at her in awe, extolling her beauty, perhaps praising the glow of her golden hair, the fact that her grace was sung of by troubadours, and then, of course, congratulating her and giving her a gift. It was usually the same. Jewellery, dresses, those kinds of blinding things.

(continue on AO3)

#writing #fanfiction #haladriel #saurondriel #galadriel x halbrand #ao3 fanfic #medieval au #the rings of power #historical #sauron x galadriel #hellghoul week 2024

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strlingsav · 2 years ago

Text

Based off of this ask! Sorry if it's shit, I'm not really familiar with military protocol but I gave it my best shot!

Sorry it's so late!!

Man-eater

– Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

— You're a gifted specialist.

Explicit sexual and gory content under the cut. Read at your own risk.

You were used to the prying eyes, the staring and gawking- it came with the territory. A female soldier stationed in a combat zone wasn't standard practice, for many outdated reasons. You'd become used to the intrusion, the judgement and overwhelming criticism.

You'd earned your spot, your title. Everything you had, you'd worked hard for. Clawed through dirt, blood and mangled corpses to get where you were. Even as you stepped foot inside the base, you could feel the eyes on your back, drawing a target with sharpened knives.

You had a job, though. A purpose, which overrode any instinct to confront your audience. You made your way to the Captain's office, knocking briefly before entering, and your eyes landed on the older gentleman seated at the oak desk.

You'd heard of Captain Price through the grapevine, and Laswell had mentioned him more than a few times. He was the driving force behind the elite counter-terrorism task force, forming 141 with the mission of capturing Hassan.

You'd been briefed, a short phone call with Laswell while on your way to base. It wasn't nearly as in-depth as you would've liked, but Price insisted he needed the unit to move out that very night.

You'd not slept a wink the night before, never did on the eve of deployment, and the bags under your eyes told the same story.

"Lieutenant L/N," He said, standing to his feet.

"Captain," You nodded, bringing your hand out for him to shake.

"Heard good things about you- let's hope it's true."

"I'm well-suited to the task," You were resolute, a stoic expression that never seemed to crack.

"Laswell seemed to think so. Let's get geared up, we'll be on our way to Mexico soon."

You followed his lead, and soon you were out on the tarmac, waiting for the Blackhawk to arrive. Two other soldiers, men Price had hand-picked to join his task-force, were said to be meeting the two of you in Mexico, at the base of Los Vaqueros.

It wasn't a long journey, not with your security clearance and cars ready for transport. As you stepped off the aircraft, blades still spinning, your eyes landed on the two armoured soldiers, cradling rifles in their hands and waiting against the black paint of an SUV.

"Ghost, Soap," Price called out, beckoning the two over. "This is Lieutenant L/N." He cleared his throat, an awkward silence settling before he said his next words. "Goes by Man-eater."

You knew the way it sounded; a female soldier that must've slept around the barracks with a callsign like that. The truth was, you'd earned it, like every other thing about you. It was yours to take and you wore it with pride, no matter how it made you look.

Your first op earned you that callsign; a particularly vicious mission ending with your body covered in blood, brain matter and viscera. It was the first time you'd been afraid for your life, yet you hadn't relented from the warfare, even when things looked like they were going tits-up. It stuck after that, years after.

Your troopmates at the time knighted you with that term, both as an insult and a compliment. An ode to the brutality of your hand-to-hand combat, as well as the blatant, sexist stereotype placed on female soldiers and marines. It didn't bother you after a while, not after the novelty had worn off and it became a first name.

You could place Ghost by the way Laswell described him; anonymous. Wears a balaclava and skull mask. Soap was deployed from the Special Air Services unit. The Union Jack and SAS patch on his vest spoke for him.

"Heard of you," Soap said, hands tucked in his vest. "Lookin' forward to trackin' down this fucker with you."

"Let's get to it then."

Your gaze was drawn to the quiet, looming figure beside him. He hadn't said a word, nor introduced himself. The way Laswell spoke, he was a highly skilled specialist. You had given him a once-over, unintentionally, but managed to satisfy your curiosity for the time being.

He was tall. You fought the heat settling in your gut, a consequence of his long fingers and thick arms carrying his rifle, shoulders protruding from beneath the vest. It had been a long time since you'd felt that way, had your attention taken from a mission to stare at a man. It certainly wouldn't earn you any respect, but your eyes were glued to his form.

You broke the trance, tearing yourself from his body to climb into the SUV.

Your meeting with Alejandro was more enlightening than the conversation you'd had with Laswell. He'd gathered a lot of intel and a solid lead on the head of the cartel, El Sin Nombre. Entering enemy territory wasn't a problem for you, though you always experienced the gut-wrenching nausea that churned your stomach.

The armoured SUV travelled deep into their territory, a collection of abandoned houses used for manufacturing and transporting drugs. Every citizen had been evicted, forced to relocate so the cartel could set up shop.

"We'll clear these houses. Watch your six, don't know if these bastards are still here." Price looked over his shoulder at you, a short nod to confirm you were listening and ready.

You took position behind Ghost, who was leading. It wasn't standard practice anymore, to clear buildings without prior knowledge of habitants, but you didn't have time to waste. Entering the building, you had your rifle lodged against your shoulder, finger on the trigger.

You thought back to the many searches you'd done; the stillness in the air, a modern-age showdown of sorts. Waiting with bated breath, unflinching focus on every single thing in the room. There was never space for error, or distraction.

You recalled the horrific injuries you'd sustained, the many times you'd been forced to play medic while stranded in the desert with nothing but a hunting knife and a dirty piece of cloth. Your stories had become famous, and infamous, published in magazines and news articles.

It wasn't the type of attention you were looking for. You loved what you did, now addicted to the rush of adrenaline and smell of gunpowder. But the reputation you'd built for yourself was one that demanded respect, and that was worth every long night, early morning, and stray bullet almost taking your head off.

You knew they knew who you were; there was no reason to pretend they hadn't heard talk of you. All the better, you could work without interference, without having to prove yourself.

There was a sudden flurry of movement, tan camouflage and an automatic rifle firing short bursts in your direction. Without a moment to waste, you pulled the trigger, your eye already peering down the scope. The bullet cracked through his helmet, piercing his skull. He crumbled instantly, thick, red liquid covering the wall behind him, chunks of brain matter scattered about.

The air was still for a moment, before your comm radio buzzed to life.

"Ghost," Price's distorted voice came through the speakers. "It's Price. Heard fire, what's your status?"

He tilted his chin down, meeting the radio. "Enemy combatant still inside. Has been neutralized. Over."

"Roger."

You continued on, falling in line behind Ghost, eyes up and scanning the room. He opened a couple doors, looking inside, and once deemed clear, he carried on.

You followed close behind, when an unexpected force shoved you aside. You were slammed against a stone wall, the wind knocked out of your lungs. You grunted, scrambling to recover, letting your M4 fall to your chest and unsheathing the knife strapped to your thigh. Your hands reached out to grip the assailant, taking hold of the fabric of his uniform.

A hand wrapped around your throat, holding you against the wall while the other shoved a pistol under your chin as you struggled against his grip. You could only see his eyes- enraged, wild, scared. You gasped for air, finally gathering enough clarity to bring your knee to his groin. As he keeled over, releasing your trachea and his hold on the pistol, you slid your knife between his vest and belt, wrenching upwards.

A horrifying, gargling sound spat out of his mouth, blood splattering your cheeks, warm and heavy. You landed a kick to his gut, effectively pushing him off the blade of your knife, and he collapsed on his back, eyes dull and glassy as his heart slowly stopped.

You watched him die, the same feeling of regret, guilt, fear settling into your stomach. You swallowed, shoving the feeling to the back of your mind so you could deal with it another day, another time.

It never really worked though, even after participating in countless missions, the guilt ate at you, gnawed on every bone in your body. You'd bury it with the rest of your secrets, drown it with alcohol and try to eradicate it, just as you'd always done.

You grimaced; an unintentional reaction to the blood across your cheeks. You could feel it, on your face, your lips, scarring your cheeks with searing heat. Your lip twitched, wiping your face with the sleeve of your jacket. You cleaned the blade off on your pants before tucking it back into the sheath.

"Any injuries?" Ghost appeared, Soap following after him.

"None," You breathed, his blood staining the gaps in your fingers. "Let's keep going."

"You learn hand-to-hand as a rookie?" Soap asked, crouched and moving slowly as he followed Ghost.

"Mostly," You nodded.

"You still train?"

"I took up martial arts anytime I was on leave." You weren't invested in the conversation, not as your eyes levelled the room. "Experience helps, too."

"Christ," He muttered.

Ghost was pleasantly surprised; he'd heard of you. Heard the talk. The elusive Man-eater, known worldwide for her tactical skills; a decorated officer. It was impressive. It was even more impressive given your nonchalance after nearly being shot at point-blank range, but beneath it he could see the emotional turmoil, the gears grinding as you digested everything in a matter of seconds.

He saw fragments of himself in you, a highly-trained, highly-skilled individual with nothing more to offer anyone than your talent for violence and execution. A person the higher-ups appreciated solely for the value you offered them. He recognized it; the hundred-yard stare, the emotionless expression.

He knew better than anyone how lonely it could be, the sacrifices you made to get where you are; and he knew even more that it was hard. It was gruelling, de-humanizing, stripped down to nothing more than a vessel for the government to employ. Maybe he read you wrong, maybe you enjoyed the killing; but the way your brows twitched, your body tensing ever so slightly, he knew he hadn't.

He couldn't help but feel an attraction, which was innocent enough on its own, but the blood across your cheeks, flush in your skin; it aroused him even more. In a fucked-up way, the sight of you covered in blood, bruised and flustered, had held his gaze.

He couldn't deny your skill, couldn't deny the title you'd earned, and was enamoured the moment you swiftly took down the cartel member that ambushed you.

Though, he was still on the job, still on enemy soil, and he resigned himself to relieving the ache in his groin later on. Later, when he could picture your face, imagine what exactly was beneath the layers of armour, both physical and mental.

The mission hadn't been successful. None of the cartel members were anywhere to be found, aside from the two that snuck up on you. Everyone had left, likely tipped off by civilians in exchange for money.

You retired to Alejandro's safehouse, a fair-sized place on the outskirts of the city, tucked away from prying eyes. It was surrounded only by crickets and wild, barking dogs.

Once inside, you settled in, finishing the rations you brought, fingers ghosting the aching bruises forming along your throat and collar bones.

Price had taken first watch, footsteps on the roof alerting you to his location.

"Those look nasty," Soap commented, kicking his boots up on the table.

"Had worse," You answered back, pulling your shirt collar up over the purple and blue marks.

It wasn't a lie; or an exaggeration. You had the scars, evidence of your many overseas expeditions, memories that haunted your subconscious, even when you slept. A few scattered over your face, most on your torso where enemy militants had tried to puncture a lung or some other vital organ.

"You're quite the name," He remarked, leaning forward. "Talk of the town, if you can call it that."

"All good things, I hope."

Truthfully, you couldn't have cared less what he'd heard, good or bad. It would be the same pile of shit you'd heard for years, the disbelief, the threats, the unending, festering anger. No matter who you'd prove yourself to, it went unchanged. You'd nod and stay silent, let your actions speak for themselves.

"Aye, aye," He nodded reassuringly. "Heard you're handy with a sniper-rifle."

"Lots of practice," You pursed your lips, an attempt at a smile.

"You seem t'know what you're doin'," He nodded along, deep in thought. "Takedown today was impressive."

"Stop the interrogatin', Sergeant," Ghost's voice was monotonous, echoing around the room.

Your head turned to watch him as he crossed the floor, slowly sitting beside you on the weathered cot.

His presence was strong, whether it was because of the mass of man that he was, or the undeniable burning in your abdomen.

You hadn't slept with anyone in a long time. You'd celebrated the end of deployments at bars, clubs and the like, had your fair share of hookups, but it'd been a long time since you were satisfied. The ever-lasting drought was beginning to take its toll, you were susceptible to even your most minuscule desires. Ghost being one of them.

He was anonymous, but you could see the brown eyes behind the mask. The slight movements they made when surveying an area. You could feel them on you, watching you, scrutinizing every inch. Normally, you'd ignore the intrusion, but when his eyes met yours, you knew it wasn't because of curiosity.

"Not interrogatin' L.T. Just interested," He replied, hands rubbing his knees.

Ghost hummed in response, a short acknowledgement.

"Interested? In what?" You asked, sitting back.

"You. Renowned specialist, a female soldier deployed to combat zones around the world. Pretty damn interesting."

Your brow quirked up, unsure whether he was insulting or complimenting you.

"Not much interesting about it," You replied, a heavy sigh leaving your mouth. "Slept my way to the top."

The room was silent- awkward tension falling over the two soldiers as they took in your words. You could see the thoughts in Soap's head, unsure how to respond, whether you were serious or not.

"I'm fucking with you," You said finally, seeing the look of amusement on Soap's face.

"Christ," He shook his head. "Sense of humour on you is fucked."

Your face relaxed, not quite a laugh but a huff of air from your nose. You were relieved not to have another bout of confrontation.

"Soap," Price called, entering the room. "You take watch, I'm bloody knackered."

Soap stood up with a sigh. "We'll swap war stories another time, Man-eater."

You nodded, watching him pick up his rifle and swap places with Price.

"I'm headin' in, you two should get some sleep."

"I will, Captain," You said.

Price acknowledged you with a wave of his hand, heading off to the lodging down the hall. There was space in the house for an entire troop, bunks scattered throughout. Alejandro had thought of everything.

It left you alone with Ghost. A man of few words when he wasn't in the field- as far as you could tell. You were uncomfortable, blinking rapidly to relieve your dry eyes, thanks to the insomnia you'd experienced the night before.

You stared at the empty wall, your heart pounding in your ears. The silence was deafening, a heavy weight in each of your limbs as breaths passed between you, waiting in the tension for something to change.

"Johnny's right," Ghost said, finally, a crack in the open air, making way for conversation. "You've made quite the impression, seems."

"So I've heard," You rolled your head to the side, looking at him. "And yet, no one's given me a warm welcome."

It was your attempt at a joke, a way to lighten the tide of tension that had dragged both of you under. You had a difficult time with back and forth, teasing banter. It didn't come naturally. It never had, since you'd been promoted. You spent most of your time alone.

You had a few friends back home, likely having long forgotten about you, missing birthdays and weddings. You could never be there on a whim, couldn't be the person they needed. Not anymore, not with who you'd become over the last few years. You were sure they wouldn't even recognize you if you did go back. You didn't belong anymore.

"You lookin' for a warm welcome?"

"A little hospitality goes a long way. Gets lonely out here. I'm sure you know how it is."

It quickly transformed into something more- a vague offer to satiate the loneliness, and the desire festering in your abdomen. Your eyes dragged over his body, more than impressed with the sight. You had an inkling he'd be able to satisfy you; to give you reprieve from the aching hole in your chest where a family should be.

"I do," He nodded. "Can drive a man mad."

He met your gaze, a moment of realization when you kept his attention, unblinking and stiff. He could recognize the glossy veil of lust in your eyes, and the way your thighs were pressed together. It was a showdown, waiting for the first to break, to give in and make a move. He didn't mind being the bigger person- especially not with the streaks of dried blood across your cheeks, your lips mocking him with every word.

Two, highly talented individuals, pent-up and frustrated. He could never resist- especially once he'd seen you in action. Nothing aroused him more than a woman with a bit of aggression, passion. And a woman who could challenge his own abilities was an invitation for desire.

"But, no warm welcomes here, sweetheart," He adjusted himself, sitting up taller. "Think an English welcome'd suit you better."

You narrowed your gaze, slowly removing the kevlar vest strapped to your chest. He watched with an uninterrupted stare.

"Are you offering to show me?"

He leaned closer, his knee knocking into yours.

"If that's what you'd call it."

Standing to your feet, you shut and locked the door. He lifted the vest from his torso. Unbuckling his belt, he kept his eyes on you while you did the same.

He wasn't one for undressing, but you were quite the opposite. You'd stripped down to your bra and panties while he'd only managed to yank off the fitted long sleeve.

He could see it now- every single scar. Every memento of deployment, a different type of chest candy. Though, as strong and determined as he'd heard, and seen, you were, he knew you ached to have someone take care of you. Please you, satisfy you without having to ask.

"Come 'ere," He said, his hand finding your waist.

Quick, precise movements lead you to his lap, swinging both legs over his thighs to straddle his waist. You were nimble, years of martial arts and training made you fast on your feet.

"Take off the gloves," You said, heavy breaths of anticipation fanning his chest.

"Thought you were disciplined," He shot back.

You shook your head, "Only where it counts."

"Counts here. Mind your manners, sweetheart."

You shivered- most men you'd met outside of the military allowed you to take control without much participation on their end. Ghost's blatant demand was invigorating; you'd finally met your match.

"I will," You whispered, leaning forward to his ear. "Please." Your eyes were begging, pleading for his touch.

You could feel his shoulders tense, a low growl of approval leaving his lips. The image of a calculated killer straddling his thighs made his cock hard.

His hands gathered around your hips, gently pulling you forward to grind your centre across the stretch of his lap. You could feel just how hard he was, your thighs flexing as you helped push yourself forward now. He was staring, watching for any hint of a reaction. His head tilted to the side, your nostrils flaring softly with every harsh breath; masking the pleasure.

He lifted the sports-bra over your head, his eyes drawn to the sight of your perked nipples and soft flesh. He exhaled, strained.

His fingers trailed down your thigh to your pussy; clothed in only your panties, he tugged them aside, a gloved finger teasing at your clit. You gasped, a full-body twitch as his fingers circled your clit, the rough fabric making your toes curl.

He hummed, appreciative, inquisitive, invested in your pleasure. Leaning forward, you used his shoulder for balance as you rolled your hips against his fingers, silently pleading for more.

He slipped the gloves off his hands, meeting your skin with a searing temperature that made you gasp. His fingers returned to their post, now moving a bit quicker. He squeezed two fingers inside you, grunting softly as you absorbed him, wet and tight.

Your head fell back, arms hanging around his neck as you let yourself fall into the pleasure-filled stupor, ignoring the way his eyes studied you. Your soft stutters of 'yes' and 'please', fingernails digging into the balaclava covering his neck, he snickered- a dark and appeased sound.

"Look at you," He uttered. "Fuckin' hell."

Your head rolled forward, eyes glaring into his. His voice was rough, worn, fucking irresistible.

His fingers hooked inside you, now determined to bury them, he leaned forward to meet your chest. It was an attempt to get closer. He could smell you from a a mile away, but now he could detect the hints of fruit in your shampoo. He buried his face against your shoulder.

"Lift my mask up, sweetheart."

You did as he asked, rolling it up just enough to finally meet his lips. Scarred, but plush and wet. He'd been licking them.

His lips met your chest. Gentle, savouring kisses against your breasts, before he wrapped his lips around your nipple. He sucked softly, and when a small gasp left your lips, he grazed the sensitive bud with his teeth. You pursed your lips, arching your back into his chest. He was messy, but dedicated to his craft.

The combination had you close to your climax, your body filling with rigidity with every flick of his tongue, fingers. He was still flexing his fingers inside you, his palm rubbing against your clit with every thrust of your hips. He'd paid attention to your breasts, biting and licking with unbridled vigour.

You pulled him close, hands gripping his neck, your abdomen tensing before your toes curled, your pussy clenched down around his fingers. Your orgasm ripped through you, leaving you breathless in his lap, gasping and moaning as you perched forward, leaving every piece of you in his hands.

His chest rumbled, "Bloody hell- cummin' already? Been neglectin' yourself."

Your mouth went dry, the twinge of hunger in his eyes was intimidating. You'd been in worse positions than now, but his hold on your body was even more terrifying. Vulnerability was terrifying.

You nodded, still panting as you regained your stamina.

"Go on," He nodded his head to the pillow on the cot.

You slid off his lap, landing on the cot. You sat up, gasping softly when he hovered over you, grabbing your thighs and pulling you down to meet his hips.

"You been needin' a good fuck?" He asked, his triceps and biceps bulging as his arms supported the weight he held over you.

You nodded, "Fingers don't always get the job done."

He smiled softly, a mutual understanding. Neither of you were truly the type to seek out a hook-up, especially while deployed, but the tension and magnetism between you was impossible to ignore. It had just appeared in front of you, unintentionally brought together by bloodshed and violence.

He pulled your thighs apart, eyes landing on the glorious sight of your glistening pussy, red and swollen with the effects of his fingers.

He leaned in closer, unzipping his fatigues.

You felt the head of his cock rub against your clit, his hand gripping the base as he guided himself against you. Your eyes dropped to the sight of his cock, throbbing with an intense blood rush, slowly disappearing into your pussy.

You thighs were pushed back, nearly touching your chest, when he plunged inside you. No warning, no patience; you gasped. It was uncomfortable, until he moved his hips and spread the arousal seeping out of you over the length of his cock. Then, he could glide in and out with ease, discomfort quickly replaced with pleasure.

Your eyes widened at him, watching his chest expand as he sucked in a deep breath. You'd wrapped around him so perfectly, practically dripping from your earlier orgasm.

"Fuuuckin' hell," He drawled, lips tight with restraint, a twitch in his shoulders. "You're goddamn tight."

You fell back off your elbows, dropping onto the hard surface of the cot. He rolled his hips, still exhaling sharply, his cock rigid with the liquid desire in his veins. Your back had arched into his chest, your arms finding your hair, tugging sharply to alleviate the growing impatience.

His hips hit yours, languid strokes that threatened to hit your cervix, deep and deliberate. Your thighs had his waist in a tight grip, rolling back with every thrust, your lungs collapsing into themselves as you moaned.

He gave only soft pants, low grunts of pleasure, sucking in the saliva pooling in his mouth at the sight of you. Breasts recoiling with every thrust, skin flushed with your heart pounding, eyes wide with pleasure. He buried his face against your shoulder, inhaling your smell, moving to grip your thigh as he picked up his pace.

You took the skin on the back of your hand between your teeth, biting down to resist moaning too loudly. A burning scorch of pleasure twisted inside you, your lungs tightening with each strangled moan.

He was heavy on top of you, so close you could feel his abdomen against yours while he drove his cock into you. You couldn't handle the teasing strokes, the edge of orgasm so close- you wanted, needed, to be in control.

You wrapped your thighs around his, hitching your ankles behind his knees to twist his body. He had no choice but to follow, falling onto his back while your hands gripped his shoulders. You perched forward, sliding back down on his cock with such swift motions he lurched forward when he felt your pussy encase him again.

His hands gripped your hips, eyes widening with shock- and pleasure.

"Goddamn fuckin'-" He cursed, his lips shutting when you lifted your hips, pushing forward.

You couldn't hide your smirk, the undeniable rush of confidence as you slowly tugged apart the seams of the giant soldier beneath you. Your head fell back when your fingers gathered over your clit, rubbing furiously while your hips matched the pace.

You were a determined woman, hell-bent on getting exactly what you wanted when you wanted it. Ghost did nothing but lie against the cot, hands squeezing and massaging at your waist and hips. He was mesmerized, the waves of your body, feeling of you wrapped around him, riding him so fervently he couldn't help but pant softly.

He'd become so violently entranced, his fingers were sure to leave bruises over your skin, grasping and clawing at what he could to ensure you'd never fucking stop. His low grunts were a bit louder now as you worked toward your orgasm, he could feel the twitching in your body, your pussy tightening with each teasing flush of pleasure.

You unravelled, spasms between your thighs, your stomach tense as the haze of your climax crept over you. A strangled moan left your lips, deep and genuine. You were nearly suffocating his cock, clenching down so hard he couldn't resist it anymore.

"Fuck," He groaned, his head falling against the pillow while his body went rigid. "Get off," His voice was strained, rushed.

You gathered your senses, rushing to lean closer while he tugged at his cock with his hand. You slid to your knees while he turned to see you, your tongue stuck out, mouth wide open for him to use.

He finally combusted, a growl leaving his chest as he painted your tongue white. It was warm, salty. Hastily, you closed your mouth, swallowing.

He still had the expression of exhaustion, frustration, pure ecstasy over his face as he watched you swallow.

"Fuckin' hell," He huffed, doing his fatigues back up.

You did the same, dressing and making sure you were presentable in case Soap needed relief.

It was awkward, regardless of whether he'd just been inside you or not. You weren't sure how to navigate the situation, how to go your separate ways without ever feeling the ache of yearning in your chest. He felt the same, of course, a quiet tension falling over the two of you.

"Thanks," You said, a short, incredibly out-of-touch statement. "For the welcome." Almost a joke.

He raised a brow- certainly not expecting that kind of response. He couldn't deny, it was the first time he'd felt any kind of uncertainty; unsure how to proceed after delving into such an intimate interaction. But, he was also sure that he'd do it all over again, any time you asked, so he threw another vague offer into the air, hoping you'd bite.

"Y'know where to find me, Man-eater." A profound emphasis on your callsign nearly made you roll your eyes, patronizing in every way but irresistibly charming.

You finally cracked; almost a smile, just enough to let him know you might take him up on his offer sometime- soon.

#cod mw2 #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost smut #simon riley smut #cod mwii #simon riley #mwii #strlingsavwrites #ask strlingsav

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allsaiint · 9 months ago

Text

↠ master chief/gender neutral!reader

↠ word count: 1800

↠ chapter one | chapter two

↠ masterlist

↠ description: john has no idea how to date, but he'll try his best.

↠ warnings: potential for out of character | potential for dismantling of canon | gender neutral!reader may change in future chapters

↠ author’s notes: this is based on a mix of game-canon chief and television series chief. take it as you will. if i did happen to use specific terminology to describe the reader, let me know.

-- /// --

The instant John entered the park, he sensed something was different. So late on a Wednesday evening, the only thing playing in the open air theatre was a group of young violinists, no more than high school aged. There were a few people milling about, most likely parents there to encourage the group. Others were gathered on the outskirts, at the top of the coliseum style seats. They were cloistered in twos and threes, their conversations jumbling together over the sounds of the music.

You were the lone exception, standing towards the top of the steps, half-hidden by shadows. John had never seen you before, though there had been a recent influx of newcomers to the Reach. It was mostly scientists, after a mass exodus had left gaping holes in their military programs.

He caught the way your brow furrowed a split second before he realised he had been staring. You shifted back when he tried for a smile, and gave it up as a lost cause. In some ways, the act of interacting with new people still bemused him.

He was surprised, then, to hear footsteps approach, and turned just enough to witness you falter three steps above him. Over the din of the crowd, he could hear the race of your heart, so fast that he was surprised when you managed an actual greeting.

“You’re new to Reach?”

He had to change tracks at the last minute, turning it from a statement into a question. He had also had no designs to sit, but found himself doing so anyway when you introduced yourself.

You nodded. “I took a job at the USMC. Have you been here long?”

“My entire career,” he answered, and watched close for your reaction. He suspected that you were unaware of who he was, as most civilians were. Few knew what the Master Chief looked like without his helmet on, and a majority were within the USMC.

His suspicion was proven right when you asked, “You’re a Marine, I take it? How long have you been in?”

Something in the way you asked, or perhaps it was the lack of starstruck wonder he was so used to, made him lie through his teeth, answering, “Thirty years, give or take a few.”

Eyebrows raising, you replied, “You look so young, though.”

A product of spending so much time in a suit of armour, he supposed. Instead though, he said, “You look fairly young yourself. What made you want to take a job here?”

Your smile slipped, and you ducked your head to face your knees. “My homeworld was glassed not long ago. I figured here would be the safest place to go, after that.”

“I’m sorry,” John offered, watching the way you began to pick at a split in your lip before, very abruptly, you turned to snap a tie around your wrist. “I heard about it, after I returned from a deployment. I’m glad you made it out.”

“Me too,” you replied with a quiet laugh. “You’re actually the first person I’ve met outside of work here.”

That made John chuckle and over it, he heard the way your heartbeat skipped. “I’m honoured, really.”

Conversation stalled for a few moments, and John could see how you pretended to watch the violinists to make it seem natural. There was a tension in your shoulders that gave away your desire to say something though, and you were rubbing your palm with your thumb. You would press hard in the very centre then relent before looking at John. It was quite nice to know that your nervousness was genuine, and not borne of being in the presence of the great Master Chief.

“Do you deploy a lot?” you asked at last, drawing John from his thoughts. The way you asked was stilted, as though you had dredged the question from the depths of your desire to say anything at all. “It seems like I never see the same face twice.”

“I do,” he agreed, and wondered what to tell you. The people you would deal with most often were the general ranks, those who stood a worse chance of surviving an encounter with Covenant. “I’m between drops, at the moment, but one will likely come in in the next few days. Covenant has been busier than usual.”

“I heard rumours that they were looking for something, but couldn’t find it. The Spartans either found it first or destroyed it or something like that.” You snapped the tie on your wrist once, hard. “That’s why they started glassing so many planets— they were really upset, whatever they were looking for.”

It always surprised John to find out how close the rumours turned out to be to the truth. He often wondered who started with the truth, and how long it took the details to be lost. It reminded him of the game he played as a child with the other trainees. One would whisper a sentence from across a room or through a glass, and it was the listener’s job to relay what was said. It had taken him a long time to realise that the “game” was actually training, learning to lip-read. The more serious the children took the task, the better the results were, but not until their augmentations were there ever perfect results.

“Well, in any case,” you said, drawing John from his thoughts again and offering him a smile, “maybe when you’re here, you can come visit me at the aquarium. Since I’ll never be able to find and all.”

With a rough, quiet laugh, John said, “Could see about making that work. Do you have to go now?”

“Should,” you agreed, but lingered where you stood. “I have an early shift tomorrow, and a bit of a ride home.”

Shifting to his feet as well, he said, “Let me walk you?”

“Oh, it’s— I live all the way in Immoria. It’s too much to ask—”

“I don’t mind,” John said, cutting your rambling off with a small smile. He found them rising easier in your presence. “I’d rather be sure you get home safe. Call it paranoia.”

“Well, if you insist,” you agreed, though it was with an air of exasperation. The tick playing at the corner of your mouth indicated that you were pleased beneath that though.

The next bullet train was due in five minutes, and you sidled closer as the waiting crowd grew and closed in. The way you flinched was almost imperceptible when you leaned into John, and your laugh was embarrassed.

“I don’t even like eating in the caf at work,” you admitted, but allowed his hand to stay where it was on your back. “I don’t care much for crowds since—”

“I get it,” John said as the train came to an abrupt stop in front of you. There was just the one, and it hurtled back and forth across the city twenty-four hours a day. You remained close as the train began to move, curling your free hand into his shirt when someone knocked into you. The culprit offered John a smile full of mock apology that dwindled beneath his scowl, until they shifted to give you your space.

You were busy watching the scenery pass, and startled when John asked, “If you dislike crowds, what do you do at the complex?”

“Oh, they stuffed me into some little corner room with a few other researchers. I don’t really have to deal with too many people. Thankfully.”

“I see. What did you do before this?”

You shook your head. “I travelled around, studying species in their natural habitats, how we affected them, boring stuff like that.”

“It doesn’t sound boring,” John said, and watched your eyes widen as though you were surprised to hear it. If he had to describe it, it sounded peaceful. “If you enjoyed it, it wasn’t boring.”

“Well, fair enough,” you said with a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “Do you enjoy what you do?”

“Yes,” he replied on reflex. No one in recent memory had asked him that and, in truth, he was unsure of the truth in his answer. He had never been given the choice to decide if he enjoyed what he did or not.

Something must have shown through in his response, because the look you cast him came with a frown. You seemed to come to some decision or assumption on your own though, and uncurled your fist to lay flat on his chest.

A little too mired in his own thoughts again, John let silence reign after that. He followed you down the street with an absent mind, aware somewhere in the recesses of it that the inattention was unbecoming of the Master Chief. He found it happening with more frequency though, since—

“Well, this is me,” you said. “Thank you for walking me.”

“Like I said, I’d rather know you got home safe,” he replied, taking the building in. It was twenty something stories, but still short compared to most in the city. A pair of doormen stood just inside, prepared to open the doors for you.

You stalled again; it seemed you had something more to say. He heard the pace of your heart increase, and his focus narrowed in on the flicker of your pulse beneath your skin.

“Do you have a data pad, by chance?” you asked after a harsh swallow.

“It’s broken,” John said. His attention turned to your face just in time to register the way it crumpled in disappointment. With more gentleness, he continued, “I’d like to see you again, though.”

The words felt foreign, coming from him. If you noticed, you chose to ignore it when you agreed. John was surprised at how eager you seemed, and found it hard not to let it envelop him.

“At the park tomorrow? Same time?” he said. Again, he was met with eager agreement that made him smile. “Good. Goodnight then.”

Your sharp inhale in response was so subtle that even he almost missed it. Your eyes widened and your throat bobbed before you replied, “Night, John.”

Even you seemed to realise how hoarse you sounded and made to turn away, but not before John caught look of embarrassment flash across your face. He watched you scurry inside, and waited until the door was securely latched before allowing himself the laugh that had been brewing all evening.

#master chief x reader #john 117 x reader #halo master chief x reader #master chief x you #john 117 x you #halo master chief x you #halo fanfic #master chief fanfic

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anon-e-miss · 10 months ago

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The Desert Blooms - 9

“Where’d ya find the moonstone,” Ricochet asked. He and Jazz had not spoken about it but they seemed to be on the same wavelength so far as their “matches” were. Ricochet could not disagree with Ori’s subtle manoeuvring. The prince would suit Jazz better than the hot-helm and Ricochet supposed the hot-helm would suit him better than the stoic prince. Discovering Barricade’s interest in carving was a boon.

“A scrap heap,” Barricade replied. “Someone got a long way in carving a brick before they found a fissure.

“Barricade is forever searching scrap heaps for useful stones,” Prowl replied.

“Ya carve the table ‘n chairs?” Ricochet asked.

“Yes,” Barricade replied. “The Duke sent the granite from Praxus.”

“Did ya wanna see where ya can find some bigger pieces to work wit?” Ricochet asked.

“The private hoard Punch mentioned?” Barricade asked.

“Ori’s been tellin’ tales,” Ricochet exclaimed, with a chuckle. “Ain’t really my hoard. ‘M sure ‘m not the only carver that goes down there.

“Down where?” Barricade asked.

“Caves,” Ricochet said. “Most Polyhexian cities are mostly underground, outta the elements, except for businesses o’ trade ‘n the like. Ya seen how Darkmount is sorta in a bowl? That’s cause the walls o’ the main cavern collapsed. The smaller ones were abandoned outta... convenience? Who knows.”

“I do have something big I’d like to work on,” Barricade confessed.

“Great.”

Ori beamed and Ricochet rolled his optics behind his visor. Barricade was already standing before Ricochet thought he out to offer him a servo. He had been raised in camps and caves cut into the cliffs, not the court and he had no courtly manners. Jazz came to it naturally. His charm would make up for any misteps. Ricochet was rougher around the edges and with none of the charm. It would be Jazz who would lead the way when, eventually, envoys came to call, Ricochet thought he would do less damage if he smiled and nodded. Barricade may not have emerged to the Duke but he had been raised in his home a long time. Though how Praxian manners really translated in Polyhex’s court, Ricochet did not know. He tried to think of something to say but empty prattle had never been his thing.

“This way,” Ricochet scowled to himself as he realized these were the first glyphs he had spoken in the breams they had been walking. Barricade’s red optics narrowed. “Y’re fine. ‘M just thinkin’ I ain’t been much o’ a guide.”

“Oh?” Barricade asked.

“Well I outta be tellin’ ya where we’re walkin’,” Ricochet said. “What all this ‘n that is.”

“I don’t mind silence,” Barricade replied. “I grew up with Prowl.”

“He ain’t chatty?” Ricochet asked.

“He can be,” Barricade said. “If something interests him. You’ll see how he is eventually. When he gets into his own helm, he goes down deep. Whether he’s gardening, painting or just sitting at the same time, he only comes back up in his own time.”

“Ya don’t mind it,” Ricochet said.

“It’s how he is,” Barricade replied. “Enough mecha hate him for drawing breath, I figured as his brother, the least I could do is work with him.”

“How’d he react when the Duke brought ya home?” Ricochet asked.

“He took care of me,” Barricade replied.

***

“They did not even wait for the rent to come due,” Barricade peered up from under the box he was using to shield himself from the rain and saw an elegantly armoured mech, wearing a heavy velvet cloak looking down at him, sitting amongst the trash in the alley next to the boarding house he and his origin had lived, where his origin had died. Barricade scowled at the well-spoken stranger. The way his armour was cut reminded Barricade of his progenitor and he hated this mech on sight.

“What do you want?” He hissed. The stranger knelt in the puddle in front of him and pulled back his hood. Like Origin, the stranger’s faceplates were gold, though his optics were blue.

“I am designated Camshaft; your progenitor was my consort,” the mech said. Everything amount the mech, down to his accent, was so fine, unlike Barricade. “I found the letter you wrote him, telling of your originator’s death. He has passed as well. I am here to take you home, Barricade.”

“Home?” Barricade asked. “They kicked me out.”

“So I see,” Camshaft replied. “I will send someone to collect a refund on the rent remaining for this quartex. No, Barricade, I am taking you to my home, yours now as well.”

“I don’t understand,” Barricade said.

“I will explain,” Camshaft said. He took off his cloak and wrapped it around Barricade before picking him up. “My carriage is close.”

Origin had always told Barricade to be weary of strangers, even well armoured ones, but origin was gone. Barricade wrapped his arms around Camshaft’s neck and his legs around his waist. He shivered, the rains had soaked into his protoform. The strange mech crooned to him as he carried him down the block. Rain drenched Camshaft but he did not seem to care. He only paused a moment to pull the hood better over Barricade’s helm, shielding his faceplates from the rain. Barricade heard a scandalized gasp. Camshaft made no sound at all. Head heard doors creak as they were pulled open. When Camshaft set him down, Barricade pulled back the hood, far too big for his helm and looked around as the stranger climbed into the carriage with him.

“Take us home,” he ordered the coachmech. He turned to Barricade and gave him a soft look. “You are soaked to the struts, poor thing. Turn up the heat.”

“Where are we going?” Barricade asked. Hot air blasted all around him and Barricade was warm.

“To my home,” Camshaft replied. “I live on an estate in Petrex with my mechling, Prowl. You are his brother and thus you are mine so you will live with us now.”

“But... I’m just a bastard,” Barricade said. “I’m not even your bastard.”

“The only bastard in all of this was your progenitor,” Camshaft declared. Barricade could not argue that point.

At first, Origin had just had a little cough, something he had said, he figured, he had picked up backstage. But then the coughing had gotten so bad Origin’s armour rattled with the force of it and at the same time as he had spiked a fever, a rash had appeared on his chassis. His vocalizer had swollen so much he could not speak. Barricade had tried to fetch a medic but Origin had not been paid for his last performance. He had gone to the hall but the manager had said he had deducted fees because Origin had failed to appear for the last few shows. Only after exhausting these avenues had Barricade written to his progenitor, a mech he had only seen three times in his whole life. He had only answered once, to tell him his whore of an origin was not his concern. No matter how much Barricade had begged in letter after letter, he never sent a shanix, or another glyph. No medic had come, no matter how much he had begged them, no priest either, not even when Origin had ventilated his last.

“I am so sorry, Sweetspark,” Camshaft said as he wiped a tear from Barricade’s faceplates.

“They wouldn’t give him Last Rites,” Barricade cried. He wriggled out of he cloak so he could climb off of his bench and into Camshaft’s arms. “They didn’t want to catch it.”

“We will build your originator a shrine,” Camshaft promised as he stroked Barricade’s helm. “And we will light his path to the well.”

“Promise?” Barricade asked.

“I promise,” Camshaft said.

Barricade believed him. There was something about Camshaft, something different than his progenitor, that made Barricade feel like his glyphs were true. He set his helm on the stranger’s shoulder and closed his optics. Camshaft hummed and the lullaby, along with the rocking of the carriage, lulled Barricade into recharge. Sometime later he woke to the carriage rolling to a stop. Camshaft stroked his back and hummed a reassuring note. Soon the carriage was on the move again and Barricade looked out the window to see that they were riding down a long drive. Fields covered in wild blooming crystals stretched further than Barricade could see. When they came to a stop again, Barricade could not see the habsuite but he imagined it was huge. The doors opened and a coachmech stood in the opening.

“I’ll take him to the servants quarters,” the mech said.

“You will not,” Camshaft declared. “Barricade will live in the nursery with Prowl.”

“But that is... scandalous...”

“I am the Duke of Petrex,” Camshaft replied. “This is my estate and my household. I will manage it as I will. Let it be known to my staff, Barricade is equal to Prowl and should I find out he is being treated in any way less, there will be Pit to pay.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the coachmech said, bowing low. Barricade looked up at Camshaft... highness?

“Good,” Camshaft said. “Come along, Barricade. It is time for you to meet your brother.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Barricade replied. Camshaft smiled down at him.

“You do not need to address me as so,” he replied. “I am Camshaft. I am your caretaker. I am not your lord. Do you understand?”

“No,” Barricade replied. He really did not.

“That is alright,” Camshaft said. “You will.”

“You are back, Originator,” a new voice spoke. A mech Barricade’s age with a silver face and the Duke’s blue optics stood on the steps of the grandest home Barricade had ever seen. It must have been as long as the whole block Barricade had lived on.

“Yes, Prowl, I have brought you your brother,” Camshaft explained. “By your progenitor. He is designated Barricade.”

“Hello Barricade,” Prowl greeted Barricade. He had a funny tone. His accent was similar to Camshaft but different... almost flat. Barricade stood very still as the Duke’s creation walked down the steps at stops in front of him. Prowl looked Barricade up and down and then looked up to his originator and back down again. “You were caught in the rains, Barricade. I will draw you a bath and fetch some tea.”

***

“Just like that?” Ricochet asked.

“Camshaft said I was his brother and so in Prowl’s processor, it was so,” Barricade explained. “There were servants, of course there were servants but Camshaft mostly had them barred from the nursery. He, we, kept it up. The only servants allowed in were tutors and Camshaft kept a close optic on them.”

“Why?” Ricochet asked.

“Because he could never be sure who might be one of his brothers’ or originator’s assassins,” Barricade explained.

“Assassins?” Ricochet gasped. “They wanted your brother dead so bad.”

“Fratricide is the family business,” Barricade explained. “The first time Camshaft’s elder brother tried to kill him, he was a first tier sparkling and his brother a second tier. It did not get better as they got older and more brothers were added.”

“Fraggin’ Pit,” Ricochet gasped. “The Emperor is okay with this?”

“It’s tradition,” Barricade explained. “The strongest and smartest survives over his brothers to become emperor.”

“That’s insane,” Ricochet declared. “Ain’t sorry to say that… That’s just crazy.”

“It is,” Barricade agreed. “Camshaft stayed in his dukedom, he still does, versus court. It’s been a long time since they tried anything.”

“They don’t think he’s a threat?” Ricochet asked.

“No, they’re all terrified of him,” Barricade explained. “The last time he had to dine with them, he put every one of them into stasis with a bit of poison. When they came back on line, all hungover as Pit, he warned them to leave him be or the next time they wouldn’t wake up. The Emperor was furious.”

“Why?” Ricochet asked.

“Because poison is the coward’s way,” Barricade said. “And if he was going to go and do it, he should have at least done it properly and wiped them all out.”

“But he didn’t,” Ricochet said.

“He doesn’t want power,” Barricade said. “Not anymore than he has as Duke of Petrex. He loathes the court, loathes the tradition. He would have had a whole gaggle of sparkling but he only had Prowl because he didn’t want his creations pitted against each other.”

“He probably thought bringin’ ya home was a blessin’,” Ricochet said.

“That’s what he told me,” Barricade replied.

“He sounds like a good mech,” Ricochet declared.

“I’ve never met a better one,” Barricade replied.

There was love there, as deep and as loyal a love as Barricade had for his brother. Ricochet did not understand why he would not go home but then he supposed in their situation, nothing could convince Ricochet to leave Jazz’s side. Barricade and the prince might not have been twins or even full brothers, they had a powerful bond. It was something Ricochet could respect. He took Barricade’s servo and guided him over the rubble that partially barred the mouth of the cave. Barricade was sure of ped, the doorwings probably did not heard so far as balance went. He clicked his glossa as they descended into darkness, with only their headlights to light the way. Having evolved for low-light environments, Ricochet saw as clearly in the tunnel as he did on the surface, once he retracted his visor. Barricade clicked his glossa and walked along at Ricochet’s side as sure of ped as ever.

“Click,” Barricade clicked his glossa and walked along.

“What’re ya doin’?” Ricochet asked.

“Echolocation,” Barricade said.

“I didn’t know Praxians could do that,” Ricochet replied.

“Most can’t,” Barricade replied. “Camshaft taught us.”

“Sounds like the two o’ ya got an eclectic education,” Ricochet replied.

“That’s a good way to put it,” Barricade said.

“Here we are,” Ricochet replied.

“What am I looking at?” Barricade asked. “Since I don’t actually see anything.”

“Roots,” Ricochet explained. He lit a lamp and held it up. “From the trees that topped the oasis that used to sit above the cave.”

“Nice,” Barricade said. He ran his servos over a broken crystal root. Barricade took the lantern from Ricochet and studied the roots all around him. “Hmm.”

“What’re ya lookin’ to make?” Ricochet asked.

“A cradle for the bitlet,” Barricade said. “So if you have optics for something for a loftier project just tell me now.”

“I don’t,” Ricochet replied. “‘N anyways, makin’ a cradle seems like a pretty worthy purpose for any o’ these crystals.”

#valveplug #maccadams #anon-e-miss writes #tf barricade #tf ricochet #mechpreg #non consensual body modification #the desert blooms

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quasitsqueeries · 10 months ago

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The Emperor wasn't 12 feet tall

I see this meme a lot in my Instagram feed and it really grinds my gears:

Not because it seems to be trying to shame a fictional antagonist for being "wrong" (although that really doesn't help), but because whoever made it seems to have missed that depictions of the Emperor as superhuman are meant to be Imperial Propaganda.

Now, I realise I'm going to be fighting an uphill battle here because there seem to be people working for Games Workshop and producing their media who also missed that memo, and for a while now the studio has started producing actual depictions of the Emperor, and some of those depections show him as 12 feet tall and immortal. This might be controversial but I think what this shows is that Games Workshop don't understand Games Workshop's source material.

Here's a picture of the Emperor from the original Rogue Trader rulebook.

Even this is obviously meant to be a propaganda image, but here he looks like just a regular guy in armour, he's about the same size as the people around him. Not a superhuman, just a guy with an excess of hubris.

There's this literary construct called the unreliable narrator. When I studied literature we were given this short story to read called Bartleby the Scrivener. It's told from the point of view of an employer about a clerk who was apparently really difficult to manage. The subtext is that the narrator is trying to manipulate the reader to make themself look good.

For a long time, that's what Warhammer 40,000 did, the Imperium was made out to be an unreliable narrator. Stories about the Imperium's "glorious past" were told through the haze of ten thousand years of unending war, by an ecclesiastical class with a vested interest in keeping Imperial citizens committed to feeding the war machine. To the Imperium, the Great Crusade and the Horus Heresy serve the function of myths, more than history. I've gone on before about how important heroic figures like Siegfried and Perseus and Prometheus were to the Nazis. The Imperium, being a fictional state that draws on the aesthetics and ideology of Fascism, uses the figures of the Emperor and Primarchs the same way.

Basically what I'm saying is that when Imperial sources state that these people were twelve feet tall and immortal and could, um, turn a giant ork into a lightbulb on a whim, it's not because they had these powers, but because they've been ascribed these powers by their priesthood, who have total control over the flow of information in this setting.

And I get that this is hard, because most people don't get taught this stuff, and often people are probably looking for escapism from their fiction and why would the book I'm reading lie to me? But I think it really makes the setting more interesting if you look at it this way.

Also, I realise that since 2006 there have been books around that describe the Emperor, and they do show him as superhuman, and I think those depictions are based on the writers misunderstanding the material they're working from. I guess Tolkien wrote the existence of The Hobbit into Middle Earth as the Red Book of Westmarch so I can tell myself that the Horus Heresy novels are meant to be in-universe Imperial propaganda.

ADDENDUM: I need to add this because I've been reading about Perpetuals, which is apparently what the Emperor is since the Horus Heresy series was published. Apparently these individuals are human mutants that are both immortal and invincible. I remember Mechanicum heavily implying that the Emperor and St. George are the same person. Here's the problem with that. There are two themes that I think are really important in Warhammer 40,000. One is the Emperor's hubris, the idea was that he was playing god, genetically engineering monstrosities in the form of the primarchs. In the Greek tragic mould, it's this hubris that leads to his downfall. This kind of loses its sting if he's just trying to recreate what what he already is.

The other theme is the Imperium's superstition. This one is really the core of 40K. The Imperium has taken the corpse of a man who tried to rule the galaxy, told themselves he's not dead, plugged the corpse into a machine that "regenerates" him, and founded an intolerant, violent and expansionist religion around this husk. This theme changes significantly if the Emperor actually was as powerful as the Ecclesiarchy makes him out to be, and actually isn't dead, and has somehow been regenerating for the last 10,000 years. There's a question here about what would make an entity worthy of worship, or being called a god, and I probably shouldn't get into it but this is my blog so I'm going to. It seems like there's an assumption among some writers that if something can be rationally explained then it's not a god, because gods ipso facto don't exist. They've incorporated nonexistence into their definition of gods. This is where you get the idea that the Chaos gods aren't gods, because the setting explains their existince "rationally" with its internal logic (nevermind that there's nothing rational about the warp). If there were gods in a rational sense, then our model of the universe would have to change to accomodate them. I think the upshot of this is basically that if what the Horus Heresy novels claim about the Emperor is true, then the Ecclesiarchy are right and he is a god within the logic of the setting. That doesn't justify the genocide and expansionism, but maybe it does justify the worship, and that's something that I think takes away from the setting.

#warhammer 40000 #horus heresy #emperor of mankind #games workshop #wargaming

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 year ago

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Begged & Borrowed Time (xxiv, ao3)

Chapter twenty-four: Determined to destroy the Cauldron once and for all, the Inner Circle head to Hybern to avenge the attack on Velaris. (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

The castle was a slash of ragged stone, dark and brutal against the grey sky.

Sitting atop the roughened white cliffs, crenellated walls rose from the ground in an unbroken curtain of solid, impenetrable stone and beyond, a dozen towers pierced up towards the heavens, all of their windows dark. It was a castle with a singular purpose— built to keep those outside from getting in, and those inside from getting out. A fortress damn near impossible to infiltrate, the windows were barred with iron lattices, and every few yards along the wall, arrow slits punctured the stone.

Cassian fucking hated this place.

The seat of Hybern’s power, he almost thought he could taste the malice in the air— or perhaps it was just the wind, howling incessant against the cliff’s edge. Either way, it made his hair stand on end, and when he looked down, he saw the sea beneath him roiling, waves crashing against the rocks. He couldn’t help but feel like even the sea was uneasy in this place, trying to draw back, to run, with every wave that pulled away from the rocky shore.

It felt like an age before Mor winnowed into the sky above him.

Just as they’d planned, she had Feyre with her, and as the pair of them plummeted towards the murky sea below, Cassian darted upwards, catching the Cursebreaker before she could hit the waves. In a blink, Mor had winnowed once more, ready to meet them at the sea door that opened into a tunnel, cutting through the rock all the way up to the castle. As the salt spray spattered his boots, he climbed higher, giving Feyre her first real look at the castle that overlooked the thin sea separating Hybern from Prythian.

She shuddered.

Cassian fought a shudder of his own as the wind raked icy fingers down the edges of his wings.

“You ready?” he asked.

Feyre nodded.

It had been two days since Hybern had attacked Velaris, and as the blood had begun to dry on Night Court streets, Amren had locked herself away, determined to find a way to destroy the Cauldron once and for all. She’d called an emergency meeting at the town house only yesterday afternoon, where she announced with vengeance burning in her eyes that she’d figured it out at last.

And thus, a plan was born— one that lead them here, to Mor waiting at the bottom of the cliff, Azriel already inside clearing the tunnel, and Rhys waiting somewhere nearby, where he couldn’t be detected and where the tracker Hybern had on his magic couldn’t give them away.

“I’ve been here twice,” Cassian said lowly when Feyre’s fingers tightened on his jacket. “Both times I was counting the minutes until I could leave.”

She let out a hum that might have been one of agreement as she straightened and looked ahead to the castle, that slash of bone-white against the dark sky. Her eyes scanned the empty parapets, taking in the torches burning along the wall that illuminated patches of stone where guards should have been standing watch. But instead the yellow light glanced only off of empty spaces, nothing but thin air in the gaps where they should have glimpsed the flash of armour.

Feyre frowned. “Where is everyone?”

“Guard shift,” Cassian answered, nodding to the bottom of the cliff-face. “Az is already inside. Mor’s waiting at the sea door— it’s the closest entrance to the lower levels.”

“Closest entrance to the Cauldron,” she added.

He nodded grimly. “That, too.”

Her hand went to the pocket sewn inside her jacket, where one half of the book was hidden. The other half, he knew, was stowed in the pocket on her other side. Don’t put them together, Amren had said before they left. You put the pieces together and you won’t just attract the king of Hybern. You’ll draw out enemies far older and more wretched.

Another shudder worked it’s way across Cassian’s spine, but he pushed the feeling away. For half a second a furrow appeared in Feyre’s brow, but before Cassian could blink it was gone, as if a phantom hand had smoothed away the crease. Determination lined her jaw instead as they neared the rough edges of the cliff face, and even though the wind threatened to send them barrelling into the rock, Cassian kept them steady as they came in to land.

Mor waited by a crevice cut into the cliff— the sea door; narrow and uneven and half-flooded by the waves that lapped at the stone landing platform. A single wooden post had been driven into the rocks to anchor any boats that might come this way to deliver goods, but the rope wound around the post was crusted with sea-salt and fraying with age. He didn’t think anybody had used this door for a very long time, and as he peered into the darkness, he could only hope that Hybern had forgotten about this passage entirely.

But as a glimmer of blue shone through the narrow walkway, Cassian caught sight of Azriel stalking towards them— blade held tight in one hand.

Already it dripped with blood.

Not forgotten, then, he thought sardonically.

“Guards are down,” Azriel said quietly when he reached the mouth of the sea door. His voice reverberated on the crudely hewn stone, mingling with the echo of the waves as they crashed around them. “Let’s go.”

And as the wind whistled overhead, Cassian unsheathed a blade and took his first step into the darkness— into the heart of Hybern’s stronghold.

***

Undetected they slipped through the passage that led from sea to stone.

The floor beneath their feet began to slant upwards, the rough-cut rock turning smoother as sconces appeared at intervals along the walls. But still it remained narrow and cold, and there was an odd scent in the air that Cassian couldn’t place— something ancient, like cold air and old earth, something he thought he might once have recognised but had since forgotten. It reminded him that this castle had stood for a thousand years— longer, perhaps.

No easy task, then, to infiltrate it.

His fingers curled tighter around his blade, as if to reassure himself, and only when they reached an old wooden door did Cassian realise that they were no longer beneath the castle. The sea door passage led them all the way to the base of the curtain wall that circled the castle proper, and as Azriel cracked the door open and sent shadows slipping through to ensure the way was still clear, he ran through the layout of the castle in his mind. There was a small courtyard beyond, leading to a thicker door made of reinforced iron that would grant them access to the main tower— to the halls where the king kept his court, and to the warren of corridors and chambers that dipped back beneath ground level.

In one of those, they would find the Cauldron.

The shadow returned, and Azriel gave them each a single sharp nod before opening the wooden door on silent hinges. Cloaked in shadow, he slunk across the courtyard, close to the wall, and pulled open the iron door on the other side. Only then did he turn, pressing a scarred finger to his lips.

Mor rolled her eyes.

Like they needed the reminder.

Cassian might have smirked, had he not been too busy listening for footsteps, scanning the hallway as he stepped through the iron door.

On this side, the hallways were wider. They were still cold stone, still seeped in centuries of cruel and brutal history, but Cassian no longer had to tuck his wings tight to make it through, like these walls were accustomed to guests with wings. He thought of the creatures like the Attor, the ones that had attacked Velaris, and when he looked down at the floor, he was certain that the marks he glimpsed in the stone had been made by claws. He gritted his teeth, pushed on through the rising unease that made him want to shudder.

He’d thought flying over Hybern was bad enough, but being inside the castle was something else entirely.

Dread snaked through him as they made their way through the labyrinth of corridors that made up the central keep, steps silent on dimly-lit stone. He didn’t know what they were looking for except a way down, but when they reached a corridor darker than the rest, colder than the rest, something stirred in his chest that made him pause.

“Down there,” Feyre breathed, nodding to the staircase at the end of the corridor. “It’s down there.”

Cassian didn’t bother to ask if she was sure.

Even he could feel it— in the way the air suddenly seemed static, the way everything else had seemed to still.

The stairs descended into darkness, a narrow spiral down and down and down, to the very depths of the castle. The air seemed thicker down there, heavier, and the scent of iron and salt pierced his lungs. Cassian didn’t know how far down those steps went, or what waited at the bottom, but there was only one way to find out.

With his blade out, Cassian took the stairs first.

With the way the stone curved, it was impossible to see far ahead. He didn’t know what waited around each twist, couldn’t say for certain he wasn’t about to run headfirst into a horde of Hybern’s soldiers, and as his siphons pulsed, casting crimson light on grey stone, he kept his blade ready and his senses sharp.

Down, down, down.

It seemed endless, like the stairs led to the belly of the earth itself, but eventually Cassian reached the landing at the bottom.

A guard waited.

Back turned, eyes on the chamber ahead rather than the stairs behind, the soldier didn’t hear Cassian approaching until it was too late— until the general’s knife had opened his throat. Cassian covered the guard’s mouth before he could scream, and he listened as his heartbeat thudded— quickened for just a moment, before failing, quieting, and fading completely. When he turned limp, Cassian dragged the body to a shadowed alcove and left it there, hidden in the dark. When they were back in Velaris, he might regret the loss of life. Might curse the tolls that war made them pay, but for now—

They had a job to do.

He whistled, so softly it could have been mistaken for the wind passing through the rock, but it was the signal Az and Feyre and Mor needed to descend that winding staircase.

And only when he glimpsed the blue light of Azriel’s siphons did he move further into the chamber the soldier had been guarding.

It was rounded, cavernous in a way that made him think of old temples and lost places of worship, and there were no windows, no natural light, no sound. Instinctively he knew they were back in the belly of the cliff, the ground so many miles above them. Dark archways lined the walls, but from what he could see in the dark, they were empty. The only light came from a single round ball of faelight hanging in the centre, casting an eerie silver glow across the centre of the room, where right in the middle, on a raised stone platform—

Sat the Cauldron.

Every nerve Cassian possessed chilled.

Made of iron so dark it seemed to swallow the light, the Cauldron sat like a void at the centre of the world. All was still, like time itself had no bearing in this place, and the chamber was so silent Cassian could hear his heart beating, racing, and his fingers flexed instinctively around his knife. It was bigger than he expected, the Cauldron. And old— he could tell, just from looking, even at a distance, that it was ancient. More ancient than anything he had ever seen before, and if the legends were true… Well.

The entire world had been tipped from this thing.

A shiver crawled down his spine.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, goosebumps erupted over his flesh, and as Feyre took her first tentative step forward, Cassian hung back, lingered at the edges of the chamber as he scanned the room and counted all of the dark corners. Mor drifted towards the Cauldron, a step behind Feyre, and if she was as unnerved as Cassian was, she didn’t show it.

Without speaking, Feyre mounted the platform. She placed her hand on the lip of the Cauldron, and as her fingers touched iron, Cassian tensed. It was something involuntary, something primal and basic, like something had cracked an eye open in the darkness and his instincts were begging him to turn back. His chest felt cold, too. Where the bond was wrapped around his ribs, there was a growing emptiness, foreboding and forbidding.

Nausea swelled.

Blindly he reached for the bond— tried to feel its comforting weight in this place, where even the stone walls seemed intent on repelling all warmth and light and sound, but there was nothing, only an odd absence in the air that made him feel all kinds of wrong. He scanned their surroundings again, but some of the alcoves were so dark that even his fae eyes couldn’t see into them fully, and the silence seemed to grow heavier with every moment they spent in the Cauldron’s presence.

A castle as large as this one should have been filled with sound, but only a deafening quiet echoed on the bare stone walls, and even when Cassian strained his ears, trying to hear something, anything, from the floors above—

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

This fucking place.

He turned slowly in a circle, hand tight on his blade. Feyre began to recite the spell Amren had given her, her voice steady and soft, and Mor and Az hadn’t moved, only kept watch from the foot of that platform.

But Cassian felt something else. Something echoing in that hollow chamber inside his chest, right where the bond that bound him to Nesta took up space. It was still, but it wasn’t a calm kind of stillness. No, it was the kind of stillness of an ocean wave just before it crests— the silence of a storm, a moment before the thunder cracks.

And for the second time in as many days, Cassian felt like something was wrong.

It was the same as the night after the attack, but worse now— stronger. Caution practically buzzed through his veins, a relentless thrum that blazed like a wildfire through his chest.

“Do you feel that?” he murmured to Azriel.

Az said nothing, only mutely shook his head. But his face was grim, and Cassian wasn’t reassured. He paced, but every footfall had him feeling sick, that feeling in his gut crawling up his throat and coating his tongue, and all he could think as he slowly wore a path into the stone around the edge of that chamber was—

Something’s wrong.

And this time…

This time he didn’t think it was nothing.

Feyre continued murmuring, and Cassian tapped his foot against the stone. Gods, he couldn’t wait to be free of this place. Couldn’t wait for the Cauldron to be rendered powerless. As soon as they were out, he’d be heading straight to the mortal lands, to find Nesta and tell her that the threat to the wall had been vanquished, that Hybern might attack the lands above the wall, but those below it were safe. She was safe. He couldn’t wait to take her in his arms and kiss her the way he should have kissed her when he last said goodbye, couldn’t wait to finally tell her he loved her—

Suddenly, Feyre stopped.

The silence deepened, grew sharp, and all thoughts of Nesta eddied from Cassian’s head as the Cursebreaker lifted her chin, one hand on one half of the book and the other on the Cauldron. Her eyes were glazed, like she wasn’t really there at all, and as they watched, a thin ribbon of blood began to drip from her nose.

And then Feyre’s hand came away from the Cauldron, her fingers twitching as she reached for the second half of the book— the one that Amren had specifically warned her not to reunite with the first.

Mor swore, a whisper skittering across the stone floor.

“Feyre,” she said, lunging forwards, hands outstretched.

But Feyre shook her head, and before Mor could reach her—

It was too late.

Feyre laid both halves of the book together, and Cassian swore he heard a whisper on the air, a quiet murmur that he thought might have been the book itself, snaking through the cold towards the woman who held it whole now in her hands. The air trembled— a shockwave shuddered through the chamber, rippling out to the world above, and Feyre’s legs seemed to shake, but she had one hand back on the Cauldron now, fingers once more curled around ancient iron.

“We need to get out of here,” Mor hissed. “Now.”

And Cassian looked at the darkened stairway, and the alcoves he couldn’t quite make out, and then back to Feyre, to her lips moving quickly, almost silently. He didn’t think she could even hear them right now, so lost was she in ancient magic, and despite the blood that leaked from her nose, she remained standing. Her grip on the Cauldron’s edge was tight, and though Cassian knew Mor was right… He knew, too, that this was their only chance to destroy the Cauldron, the greatest weapon in Hybern’s arsenal.

This had to work— for all of their sakes.

So he shook his head, sharp.

“Give her a minute,” he said, because despite everything he believed in her— in her Archeron blood.

A moment passed. Then two, then three, and Feyre stood there still, her lips moving and her eyes closed.

Mor swallowed thickly, her anxiety building as the minutes dragged. Cassian felt it too, his heartbeat echoing in his ears as he wondered what that pulse of power might attract, what could come crawling from the dark.

Ready, he palmed another blade from the sheath at his thigh.

But before his fingers had even closed around the hilt—

Steps.

Footsteps sounded on the winding stone staircase, slow and methodical.

It was Azriel who rushed for Feyre, who grabbed her hands and pulled her away from the Cauldron, breaking her trance as Cassian watched the foot of the stairs, his eyes widening as he caught sight of who had discovered them.

And when Jurian lifted his chin in the silver light, for a moment Cassian simply looked at the human he’d last seen breathing five hundred years ago.

Jurian’s eyes were widened slightly, his pupils blown, and Cassian had heard the rumours of his insanity, heard the tales, and seeing Jurian now… the way he tilted his head, a crooked smile on his lips and a glint in his eye that seemed unhinged somehow… Cassian didn’t doubt for a moment that the human general really had lost his mind. He met his eyes, and with a barely contained shudder he remembered what Amarantha had done, where she’d kept him these centuries past.

Jurian sneered.

“Stupid fool,” he hissed, his voice a slash of ice that resounded on the stone.

Feyre’s breath caught in her throat. “Jurian.”

He inclined his head in something like a nod, a mockery of a greeting, and Cassian snarled as the mad general took a step further into the chamber. The faelight illuminated the planes and shadows of his face, the dark circles beneath his eyes.

This was a man haunted, Cassian thought to himself.

One who hadn’t known peace for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like.

He might have pitied him, had Jurian not been blocking their only exit.

Mor stepped closer, fingers twitching as if readying herself to winnow them out. But she could only take two—

As if he’d heard them, Rhys winnowed right into the centre of the chamber.

Tracker on his magic be damned, the High Lord stood beneath the silver light now with his shoulders tight, as if he’d sensed his mate was in danger. He drew close to Feyre’s side, and as Cassian redoubled his grip on his blade, he glanced sidelong at his brother.

So much for being subtle.

“You look good, Jurian,” Rhys said, meandering closer until, between them, he and Cassian formed a barrier between the human general and Feyre. So smoothly Cassian almost missed it, Rhys took the book from his mate and slipped it inside his jacket. “For a corpse.”

Jurian scoffed. “Last time I saw you, you were warming Amarantha’s sheets.”

Cassian snarled, vicious, but Rhys only shrugged.

“So you remember. Interesting.”

Jurian sneered, his face twisting. “Enough pleasantries. You think he didn’t expect this?”

Cassian’s blood ran cold, but before he could think too much about what Jurian had said, what it meant, Mor was reaching for his hand, grasping for his wrist. Her other landed on Azriel’s forearm, fingers curling in the shadowsinger’s leathers. She glanced at him once, quickly, dipping her head in the barest sort of nod as she prepared to winnow them out of there at last. Rhys grabbed Feyre’s hand, and Cassian braced himself for the darkness, the rush of winnowing—

But there was silence in the chamber, a stillness that was almost terrifying, and as it stretched, Jurian began to laugh.

The sound echoed, harsh and chilling.

“New trick?” Rhys growled.

Jurian shrugged. “I was sent here to distract you whilst he worked his spell,” he said, a wolfish, maddened smile on his face. “You won’t be leaving this castle unless he allows you to.”

Cassian didn’t miss the emphasis Jurian placed on the word unless.

At his back, he felt the dark presence of the Cauldron and fucking hell— something flared in his chest, a kind of panic that didn’t feel like his own.

Rhys snarled, and suddenly Cassian was reaching, grasping for the power in his siphons—

But there was nothing.

Nothing rose to meet him, no wave of brutal magic sitting idle in his palm. A glance to Azriel on the other side of Mor, blue siphons stuttering in the dark, and Cassian knew that whatever dark magic had been worked, it hadn’t just stopped them from winnowing out.

Jurian smiled again.

“Oh, there’s that too,” he said, waving a hand. “Don’t you remember?” he added to Rhys. “When she took your powers that day fifty years ago to trap you beneath that mountain, it was his book of spells she used.”

Cassian tried again as grim realisation dawned, but the power that had always been a part of him, always at his side, was cold now, distant. It wasn’t like it had been after the attack on Velaris. No, even then he’d been able to sense it, even if it was depleted and drained. This was different— like a solid wall had been erected between himself and his magic, one that wouldn’t crack and wouldn’t break and held him back so completely his fingertips felt numb.

“He made sure that particular book was returned to him,” Jurian continued, oblivious to the way Cassian was desperately grappling for his power. With the way Feyre frowned, her breaths growing shallow, she was doing the same, throwing herself at the spell Hybern had cast to leave her powerless.

Rhys’ hand tightened to a fist.

Jurian’s face turned colder, his eyes crueller.

“Do you have any idea,” he hissed, “what it is like to be unable to sleep, to drink or eat or breathe or feel for five hundred years? Do you understand what it is like to be constantly awake? Forced to watch everything she did?”

Rhys’ face darkened. “I was there Jurian,” he said coldly, and if Cassian had had any space left to feel anything but unease and desperation, his heart would have broken for his brother. But as it was, his heart already felt like it was cracking, splintering to make way for sorrow, and he didn’t know why, could only feel it straining as though opposing forces were pulling it in different directions.

Jurian’s lips parted— in a cruel smile or a snarl, Cassian couldn’t tell.

And then he began to laugh, cold and unnatural— the laugh of a man who had spent so long in the dark he’d lost his mind.

And when it died away, the silence working its way into the gaps between stone, more steps sounded at the top of that winding staircase.

Heavier steps— surer steps, slow and definitive, each slam against the stone another nail in their coffin, and the first Cassian saw of him was polished boots, black leather. Then a pair of muscled legs, and a tunic that was finely woven but far from luxurious. And finally, a face. Edged with shoulder-length black hair, straight as an arrow, and lips twisted into a menacing smirk, the king of Hybern stepped into the Cauldron’s chamber.

His eyes seemed to dance as he took in the scene, his gaze lingering for a beat too long on Feyre and the Cauldron at her back.

His smirk grew teeth.

“The trap was so easy,” he drawled, “I’m almost disappointed none of you saw it coming.”

His voice felt as ancient as the castle above them, and just as devoid of warmth. It felt cruel, merciless, and intently Cassian began to study the king that stood before them, desperate to understand him, to find a weakness that might get them out alive. Centuries of training kicked in, assessing every inch of the man who stood before them, but there was nothing, no crack Cassian could find in that cold, unfeeling armour.

And he didn’t see the crossbow in Jurian’s hand until it was too late.

Didn’t see the general move, didn’t see him pluck the weapon from one of those shadowed alcoves, and before Cassian could move—

Azriel roared.

His scream rent the air in two, so loud in the rounded chamber that it echoed, seemed to go on forever.

A bolt protruded from his chest, a strange silver gleam on the shaft that mingled with Azriel’s blood as it spilled, and Mor’s scream echoed through the chamber too, resounding on the cold stone as Cassian whirled to face his brother.

One scarred hand lifted to his chest, the blood already slicking his leathers, and although Cassian caught Azriel before he could fall, when he moved to rip the bolt free - to give Az the chance to heal - the king tsked, and Cassian’s fingers stilled.

“The bolt is coated in faebane,” he said, a darkly satisfied lilt to his ancient voice. “It’s in his blood now, and only I can control the flow of it. Do exactly as I say and it won’t reach his heart. But resist…”

The king smiled cruelly, twisting his fingers, and Azriel gasped in agony. The poison flowing through his bloodstream turned the veins at his hands and wrists black, and Cassian glimpsed it crawling over Azriel’s collarbone too, beneath the Illyrian tattoos, aiming right for the shadowsinger’s heart. He jerked his hands back, letting go of the bolt.

“I can kill him in a heartbeat,” the king finished.

His thin lips split into an even crueller smile, and as he turned on his heel and swept back up that spiral staircase…

What were they to do but follow?

With Azriel’s blood leaking onto the floor, crimson marring the cold grey stone set before the Cauldron that had created the world… Cassian knew they were out of options.

Jurian extended an arm, motioning for them to pass as the king disappeared up the staircase. Azriel groaned as Cassian met Rhys’ eyes - the violet flecked with so few stars now - and his shadows scattered as Rhys took one of Azriel’s arms and slung it over his shoulder. Cassian took the other, one hand on Azriel’s wrist and the other around his waist, beneath the wings that hung limply at his back.

And with Mor and Feyre trailing behind them, Cassian and Rhys dragged Azriel up and through the dark— to wherever the king of Hybern was leading them.

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling @valkyriesupremacy @that-little-red-head @sv0430

#nessian #nessian fic #begged & borrowed time

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