#LOOK AT HIM. the grey hair. the scars. the nose.

[ambrosykim]

i need to fuck that old man

[punkshort]

First Impressions

Thanks anon for this request!

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader one-shot

Summary: When your heater breaks in the dead of winter, you get more than you bargained for when Joel Miller arrives to fix it.

Warnings: language, some fluff, the stress and fear that comes with living in the wilderness during a zombie apocalypse, competency kink (a little), smut (18+ MDNI), dirty talk

WC: 4.2K

Adjusting to life in Jackson was tough. You had been on your own for so long, you found it nearly impossible to ever fully relax. You were grateful Tommy and Maria took you in after one of their patrols stumbled across you freezing in the thick Wyoming wilderness, but to be yanked from the brink of death and dropped into some thriving community that seemingly even managed to still celebrate the holidays was too jarring.

So, you kept to yourself for a while. You pitched in around the stables. It was where you felt most comfortable: less people, more animals. You didn't go to the dining hall to eat and you didn't visit the bar for a drink. You had a clear cut path from your house to the stables and back, and you rarely ever strayed.

Unfortunately, while Jackson had a lot to offer and did incredibly well at reviving civilization, things still did break. Like your space heater.

You piled on extra blankets for a week, and then you moved to the living room to sleep on the tiny sofa in front of the fireplace, but eventually your back was screaming at you for it and the cold weather wouldn't let up for at least another two months, so you had no choice but to ask for help.

Tommy was shocked you hadn't said something sooner and apologized for making you feel like you couldn't ask for help, even though it wasn't at all his fault or anyone else's except your own, and promised to have his brother stop by that afternoon to take a look at it.

While you kept to yourself and hardly socialized at all, that didn't stop you from overhearing things at the stables. You knew of Tommy's brother. How people whispered rumors behind his back and fell silent whenever he stepped foot inside the building.

Did you know he slit a raider's throat and made the guy's girlfriend watch?

He beat the shit out of Seth the other night just for looking at him wrong.

Back in Boston, I heard he knocked some guy's teeth down his throat for taking the last of the beef jerky.

Someone told me he only sleeps two hours a night.

He fixed Greg's shower and told him not to fuck it up again or else he'll be taking baths in the kitchen sink.

Were you intimidated? Maybe a little. But you had been on your own for so long, fighting and scratching and clawing to stay alive. Some asshole wasn't going to shake you up.

Then you saw him.

Well, you'd seen him before, sure. But just glimpses in the barn or passing by him on the street. Never up close.

When you opened your front door later that afternoon, you were a little taken aback. He was so much more handsome than you had thought. He was built like a refrigerator; broad and strong. His cheeks and chin were dusted in a patchy, greying beard, growing right below a hooked nose and deep, velvety brown eyes. There were a few scars littering his bronzed skin but what drew your attention more was his hair. His fucking hair. Loose, mostly grey curls that fell past his ear and down the back of his neck. Not long enough to pull into a ponytail, like Tommy, but give it a few more months and he might. He had them pushed back from his face, making the silken locks look like a cascading river so enticing, you had to hold yourself back from touching them.

He said your name and readjusted the toolbox in his hand and you blinked yourself back to life before stepping aside to let him in. When he passed you, you were hit with the strong scent of wood shavings and coffee, an intoxicating combination that had your brain buffering once again.

"Tommy said you needed your heater looked at?"

You nodded and pointed up the stairs. "It's in my bedroom. Can I, uh, get you something to drink? Coffee?"

He perked up at that once he slid off his jacket and shoes. "You got coffee?"

You nodded and walked toward the kitchen, rummaging through your meager belongings until you found the precious tin can. "That's the one thing I always made sure I grabbed if I ever saw it out there. If we have to live like this, at least I'm still having my coffee."

Joel grinned and set the toolbox down on your counter, watching as you filled up a kettle with water. His heart was hammering wildly in his chest. He couldn't believe how lucky he was that your stupid heater broke, giving him the perfect excuse to finally meet you so he could stop pining from afar. "You don't like it much here, then?"

You startled at that, giving him a look of surprise before lighting your stove.

"No, I didn't mean here, I just meant... you know... the world in general."

"I know, I'm just teasin' you," he said a little awkwardly with a soft chuckle. You turned around, leaning against your counter and crossing your arms over your chest. You had just spoken a few words but so far, nothing about this man screamed scary. In fact, he seemed rather... sweet.

"How long have you been here?" you asked while you waited for the water to boil.

"'Bout five years," he said thoughtfully, scratching his chin. "You're new, though."

You nodded, your fingers fidgeting underneath your bicep. "Yeah. I think it's been almost a month. I'm not really sure, never bothered keeping track of the days out there."

Joel studied you up for a moment, picking up on your eyes shifting over your surroundings, your foot tapping anxiously on the floor, and the way you kept your back protected when you spoke to him.

"I remember when we first got here," Joel said. Your fidgeting paused and you looked at him again. "It was tough. Acclimatin' to this kind of life. Hard to sleep. Hard to trust anyone. It took time but eventually, you start sleepin' soundly again and that guard comes down. You'll see."

A slow smile spread across your face and you looked down shyly at your feet. "Am I that obvious?"

Joel laughed and strolled over to the two mugs and can of instant coffee you had sitting out. "Wouldn't say it's obvious but I haven't seen you at the dining hall one time. In fact, pretty sure this is the first time I've heard your voice." Your cheeks warmed up behind his back and you bit your lower lip. So he's noticed you enough to realize you never went to the dining hall.

"It's a pretty one," he said over his shoulder, focusing on scooping the correct amount of coffee into each mug. "Your voice, I mean. Shame you been keepin' it hidden all this time."

"O-oh," you stuttered, completely flustered by his compliments. This was not at all the man everyone made him out to be. "Thank you."

Joel carefully poured the boiling water into each mug before giving them each a stir, then handed you one. "You're welcome, darlin'. Now why don't you show me to your bedroom?"

Your eyes must have bugged out of your head because at first, he frowned, then after he realized what he said, turned a shade of pink you didn't know he was capable of.

"I mean, for the heater."

"Yeah, oh Christ, I know," you said, waving him off and heading for the stairs, your mug clutched so tightly in one hand you thought it might break. You lead Joel to the first door on the left and stepped back so he had room to swing his toolbox through the narrow door with him.

"I don't know what happened," you said, trailing in after him while he began to set out some tools on the ground. When he knelt down, he groaned at the creak in his knees and you quickly grabbed a spare pillow. "Here, kneel on this," you offered. He looked up at the pillow, then at you, and shook his head.

"I ain't kneelin' on your pillow."

"It's a spare. I only use the one. And honestly, even that seems too much sometimes."

He sighed and hesitated for only a moment longer before taking the pillow from your hand. "Thank you," he said softly. You smiled and sat down on the edge of your bed after putting your coffee on the end table with his.

"Anyway. As I was saying, I don't know what happened. It was working fine and then one day it just wouldn't turn on. I tried other outlets and I didn't see any issues with the cord, so I just gave up."

Joel began to unscrew the back of the heater while he listened. "So you gave up and slept in the cold for two weeks?"

"Nothing I wasn't used to."

He couldn't argue with that.

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence while he worked until he began to hum some old country song under his breath, making you smile again. You couldn't remember the last time you smiled so much.

"What're you smilin' for?" he asked with a sparkle of amusement in his eyes.

"You aren't at all the way people say you are," you said boldly.

He quirked an eyebrow and turned his attention back to his work. "And what have you heard?"

You shrugged and leaned back on your hands. "Threatened a man after breaking his shower. Knocked out some guy named Seth. That you only sleep two hours a night," you chuckled at the last one when you heard how silly it sounded.

"Well," Joel said with a heavy sigh. "I didn't threaten anyone about their shower. Just reminded him he's gotta take care of the pipes or else the whole place'll rot."

You grinned to yourself as he continued to explain the rumors.

"I did punch Seth but he said somethin' real nasty 'bout my girl and, well, that just don't sit right with me."

Your grin slid right off your face. "Your girl?"

He stopped what he was doing and swiveled around to face you. "My - Ellie. Her name's Ellie. She's, uh, well... she ain't my daughter, but..."

Relief flooded your veins. "Oh. I thought you meant -"

"No, no," Joel said, clearing his throat awkwardly. "No, not like that." He twirled a wrench around in between his fingers as he nervously bit the inside of his cheek before adding, "Don't got anyone like that."

Your mouth formed a silent oh. Message received.

Joel cleared his throat again and turned back to the heater. "And the sleep thing, well, they got me there," he chuckled with a shake of his head. "Although some nights are better than others."

"I know what you mean," you said with a nod. After a moment of silence, Joel smiled to himself.

"Imagine y'do if you ain't got any heat at night."

You giggled and he smiled again, this time his chest swelling when he heard you laugh.

Joel continued to work on the heater while you studied him quietly. He took you by complete surprise. The last thing you expected was to make a friend out of the fearsome Joel Miller. It didn't hurt that he was so easy on the eyes, either. How old was he? Your gaze roamed over his greying hair and the crinkles next to his eyes. Older than you, definitely, but it was hard to tell by how much.

You couldn't even remember the last time you were interested in anyone. It must have been when you were in the Atlanta QZ, and that was years ago.

"Alright, let's give her a run," Joel suddenly said. When you refocused on him, you saw he had put the heater back together and was fixing it upright. He plugged it into the wall and hovered his finger over the power button before glancing back at you. "Ready?"

You nodded and swung your legs back and forth over the edge of your bed, then he winked at you, sending warmth all over your body. Jesus, if Joel kept giving you little looks like that, you wouldn't have much need for a heater anymore.

He pressed the button and sure enough, the coils inside the heater began to glow orange and heat started to fill the room.

"Oh!" you exclaimed, jumping off the bed in excitement. "Thank you!" you added, kneeling on the floor as well so you could warm your hands in front of the heater.

"Anytime," Joel murmured, and it wasn't until you heard the deep timber of his voice next to you that you realized he was so close. You tilted your face, smiling shyly at him next to you. Up close, you could see the fine lines in his face in much more detail, each one calling out to you to trace with your fingertip. When you met his gaze, you found he had been examining you, as well. Quickly, you looked away and stood up.

"Is there anythin' else?" Joel asked as he began to pack up his toolbox. You shook your head.

"No, I think that'll do it."

"You sure? Thought I saw that faucet drippin' in the kitchen."

You frowned. "No, I didn't notice that," you said slowly.

"What 'bout those windows?" he asked, standing up with a grunt and gesturing to the two bedroom windows on the other side of the room. "Need help hangin' curtains?"

You looked where he was pointing. "No, never really bothered me. Besides, it faces the backyard. No one can see in."

He laughed softly and rubbed his chin before shooting you a sheepish look. "I'm tryin' to find a reason to stay, sweetheart."

Your eyes widened and once again, you felt your cheeks heat up.

"Oh," you said, shyly dropping your gaze to the floor to hide your smile. "I would like that."

"Yeah?" he asked, and you nodded.

"Yeah. You're, um," you shifted your weight nervously, "you're sweet. And nice."

Joel huffed and set his toolbox back down. "I ain't nice all the time," he warned. "But you ain't gotta worry 'bout that."

"No?" you questioned, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth as he began to close the distance between you.

He sighed and cupped your face with both hands. Your body instantly melted at his touch, your knees practically giving out when he dragged his thumb across your lip, saving it from your teeth. "Am I readin' this wrong?" he asked, his eyes darting all over your face. You quickly shook your head and stepped even closer.

"Thank Christ," he breathed before capturing your lips in a deep kiss. It had been several years and you were a little rusty, but you quickly found it was like riding a bike.

Joel's kiss lit a fire in you, one that had gone dormant for so long. Your fingers curled around the lapels of his flannel, the material warm and soft, just like him, and with the confidence boost that came from his hands dropping to grab excitedly at your hips, you walked him backwards until he bumped against the edge of your mattress.

He sat down on your bed with an oomph and you crawled into his lap, not once breaking the kiss.

"Wish I got to know you sooner," he whispered, tipping his head back when your lips traveled down his neck. Fuck, even his neck was sexy. "Always so skittish and shy," he continued, his palms gliding up and down your back.

You laughed softly against his skin and leaned back. "You still don't really know me."

He grinned and shrugged. "I'd like to, if you're willin'," he said, his vulnerability making your chest ache. You sunk your teeth into your lower lip again and nodded.

"Good," he said, his hands roaming further past your waist to cup your ass. "'Cause I like what I know so far."

"You're full of surprises," you told him, giggling when he gave your ass a firm squeeze. "You're so much more... you're more gentle and sweet than I expected."

Joel smirked and tugged you closer so you felt his erection trapped within his jeans. "I can be gentle," he told you, nipping at your jaw. "Or I can be rough. Whatever you like."

You swallowed when you caught the mischievous glint in his dark eyes. "Oh, yeah?"

"Mhmm," he said, and before you could blink he had spun you around so your back was pressed into the mattress while he hovered above you. You had to admit, he was adorable. He had to be pushing sixty but he was talking like a man half his age. After you heard the way his knees creaked when he was fixing your heater, you figured he was all talk, or maybe he just needed the ego boost to hype himself up.

But the speed in which he removed your clothes should have been the first sign that your impression of him was wrong. When he buried himself inside you, his surprisingly thick length stretching you open and nudging the furthest depths of you, you got the message.

When you gasped and tipped your head back, his big hand immediately rose to cup the side of your face and tilt it back down so he could watch your face as you unraveled beneath him. Each little noise and moan seemed to egg him on, like he fed off your sounds and the way your face twisted in pleasure when his coarse hair rubbed against your clit with each roll of his hips.

"Wanna see you," he explained, eyes scanning all over your face. "Wanna watch you take it. You'll keep your eyes on me, won't you? Hm? You'll be good for me, yeah?"

You nodded, your mind a muddled mess. The only thing you could seem to focus on was the slow and deliberate drag of his heavy cock in and out of you. Joel pressed your knees back against your chest as far as you could handle and pushed inside you further with a rough grunt. He managed to get so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach and the sensation left you breathless.

"So fuckin' pretty, y'know that?" he groaned, gazing down at you without breaking rhythm. His long locks loosened and hung past his eyes, tempting you to smooth them back. "Wanted to get to know you f'so long but I couldn't ever catch your eye," he admitted with a little smirk. You moaned when his hips began to swirl, switching the angle ever so slightly and setting your nerves alight.

"I-I... oh, god," you whined, already struggling to keep your eyes on him like he asked. "I didn't know."

He lunged forward and crashed his mouth against yours hungrily, his exhale fanning over your cheek. Then just as suddenly as he kissed you, he leaned back and pulled out.

"Turn over," he instructed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he dragged in air. You did as you were told and shakily held yourself up on your hands and knees.

"Fuck," he muttered behind you. Your face went hot and you tucked your chin into your shoulder as you waited for him to enter you again, but he chose to take an extra minute to glide his hand over the curves of your hips and ass. If you had been able to see him, you would have seen a look of awe and appreciation on his face.

"Always wondered what you had hidden under all those clothes," he said as he lined himself up at your entrance. You cried out his name when he finally slid back inside, the angle already too intense and he hadn't even begun to move. "Goddamn, wanna run my tongue over every fuckin' inch of you, baby," he growled, fingers gripping your sides as he tried to ground himself.

He gave you a few gentle thrusts to get used to it before he couldn't hold back any longer. He pounded into you, his eyes fixed on your ass and the way it bounced with every snap of his hips. One hand slowly reached down to trace your spine, marveling at the way your body welcomed him. Then you arched your back and you both moaned at the slight change and he could feel his stomach begin to tense in anticipation of his release.

"So fuckin' tight," he said through clenched teeth. You could hear him breathing heavily as his thrusts grew sloppy and you began to panic, sensing he was about to come before you were ready. But then as if he read your mind, one of his hands snaked around your front to draw fast circles over your clit.

"C'mon, give it t'me," he said with a grunt. "Wanna feel this perfect pussy squeeze me, want you to be feelin' me for fuckin' days, sweetheart."

"Oh, shit," you gasped, mouth hanging open in a mixture of ecstasy and surprise. You wondered how on earth everyone in town had so much to say about Joel's reputation but somehow managed to leave out how mind-blowing he happened to be in bed.

"Christ, honey. Ain't gonna last much longer," he groaned, his fingers working even faster between your legs. He pounded into you harder, punching the air from your lungs and pushing you closer and closer to your peak. Your breaths were coming in shallow pants and you could feel the swell building deep inside you, threatening to unleash at any second. You reached behind you frantically, searching for some part of him to hold onto when you found his hand pressed firmly onto your hip. Your fingers clasped over his as you felt the pressure build up quickly and you knew in that moment this one encounter was going to single-handedly ruin you.

The moment you fell apart while practically screaming his name, your cunt pulsing around him and your body shaking, he almost made a huge mistake. Finally getting to witness what you looked like when you came was more than enough, but hearing his name over and over while your body shook with pleasure? It was too much and he was only just a man who was holding on by his goddamn fingernails as it was. But fortunately, he managed to pull out just in time to paint your lower back with his cum. He knew he was making some ungodly sounds as relief flooded his veins, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He had been daydreaming about taking you apart like that for weeks and now that he finally had you, there was no turning back.

"Oh, fuck," he gasped, lifting his chin towards the ceiling while dragging in deep lungfuls of air. You collapsed flat onto your stomach with a grunt and he tilted his face back down to grin as how spent you looked.

Still got it.

"I'll be right back, darlin'," he told you. You mumbled something tiredly in response before he slipped out of your room to get a washcloth from your bathroom and returned quickly to clean you up.

"Thank you," you said, turning your face so you could watch him gently wipe up his mess. His eyes flickered to yours and he smirked.

"You thankin' me for fixin' the heater, for fuckin' you, or for cleanin' you up?"

You giggled, your voice a little hoarse when you replied, "All of the above."

You flipped over onto your back and his eyes immediately drifted down your naked body, his breath catching in the back of his throat at how perfect you were. Even better than he ever imagined.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, letting the rag fall to the floor so he could glide his hand up your thigh, over your hips and stomach to one of your breasts which, he realized far too late, had gone neglected. Next time.

"So are you," you whispered back, bringing a hand up to play with the long curls resting on the back of his neck. He shook his head shyly and looked away.

"I need a haircut."

"I like it just the way it is," you told him, twisting a lock of hair around one finger and watching as it loosely bounced back when you let it go. "Gives me something to grab onto," you joked. A wide smile stretched across his face and his eyes looked like he was staring at the tree on Christmas morning.

"So, uh," Joel began when the silence stretched on for too long. "I meant it earlier. 'Bout gettin' to know you better." He couldn't remember the last time he felt so nervous. He could feel his face heating up and he prayed you didn't notice. "I know you don't like goin' to the dining hall but I'd really like to have dinner with you. I can't make much but I can make stew, if y'wanna-"

"I would go to the dining hall with you," you said, cutting him off. His eyes snapped back up to yours and he shot you a nervous smile.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you said with a little shrug before sitting up and draping your arms around his shoulders. "As long as you're there, I'll go."

He grinned and leaned forward to kiss you, still in complete disbelief his wildest fantasy actually came true.

"How 'bout tomorrow, then?" he asked a little breathlessly when he broke the kiss.

Your eyes lit up and you nodded. "It's a date."

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[yawnderu]

ANGEL — John Price x Reader x Simon Riley

WC: 6,048 | Part I

Deep down, you knew Simon's way of telling you it's over between you was the moment he gave you his captain's number. Every single message you left Simon was left unanswered, not even opened most of the time, leaving you hoping that perhaps he was simply busy with his missions.

His deployments are oftentimes stressful from what you saw every time he came back home to you, yet you stopped convincing yourself everything was alright after 7 weeks of no contact. Simon Riley is not a coward— not unless it comes to feelings. You're too good for someone like him, someone who could drop dead at any moment, whose only achievements come from killing, forever tainting his hands with blood he can't seem to wash off no matter how many long showers he takes.

He rationalized for months, thought about it— thought about leaving you, too. Yet that lost puppy look of pure trust you gave him every single time he fucked into you, pretty moans leaving your parted lips and soft hands exploring his clothed body, desperately wanting to feel his bare skin against yours, something he never had the heart to give you. Too tainted, too scarred, too ugly. So like a broken man wanting to keep you safe, he did the best with what he had, leaving his captain's number on your night table the moment he was done cumming.

Over 2 months later, Simon still remembers the feeling of your warm skin beneath his lips, the look of pure vulnerability and love plastered on your face, so angelic and pretty, a sheer contrast to the nervousness on his, despite how natural it was to treat you with a tenderness he's never had with anyone in his entire life.

“He fell from a helicopter?” Crinkled eyes meet yours from across the table, taking a sip of his drink before letting out a dry chuckle, nodding his head.

“Aye, hangin' from a bloody rope. Had me scared, thinkin' I lost my Sergeant.” John said with a grin, his gaze softening at the way you were listening so intently, your full attention on him no matter how boring he thought his stories were.

“Is he scared of getting into helicopters again?” You lean a bit closer to him, your chin resting on your hand as you look up at him. From this angle, you're able to admire John's features from up-close. Every single grey hair adorning his beard, his crow's feet, the tiny beauty mark on his nose, the tiny spots on his face, likely gotten from spending a long time under the sun as a soldier from a young age.

“Of course. Took him a while to trust our pilots again, now he always double checks his gear's on right.” Price always pays attention to detail, the way your pupils dilate the longer you stare at him don't go unnoticed in the slightest. He asks a passing waitress for a check, not even giving you a second to offer to pay for your half before his card is already in her hands, going away to charge him for the dinner and drinks.

“And how's… what was his name again? Soap?” He smirks at the mild confusion when using Johnny's callsign, likely assuming it's simply a sex innuendo.

“Soap, yeah. He's a good kid, kind o' like the son I never had.” That gets your attention, looking away for a second to hold back a small smirk before looking back up at him, eyebrows raised.

“You don't have children?” That earns a small chuckle out of him, shaking his head at the question. He gave the waitress a small smile as she came back with his card, pocketing it and getting up from his chair, offering his arm up to you. There's no hesitation as you hook your arm with his, walking to his car.

“Never had girlfriends after joining the SAS. Became a captain at a young age, too.” He looks down at you as you walk, admiring your pretty features, secretly wondering how Simon could have fucked up that badly— how he let such a lovely and sweet girl go. He opens the car door for you, even going as far as to help you put on your seatbelt, letting you have a whiff at his woody cologne, the smell of smoke from cigars mixing in.

“What about you? Any children?” He asks teasingly, shooting you a playful grin before starting the car, blue eyes fully focused on the road. Unlike Simon, Price knows how to drive well, making you feel safe while on the road.

“Hell no. I've been… thinking about it, but men my age were never interested in that.” Even if he was much older, Simon was never even an option. Too emotionally unavailable, too fucked up to even consider having children.

“Part of the reason I like older men.” Your voice is smooth and even, a sheer contrast to the slight knot of nervousness tightening in your stomach, only coming undone when you hear his amused laugh.

Price's calloused palm rests on the gear shift before daring to move it over to your thigh, running up and done slowly, trying to heat up your cold skin rather than doing it to be a pervert, yet your body still reacts to his touch, warmth pooling on your lower stomach.

“Really, sweetheart?” Price isn't stupid in the slightest, yet unlike Simon, his actions aren't malicious. He simply wants to see you squirm, finding pure amusement in the laugh you both share and the playful slap you give to his arm.

“Stop using your charm on me.” You scold jokingly, unable to hide the big grin taking over your pretty face.

“I'm charming now, eh?” His grip tightens on your inner thigh, applying just enough pressure to tease you.

“According to Simon, you always have.” That makes one of his thick eyebrows raise questioningly, his lips pulling into an amused smile.

“I've known him for a long time, y'know? Back when we I was an LT.” He can't help but allow his mind to go back into the past as he drives, images of the eager Simon Riley, a broken man who simply wanted to change the world, who always helped without even asking for much in return.

“Has be always been… like that?” You ask after a few seconds of silence, allowing yourself to be the cat curiosity killed.

“No.” The Simon Riley he met was not similar to Ghost in the slightest.

“He was 'round 19 when I met him. Better than any recruits I've seen.” Yet still teased by his mates for being an apprentice butcher in the past, for being so rigid and basing his entire life on discipline, unlike the many other young soldiers who have since passed.

“I bet. He has that certain look on him, you know? The eyes. I wouldn't want to mess with him.” Price lets out a dry chuckle, nodding his head in agreement. Part of him is glad that he's been working with Simon because it seems that to know more about you, he needs to know about Simon as well.

“We're here, doll.” He parks the car, getting out of his seat and opening the door for you, his calloused hand resting on your lower back, guiding you to your house. You can feel the warmth from his hand spreading all over your body, soothing rubs up and down your back as you walk.

“Would you like a cuppa?” Mirth dances in his eyes at the audacity, already knowing your intentions, and yet.

“Of course.” Price follows after you, part of him growing excited by whatever you have in mind. Your slightly shaky hands fiddle with the keys before you're able to open the door, secretly thankful that you cleaned up your mess earlier in the day.

“What tea would you like?” You ask, turning around just in time to see Price finishing the once-over he was giving you.

“This isn't about tea, is it, darlin'?” He asks with a knowing smile, his jacket slipping out of his shoulders now that you're both inside the house. Blown pupils stare back at him, taking your time to admire the strong body hugged by his tight black shirt. You can see his bulging muscles, broad shoulders fully relaxed as he steps forward, towering over you. A monument of sorts when you're small.

“If I'm lucky, I hope not.” Your breathy voice was all Price needed as reassurance. His lips crash against yours, warm hands gripping your waist tight enough for you to feel the warmth spreading all over your lower body. The smell and taste of cigar smoke overwhelms your senses, too enthralled by the feeling of his tongue wrapping around yours, a small moan leaving your lips the moment his hand trails down to your ass, groping you with care, as if you're made of glass.

“How far do you wanna go?” His forehead leans against yours as his blown pupils stare back at you, his chest rising up and down with each breath.

“As far as you want to.” A small yelp leaves your lips when he lifts you in his arms, your legs instantly wrapping around his strong, muscular waist.

“Bedroom's there.” You don't even need to point— Price can see the open door, so enticing and tempting, allowing your small giggle to consume his whole soul like a siren's song. With carefulness that contrasts the brutality he uses as a soldier, Price sets you down in bed, strong arms on each side of your head, caging you in.

Your breaths mingle together as he leans down to kiss you again, warm tongues wrapping around the other, using his knee to spread your legs enough for his burly body to fit, subtly grinding against your clothed cunt.

“Been wantin' to do this for a long while.” Ever since Simon showed him your profile picture on WhatsApp, introducing you as a friend in need. He wouldn't dare confess it to anyone, not with the way his calloused hand rubbed his cock until it almost hurt, using your pretty face as a relief from the stress of war.

“Pretty fuckin' girl.” He praised, dragging a giggle out of you the moment his beard started tickling your neck, gentle kisses planted all over your warm, sensitive skin, his tongue darting past his lips to give your neck a tantalizing lick.

He can feel your hands exploring his strong body, his muscles bulging and tensing up beneath your soft palms. He only breaks apart the moment your hands go to the hem of his shirt, helping you pull it off of his body, the piece of clothing discarded on the floor.

“God…” Your whisper holds nothing but pure admiration, catching hints of his strong, muscular body, dark hair covering most of it. Your hand drifts up to his torso, caressing his surprisingly soft skin, not minding the scars you can feel beneath your hand. Price has been shot, stabbed, tortured, left for dead— his body acting as a keepsake of every mission gone wrong.

His gaze is soft as he stares down at you, holding a tenderness unlike a man like him, so naturally gentle and willing to show it without the walls guarding his heart— unlike Simon. His calloused hand rubs your thigh before drifting up to the hem of your blouse, carefully pushing it up and removing it with your help.

“Pretty girl.” His back bends slightly as his gentle lips now go to your bare stomach, planting a rapid-fire of kisses all over the soft skin, descending with each passing second, lifting your skin up to reveal your clothed cunt.

“I'll take care of you.” And he means every single word. Captain Price is a bad man, a bad man with a high kill-count and multiple war crimes to his name, yet John Price is a different story— caring and loving, so willing to fix something he didn't even break.

His eyes close the moment his lips connect to your mound, tongue darting out to get a taste at all he's been craving the moment he saw you. He lets out a small groan as the taste of your slickness overwhelms his senses, his hands roaming up and down your waist, daring to sneak past your bra, finally getting a good feel at your tits.

John is a starved man. A starved man whose only salvation is you, looking so pretty and sweet, panties wet with a mix of his saliva and your own slick. He's careful and gentle, pulling down your panties with both hands and dropping them on the floor, his breath catching in his throat when his gaze drifts down to your pussy, glistening under the light of your bedroom.

He doesn't waste any time, lowering himself again between your legs, licking a trail from your tight hole, to your swollen clit. Your legs try to close out of instinct, a whiny moan making its way out of your lips at the sensation of his beard against your cunt.

“Open your legs, love.” He whispered, running his thumb over your hard bud.

“Let daddy taste you.” He kisses your inner thigh before diving back in, licking and sucking on your clit, trying his best to make you feel good. Your moans are too pretty, your cunt too sweet, and Price can feel himself starting to lose control. His cock throbbed, his own desire growing stronger by the second, focusing solely on your pleasure.

“That's my good girl.” He whispered against your skin, sliding two thick fingers inside you. You're soaking wet yet still so tight, only making his desire grow, desperately needing to be inside you. Your whiny moans fuel him, his warm tongue flickering against your hardened clit faster and faster, mixing in with his sucking, his thick fingers curling inside your needy cunt.

Your hands run through his short hair, pulling at it softly to release some of the pleasure building in, the familiar knot in your stomach tightening up with each lick. Your chest rises up and down with each long, labored breath, muscles tensing up as the knot in your stomach finally comes undone, pushing his face closer to your cunt as his fingers move in and out, dragging out your orgasm.

He pulls his fingers out of you slowly, his blue eyes connecting with yours as he licks his fingers clean from your cum, your heart thudding loudly inside your chest.

“Fuck me.” That breathy whisper was all he needed, getting up only to slip out of his pants and boxers, his dick standing proudly. Despite being uncircumcised, you can see his dark pink tip, leaking precum like a broken faucet. Now that he's standing, he takes his time to admire your bare body, his blue eyes going to your tits when you take off your bra.

“Tell me if you want me to stop, yeah?” The option is always there, and he wants you to know. His knees sink into the mattress as he supports his body on top of yours with one hand, lining his hard cock with your entrance, pausing for a moment.

“Let me love you.” He whispered hoarsely, slipping into you gently despite his primal instincts telling him otherwise. He lets out a loud groan the moment your tight walls grip his throbbing cock, his face finding shelter on the crook of your neck. A small hiss makes its way out of your lips as your legs wrap on his hips, pushing him closer and deeper, allowing him to finally bottom out.

“Bloody hell— you're so tight.” He moans out, his thrusts growing faster as you get used to his thickness. He looks down at you, his eyes filled with desire and adoration, longing dancing within. John's lips part as he feels your long nails dragging down his back, driving him crazy with pure need.

“I'm close.” He whispers out, his hips ramming against you with increasing urgency, reaching out to caress one of your soft tits. He plants open-mouthed kisses all over your neck and chest, his breath warm against your sweaty skin.

“Cum inside.” John's eyes widen at your words, his dominant nature taking over as his hands go down to grip your hips firmly in place, the overwhelming desire and pleasure clouding his judgement, drowning out any concerns. His thrusts are deep and powerful, making you his with an unyielding force.

As he loses himself in the heat of the moment, John's muscles tense up, the familiar feeling of pure heat pooling up within him, slamming himself as deep inside you as he can before his cock starts throbbing, shooting ropes of cum with each pulse. His breath is heavy as he slowly pulls out of you, his gaze fixated on the mess of mixed fluids that coats your pretty cunt.

“My pretty girl.” He whispers out, burly arms wrapping around your body, pulling you closer to his hairy chest, allowing you to hear his fast-beating heart. His lips are gentle against your forehead, wanting nothing more than to relax with you after the intense love-making. His actions are nothing short of genuinely caring and loving, wanting to give you good aftercare, all thoughts of Simon finally out of your head.

“Want me to run you a bath?” Price asks in a whisper, planting one last kiss on your forehead before looking down, just to see your chest moving up and down slowly, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, pulling you closer to his warm, naked body so you can sleep better, deciding to get some well-deserved rest as well.

The smell of eggs and tea is what you woke up to in the morning, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand. The feeling of large fabric keeping your body warm makes you look down, just realizing that John put his large shirt on your body when you were sleeping, a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips as you get up from bed, making your way to the kitchen.

“Good mornin'.” John turns around for a second, blue eyes lighting up when he's greeted by a big smile and his shirt dwarfing your body, giving you a small wink before he's back to finishing your breakfast. You take your time to admire him, so naturally handsome and masculine, his hairy, strong body only having his boxers on.

“Thanks, daddy.” You quip teasingly as he hands you the plate, a small squeal leaving your lips when he starts to chase you around the house, shared laughs ringing around.

Dating John is a sheer contrast to any expectations you had when you first got into the relationship. Despite the fact that he's often away during missions, he has scheduled delivers for flowers and your favorite foods, calling with you the moment he's available.

“What are you doin'?” Price asks with a small smirk, his gaze softening the moment his eyes meet yours, your cheek resting on his strong thigh while he was trying to complete a report. His hand goes to your head out of pure muscle memory, giving your scalp a soft massage.

“I like you from this angle.” He lets out a small chuckle, moving his leg to make your position more comfortable as you nuzzle his leg, your chin now resting on it as you adjust your knees on the floor.

“You like me in every angle.” A grin spreads on his face, his calloused hand running down the length of your hair before resting on your back, massaging the muscles tenderly.

“True, but specially from this one.” The cheeky smile you throw his way does nothing other than to distract him further from his report of the latest mission, cupping your cheek to examine your pretty features better under the light of the room, mirth dancing in his blue eyes.

“You're clingier than my shadow.” He teases, leaning forward until his lips meet yours in an affectionate kiss, not bothered by your clinginess in the slightest. He breaks away just to give your forehead a tender kiss, staring down at you lovingly. The look of pure trust and love your eyes hold drags him back to one of the many late night conversations with Simon back at base.

“Y'like her?” Simon finally dares to ask, ignoring the growing pain on his lower stomach at the idea of you dating John, even if it was Simon's idea.

“Do you?” Price quips, already knowing the reply. There's been more than one occasion where he saw Simon stare at your WhatsApp profile picture, even if your number was deleted— he still keeps your messages, using it as an odd way of finding comfort despite the growing self-loathing from hurting you.

“You know I don't do that.” There's hints of regret spilling along Simon's deep voice, his bare fingers drumming on the cup of tea on his hand.

“Do what?” He already knows the answer, and yet.

“Love. 'M gonna get the poor girl killed.” Memories of Christmas haunt him even years later, his mind momentarily taken back to coming home just to find his entire family dead. All that blood, yet all his shattered mind was able to do was laugh even as he held a gun to his mouth.

“She'll be fine, Simon. The girl knows how to handle herself. Hell, I'm getting her a better security system soon, too.” Despite being in a committed relationship with you, John knows Simon well enough to know he still likes you, in his own way. He's seen Simon break down, seen the worst and the best of him, and eventually got to see the way he built himself back up, coming back to the SAS as Ghost.

“Wha'? You want me to date her, too?” Even if he asked it as a joke, Price's silence and the subtle shrug of his shoulders speaks louder than words.

“I know what you've been through, son. Think about it, you mean a lot to the bird.” John empties the rest of his tea down the sink, giving Simon one last pat on the shoulder before walking out of the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

“I'll go get it.” John is brought back to reality with the soft knocks on the entrance door, tilting his head up as you plant a kiss on his cheek. You make your way up to the door, your heart beating inside your chest when you look through the peephole, a familiar pair of dead brown eyes staring back. There's slight hesitation as your hand goes to the doorknob, resting there for a few seconds before you decide to open the door.

“Simon?” Despite the dark hoodie over his head, you can tell he hasn't been doing well, his skin looking more pale than usual, dark eyebags making him resemble more a raccoon than a man.

“'M sorry.” He mutters, hands deep inside the pockets of his jacket, lowering his gaze with nothing but pure shame.

“That's it?” Your guarded tone makes a part of him feel proud that you're not a doormat anymore.

“No. I'm sorry for… ignoring you, and for being a cunt.” His gaze finally meets yours. You can see the shame, the regret, and the pain.

“I was scared.” I wish I could tell you I survive out there because I don't want to leave you yet. Your lips part, though you decide to be quiet for now.

“I don't know if I'll ever be able to tell you why this shite happened.” Despite the way his hands are fidgeting inside his pockets, he's trying his best to be as honest as possible while avoiding dumping his trauma on you.

“That's bollocks, mate.” Price's voice almost scares the soul out of you, turning around to shoot him an exasperated look. For a man his size, he moves with surprising quietness. You can feel his burly arms wrap around your lower body, bringing you closer to him.

“Give 'er a proper apology.” Despite the hesitation Simon feels, the space Price left open for him is all he needs. You can feel another pair of arms wrapping around your body, the familiar scent of cheap fags and gun powder hitting your nose, bringing you back to all those nights you shared.

It's an awkward hug, a mess of limbs and warmth that you finally decide to take in, your arms wrapping around Simon's narrow waist, bringing his body closer to you despite the way his muscles tense up at the sudden contact. You can feel him relax with your touch, his cheek resting against the top of your head.

“'M sorry.” He repeats in a whisper, his cold face finding shelter on the warm crook of your neck, the urge to kiss you again growing stronger by the second, though he remains respectful. You can feel John's cock starting to harden against your ass, making you look up and give him a confused look. His hand goes up to grip your jaw softly, his lips crashing against yours as he starts to subtly grind against you, only making the confusion grow.

Simon's hold on your body tightens, the familiar sensation of his lips against your neck drags a small moan out of you, muffled in John's mouth. His tongue wraps around yours, your breathing growing more labored by the second, soft hands curling on Simon's muscular back, barely able to hear the door closing until you decide to break away from the kisses.

“What's going on?” The nervous laugh that leaves your lips is only met by a reassuring look coming from Price, his calloused hand running up and down your side.

“Part o' the apology you deserve, love.” You don't even have time to answer— not when Simon's rough lips meet yours, the kiss nothing but a pure display of love and affection. Even a ghost can be a lovely thing when you want it to be.

You can feel John's calloused hands drift down to the pajama shorts you're wearing, sneaking a few squeezes on your ass before his hand sneaks past your panties, using two of his fingers to feel your wet cunt, spreading your slick all over. His lips are now busy on your pretty neck, licking and sucking freely, not caring about any love bites he leaves— he knows you don't mind either.

You can hear his hard breathing against your tender skin, your tongue dancing with Simon's, hands desperately sneaking under his shirt, groping his hard, defined muscles. You can feel the bulging scar on his ribs, caressing it with extra care just to show him every single part of his heavily scarred body is loved.

“I missed you.” Simon breaks away from the kiss only to whisper that in your ear, his rough hand already going up to your tit, squeezing the soft fat while all you can do is moan, the combined sensations of the strong men touching you does nothing but drive you closer to the edge, your wet walls tightening around John's fingers, forcing you to squeeze Simon's bicep to release some of the tension.

“Fuck, daddy—” Simon's breath hitches at your words despite knowing you're talking to John, his own cock throbbing at the slight whine in your tone. His hands go to your waist, holding you up as your eyes finally shut, your forehead resting on Simon's chest as John's fingers move faster and deeper inside you, lazily rubbing your clit with his thumb. Your knees start to buck, more whiny and louder moans leaving your lips as you cum all over his fingers, nails digging into Simon's arm.

“That's a good girl.” Price praises in a breathy whisper, delicately pulling his fingers out of your pulsating cunt, taking a second to admire the way his fingers glisten with your slick.

“Taste her.” Simon is a man with no shame. No shame at all, making eye contact with you as he starts to suck his captain's fingers, putting them in his mouth just to taste more of your sweet slick. The hungry wolf is reduced to a starving dog, a small groan leaving his lips the moment your taste is all over his tongue.

He pulls John's fingers out of his mouth once he finishes licking them clean, your mouth opening ajar when Simon's lips crash against his, your heart beating loudly inside your chest as you watch them kiss. You can see their tongues dancing together, sharing your sweet taste in a passionate kiss, Simon's grip tightening around your waist.

They break away after a few seconds, looking up just to be met by Simon's cheeky smirk. He pushes you further into the house, fingers intertwining with yours as he walks into the bedroom like he owns the place, yet in reality, it's simply something he's done way more times than he can count.

“Pretty fuckin' girl.” His hold is all but gentle as he lays down in bed, pulling you on his lap, allowing you to feel the way his hard cock bulges on his jeans, calloused hands going to your ass to make you grind against him, whiny moans leaving your lips at the friction against your sensitive cunt.

You can hear a zipper going down behind you, only making the excitement grow at the idea of seeing your boyfriend's bare body again— no matter how many times you've seen it already. Price's knees sink on the mattress, burly arms wrapping around your waist, grabbing one of your hands just to guide it to his hard cock. Your hands wrap around it, starting to rub him up and down slowly until his fingers join yours, speeding up the movement.

“Tell me you wanna fuck him.” His voice is a whispered command, a dominance you've never heard before— and one Simon has heard too many times during missions.

“I wanna fuck Simon.” You confess, your back pressing against John's strong, hairy chest as you jack him off, your soft palm rubbing against his sensitive tip, dragging a small grunt out of him as you smear his precum all over his throbbing cock. His free hand goes to your back, pushing you down against Simon as you let go of his cock with a small whine of protest.

Simon is desperate and needy— that much you can tell by the way he removes his clothes with an eagerness you've never seen before. You take your time to admire his strong body, pale skin tattered by scars, yet looking so alluring. You adjust your position as he tries to remove his pants, exchanging a small laugh at the awkward position you're in.

He looks more relaxed and honest than you've ever seen, his eyes crinkling as you're getting your shorts and panties pulled down by Price, finally resting your naked body on top of his. It's a new change of pace for both of you— Simon doesn't like to give up control, doesn't enjoy being dominated, it's too personal and vulnerable, yet for you? He's willing to try anything.

“Show him how you much you missed him.” John's soft command makes you nod your head, looking over your shoulder just to feel his lips against your back, his hand coming up to your jaw to turn your face back to Simon. Simon's calloused hand goes down to his throbbing, veiny cock, waiting until you lift your hips up to line himself up to your cunt, a low groan leaving his lips as your tight walls wrap around him, your back arching once he bottoms out.

“Fuck, Simon…” Your face rests against the crook of his neck, planting kisses all over his warm skin as he starts to fuck into you, the wet sounds of your sopping cunt and needy moans filling the room.

Simon's eyes are closed, fully taking in the sensation of finally having your naked body on his after so many months apart. His hands explore your body with familiarity, bringing one of your hands up to his face to make you cup his cheek, gentle kisses planted over and over on your thumb.

You're too far gone to notice John coming up from behind you, keeping you against Simon's body while his free hand rubs the lube all over his veiny cock, a small smirk pulling on the corners of his lips at how much you're both enjoying each other. You're dragged back to reality when you feel his tip pressing against your tight cunt, already full with Simon's cock.

“It's not going to—” Price pacifies you with another kiss on your bare, sweaty back, slowly pushing in.

“I'll make it fit.” He reassures, a deep moan leaving his lips once he manages to slip his thick tip inside you, giving you time to adjust to the sensation before slowly pushing the rest of his cock inside you, pausing once he bottoms out to give you a well-deserved break.

“Fuckin' hell.” Simon groans out, his face scrunching up at how much tighter your cunt feels now that you have two cocks inside you. His short nails lightly dig into your skin, already feeling so close to the edge despite the fact you're just getting started.

You let out a short exhale once they both start moving, cocks rubbing together inside your tight walls, the sensation of being stretched this much starting to feel better by the second, every single nerve inside your cunt being stimulated. You pull Simon for another kiss, feeling his hand coming up to the back of your head just to pull you closer, wanting to feel more of your tiny tongue licking his.

You're a mess of limbs— sweaty bodies colliding, feeling their muscles tightening up around your soft, smaller body. Simon's moans are muffled by your lips, not letting you pull away from the kiss in slight embarrassment at letting you hear the neediness seeping out of his tone.

Their hips move in a relentless rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through your veins, forcing your back to arch, only giving them a better angle to fuck into you. Price's hands go up to your soft tits, squeezing and groping as he moves faster and deeper inside you, his breath hot against your ear.

“I'm… I'm gonna cum.” You manage to whisper between moans, muffled once again by Simon's rough lips. The overwhelming sensations build within you, the familiar sensation of your muscles tensing up and fingers tingling starts to grow stronger by the second, the intensity of your connection with both men driving you over the edge.

The sensation of one of their cocks hitting your cervix over and over makes you whine softly, muscles tensing up as they sandwich your bodies between them, finally letting go, your orgasm washing over you as your walls wrap tighter around their cocks, your fingers digging into Simon's skin. It doesn't take long for them to follow after you, fucking into you as deep as they can as they release a thick load into you, cocks pulsating with each rope they shoot.

They remain buried inside you for a moment, chests heaving as they try to catch their breaths. Price is the first one to pull out, watching as their combined cum seeps out of your spent pussy before he lays down next to Simon, your warm body being pulled to the side as Simon lays on his side, his cock still buried inside you even while he's softening.

“I love you.” He finally confesses, tired eyes meeting yours for a second before shutting again as Price embraces you from behind. Your leg is resting over Simon's body, making the position a lot more comfortable as you bring his face closer to your chest.

“I love you too. Both of you.” You whisper, tiredness slowly taking over your body, not even realizing that Simon is already asleep, his face buried on your soft tits. Price lets out a small chuckle, planting gentle kisses all over your warm back, his hands lightly gripping your stomach as a way to let you know he loves you, too.

[thetriumphantpanda]

mine, all mine | joel miller

Summary | You & Joel have been skirting around whatever this is for years, until he finally breaks and calls it what it is, in the only way he knows how.

Pairing | Joel Miller x F!Reader

Word Count | 1.2K

Warnings | Post-Outbreak, Jackson!Joel, possessive!Joel, rough sex, spit play, unprotected PiV sex, cumshot, cumplay, dirty talk, emotionally unavailable Joel, it's basically just 1.2k of filth tbh, no use of y/n

Authors Note | This one goes out to @undercoverpena who gave me the means to rewatch TLOU. This was the outcome. Enjoy the filth.

Divider by @saradika

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

He’s got your wrists caught together in one of his big hands, pressed down into the mattress to keep you still. Your thighs splayed wide, pressed down almost uncomfortably by the width of his hips. His cock is splitting you open and you’re so impossibly wet that you can hear it whenever he pushes himself back into you. He likes it, wild grin on his face whenever that lewd squelch makes itself known, he likes that only he can do this to you, only he can make you this wet, only he can get you to submit so completely like this.

It’s been two years of this. Two years of being pressed into his bed in the dead of night. Two years of dancing around what this is, but enjoying it all the same. You don’t think you need to label it, complicate it, not when it feels this good. You’d happily go the rest of your days not knowing what you and Joel Miller are if it means he’s going to stay like this. It started as stress relief, a lot like how it had been with the other people here in Jackson that had fallen into your bed - him, frustrated from patrol or whatever it was going on with Ellie, you, frustrated with… well, mostly everything these days. When he’s inside you, there are no frustrations, only the low thrum of pleasure across your skin.

Things have changed though, maybe in the past six months. He stands closer to you when you’re at the bar, sometimes puts a hand on the small of your back when someone else tries to talk to you. Subtle messages that say back the fuck off or she’s mine without needing to put real words to it. He doesn’t say it, even here, when he’s deep inside you, doesn’t beg you to tell him who you belong to, but then you suppose he doesn’t have to - you’ve not fucked anyone else since this started, no-one would hold a candle to him, and you know he doesn’t fuck anyone else either.

“You hear that?” His gruff voice asks, pulling you back to the present as his cock drags from your cunt, pushing back in slowly, and you do, that squelch of him pushing back inside you as deep as he can fit, you throw your head back, moan his name, “Yeah you do,” His face buries into your neck, teeth dragging across delicate skin, “Hear how wet I gotcha?”

You let your eyes open, fluttering slowly to reveal how close he is to your face. He’s so fucking beautiful like this - skin covered in sweat, brows pinched together in pleasure, his scars and his wrinkles visible so closely, the grey in his beard and the smattering of hair on his chest pressed against yours, you won’t ever grow tired of this.

“S-so fucking g-good, Joel.” You choke out on another drag of his cock, tip pressed right against the depths of you, dragging deliciously against that spot inside you.

“I know, baby, I know,” He coos, nudging the side of your face with his nose, hot breath so close to your ear as he continues the languid strokes of himself in and out of your spent cunt, “Bein’ so good f’me.”

His praise never fails to make you preen, face rolling to the side, exposing the side of your neck to him that he hasn’t already marked. You feel the tight grip around your wrists loosen, his hand taking hold of your chin instead, pulling you back to look at him, brown eyes glazed almost black with lust as he looks down at you. There’s something different there this time, sure he’s always been intense, but he’s looking at you this time like he wants to devour you whole - to cut you open and eat you from the inside.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” He whispers, hand around your face moving to shake you so your focus is on him and not on the way his thrusts have started getting harder, “Say it.”

“M’yours,” You manage to get out, but he shakes your head again, “Yours, m’yours Joel.”

“That’s right,” He bends, hand still gripping your chin, and licks into your mouth, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth, teeth nipping gently, “My girl.”

You almost can’t believe it, like this is some kind of dream, your wildest fantasy come true that he does want you, that it’s not just your pussy he covets but everything else you bring.

“Y-you mean it?” You speak, breathless, “I’m yours?”

You bring a hand up to his face now, cradling a cheek, thumb tracing his bottom lip, but he’s shaking your hand away, his own still tight against your face, “Open your mouth,” but you’re confused about why, so it takes you a while for your brain to catch up, “Open your damn mouth baby.”

This time you do, lips parted, tongue out, Joel’s fingers sitting in the hinges of your jaw, dragging your head forward a little, then, he purses his lips, opens his mouth and lets his saliva drip from his own mouth into your, caught on the flat of your tongue. It’s hot, probably the hottest thing he’s even done. You curl your tongue over it, dragging your mouth closed to swallow it down, then, you open your mouth, stick your tongue back out and look him straight in the eye to ask for more.

“Fuckin’ filthy,” He mutters, but there’s a grin on his face, his cock still pounding into you, the feeling of your slick, made more by what he’d just down, gathering at the base of his cock, dripping down onto the sheets below, “Y’like that, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” Is the only thing you can get out before he’s doing it again, letting his own spit drip from his mouth into yours.

This time though, he doesn’t give you the option to swallow it. He lets go of your face, his tongue melding with yours at the precise spot that his spit had just landed on. It’s a filthy, wet, open-mouthed kiss, saliva gathering in your corners of your mouth as you moan into his when he shifts his hips just a little, tip of his cock now bruising into your cervix on every punch forward.

It happens all at once, his lips dragging from yours, his cock dragging out of your pussy as he pushes backwards, cock in his fist for barely a second before the first rope of his spend is spurting across your soaked and aching folds. Joel lets out a growl as the next lands across the soft skin of your tummy, the next between the valley of your tits. He’s dragging a tight fist up and down the length of his cock, squeezing lightly at his tip to empty himself of every drop of cum, painting your skin with it until he’s softening in his fist and you’re trying to catch your breath.

Joel lets his hands grip your hips, dragging his thumbs through the pools of cum across your lower body, rubbing gently through it to spread it as far as he can, “Look nice like this,” He muses, looking down at the mess he’s made of you, from the aching red hue of your spent cunt, to the milky white splashed across your body, “Mine.” He says, with a tone of finality.

“Yours.”

[silverskyeline]

'always' ✭ logan promptober day 2 - beard

oneshot - logan is struggling to look after himself, you trim his beard while he sleeps. (800 words) pairing - old man logan (logan 2017) x gn!reader tags - established relationship, extremely angsty, vague death mentions, logan is really struggling, reader trims his beard and comforts him, you cuddle in bed together, bittersweet ending.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

logan's bad days are bad, and getting worse as time moves on cruelly without his consent. he mumbles incoherently, a fever prickling at his skin and causing a soft flush on his face. you're sat on the edge of his bed, watching over him as he stirs.

your eyes trace over his familiar features, you could draw him from memory over and over, easily. sometimes you do, scared that one day you'll forget those features you've come to love. the strong bridge of his nose, the deep scars that now litter his face, his sunken tired eyes, and his beard. . . when was the last time he'd trimmed it?

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

reaching for the scissors, you lean in, gently beginning to snip away at the overgrown hair. if he awoke, he'd snarl, push you away and insist you stop helping. but while asleep, you could offer him this service, keep the frightened, injured animal at bay through slumber.

logan never means to bite, or bark, or snarl at you, he would never do anything to hurt you. but in his drained state, the vulnerable part of him extends a defensive shell, a shell that you'd patiently wait to crumble.

patience- it's a trait you've mastered since knowing logan. it comes in particularly handy these days, but you wish he'd have patience with himself too.

snip. snip. snip. the sounds of the scissors echo in the small space as you carefully trim his beard, taking your time. it's all you can do to help him. it's the most painful thing you've ever experienced, watching the one who was supposed to outlive you begin to slip through your fingers without an answer as to why.

the small, fine greying hairs fall around his shoulders as you continue, smiling softly as you're reminded of the way he used to style his beard. you swear, no one could pull off mutton chops like logan howlett did. but even now, with a full beard, grey hair and wrinkles, you find him to be the most handsome man you've ever lain your eyes upon - that you'll ever lay your eyes upon.

pulling back, you slowly gather the hair and discard it in the bedside trashcan before turning back to him. extending a hand, you cup his cheek and he flinches weakly at the contact. you rub your soft thumb across his skin, skin that's seen so much violence. you want to take it all away, to take away his pain, everything he's ever bore witness to that keeps him up at night, you wish you could calm the storm in his mind.

but, this is as much as you can do. the futility of the situation weighs on your shoulders daily, slamming you in the chest and winding you as soon as you open your eyes in the morning.

you can't fix him.

your hand slips from his cheek and you turn on the bed to stand. but before you rise, you feel his calloused hand wrap around your wrist. it's a soft touch, gentle and tender. your head pivots towards him once more, finding his eyes through hooded lids staring up at you.

his chest rises and falls, shallow breaths, he's exhausted. but he's looking at you with such love, such care, like there's a million words running through his mind that he'll never mutter out loud. and you know him to have such a busy mind. for a man of few words, he could fill countless libraries with the paragraphs that plague his mind.

"stay," he mumbles, his voice a low rumble in his chest as it cuts through the silence in the room, ". . . please."

you want to say you'll never go anywhere else, you'll never leave, you're here till the end. but the words get caught in your throat. you know he already knows, because there's been countless occasions where he's begged you to leave, to stop loving him, to live your life.

but how could you live your life without him?

smiling, you whisper, "always."

slowly and carefully, you curl up against him, resting your head on his chest to listen to his steady heartbeat - a comforting rhythmic melody that serves to remind you that your lover is still fighting. and despite him being so very tired, he'd fight for you, he'd fight to have even one more second with you.

in all of his long, often lonely, existence, logan has never found comfort quite like he has with you. his safe space, your arms providing him solace and peace, your soothing words nestle into the bubbling cracks in his mind that threaten to break him and instead bring him back to earth.

". . .i love you," logan mutters against your head, pressing a soft kiss there as his eyes flutter shut once more. he's never meant anything more in his life.

they say butterflies are long gone after the honeymoon period, but with logan, you know they'll stay. even after he is long gone, the memory of him uttering those three special words will ignite a bloom in your belly.

"i love you too."

you can't fix him.

but you'll be there for him forever, always.

[familyvideostevie]

day after tomorrow

joel miller x reader

summary: joel drops you off and picks you up from the airport. you are definitely falling in love with him. 

warnings: modern no outbreak au, game!joel or hbo!joel, fluff, really just a fluff fest honestly, new-ish relationship, falling in love, sweet enough to make your teeth ache | 2.7k

A/N: this is a christmas gift for my dear friend @strangerfreaks who makes my life better in every way possible. i love you! hope you enjoy this <3

part ii here.

___

He's leaning on the side of the truck when you hurry outside with your stuff. 

"Morning," you call. It's barely that, sky still dark and air still carrying the bite of the night's chill. 

Joel straightens up and gives you a tired smile. Most of his smiles are tired but they're always genuine when directed at you. He tugs the backpack from your shoulder and presses his lips to your cheek, beard scratching your skin gently. 

"Howdy," he says in your ear before pulling away.

The travel mug Joel pushes into your hands is warm to the touch. 

"Tea," he says before you can tell him it's too early for coffee. His voice is deeper than usual, still warming up from sleep. It's not a cup from the local shop -- they're not open yet -- so he must have made it at home. "No caffeine before flights." 

"You remembered?" 

He gives you an unimpressed look and grabs your bags. They go in the backseat of his truck and he jerks his chin at the passenger door. "Get in. S'chilly."

It's also early. So early you were not going to ask him to drive you to the airport but when you mentioned you had to go on a work trip he offered. Insisted, actually, once he found out what time you needed to get there.

"You ain't takin' a cab that early," he had said. "Hell, you ain't takin' a cab home, neither. I'll pick you up."

This thing between you isn't new anymore, not exactly, but it's not solid yet. It doesn't have a name. But it's been a few months and you know what his sheets smell like and the feel of him pressed against you in the middle of the night and how he laughs with his head thrown back, mouth wide and eyes creased at the corners. He likes to take you on long walks around the lake a few towns over and you know all about his daughters even if you haven't met them yet. Your life feels a little more solid with Joel in it and the swell of your heart in your chest when you talk to him, when you see him, when he looks at you, is a welcome feeling. It's nice to want and be wanted in return. 

The inside of his truck is warm, your seat heater already turned on. The radio is down to a low hum and there's a silver cup similar to your own in the holder between the seats. Joel gets back into the truck with a slight groan and glances at you to see if you've got your seatbelt on before he clicks his. 

"Ready?" he asks. You nod. He settles his hand on your headrest and looks out the back windshield as he reverses the truck out of the driveway. "Shouldn't hit much traffic," he says. 

You take a sip of your tea and watch him as he drives out of your neighborhood and towards the highway. Part of you wishes you would hit traffic so you could look at him longer. Even in the dark you know his face pretty well by now. His hair is getting a little long, the dark threaded through with some grey and falling over his perpetually lined forehead. The scar on the bridge of his nose that you love to run your finger across and the bruises under his eyes from too many nights up late working on site plans and employee schedules. You don't think you've met a man who works as hard as Joel, and yet here he is driving you to the airport when he could be sleeping. 

Maybe it's because he's tired or maybe it's because it's dark or maybe it's because you're leaving for a few days but Joel lets you look without teasing. His eyes catch yours for just a second and he smirks.

"Why don't you drink coffee before a flight?" He takes a sip of his own thermos. You watch his throat work as he swallows and look away this time. The sky is starting to look purple out your window, the trees and fields and occasional buildings flying by too fast for your eyes to settle on anything. Joel drinks coffee like it's water. You're still leaning things about each other -- most days you find yourself thinking that you want to be learning things about him for the rest of your life -- and this is a new topic of conversation. You haven't had to be on a plane since you met him.

"I don't really like flying," you say. "Makes me nervous. I figure caffeine will just make it worse."

"Don't like it much either." You look at him again and find see smirk turn to a frown as he merges onto the nearly empty highway. "You gonna be okay?"

He asks like it's within his power to make flying something enjoyable, to cancel your work trip, to squash everything in this world that makes you nervous. Mostly you're just glad he's not teasing you about it. Maybe someday you can take a trip and be grumpy about it together.

"I'll be fine, Joel."

"Hm."

He rests an elbow against the window and rakes his hand through his hair.

"What are you up to this week?" you ask. 

He sighs. "Not much," he says. "Lumber shipment but Tommy's handlin' it. Ellie says her shower head is actin' funny so I'll go to her place and look at that. Probably sit my ass on the couch and try to watch a damn football game or somethin'."

"So what I'm hearing is you're going to miss me." It's meant to be a tease but it comes out a bit more earnest than you'd like. 

He sends you that unamused look of his but the mirth in his eyes betrays him, tells you he sees through it. You're learning that he's good at that -- seeing what you really mean, what you really want, who you really are, all the way down to the core. "Course I will," he says. "What man wouldn't miss cold hands bein' stuck up his shirt when he gets in bed?"

You scoff and Joel snickers. You could remind him how he usually catches your hands in his before you make it to his hemline on the rare nights he does wear a shirt, how he cradles your fingers and blows on them softly while rubbing them with his perpetually warm palms. The memory makes your breath hitch just a bit. 

It's only three days. Some conference your boss wanted you to go to in his stead. It won't require much of you -- you just have to attend a few panels, a dinner or two, and schmooze a little bit. You'll be back before you know it. You tell yourself it's silly to feel this apprehension at the distance, the time apart. But you're used to Joel by now and damn if you won't miss him. Used to him taking up space in your kitchen, used to his arm around you on the couch, used to his short texts and heavy gaze. You know by now that it's only a matter of time before you love him.  

"I'll miss you, too," you say softly. Joel eyes you, smirk turned soft again and reaches for you. He settles his palm on your thigh and you cover your hand with his. 

When you get to the airport aren't many cars around and you're pretty sure the attendants won't yell at you for idling. Joel seems to think the same thing as he gets out of the truck to set your luggage on the ground. You leave your now-empty to-go mug in his car and throw your arms around him when he gets to the curb with your suitcase. His chest rumbles in amusement but he hugs you back, one palm rubbing between your shoulder blades until you pull away. 

"Thank you for --"

"Nope," he interrupts you. "No thanks allowed." He hands you your backpack and you shoulder it. "I'll pick you up on Wednesday," he says. 

You wave him off. "I get in way too late, don't worry about it --"

His hand cups your cheek and the words sputter out in your throat. "I'll be here," he says again. 

"I'll call you," you say. "When I get there." It sounds like a question.

His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Please do."

"Thanks for the tea --"

"Now, what did I just say?"

You wrinkle your nose at him and he rolls his eyes before leaning in to press his lips to yours. You sigh into the kiss just a little though it remains chaste, mouths closed as his thumb strokes your cheek once, twice, before he pulls away. It's the kind of kiss that feels fond, feels familiar. A kiss that becomes routine and for a second you imgaine the press of your mouths a thousand times over just like this. 

"Safe flight, sweetheart."

You smile at him and grab your suitcase before you stand here kissing him all day. "Bye, Joel." 

6:04 am: you make it to your gate okay?

You send him a picture of your breakfast sandwich and the sun rising through the window, painting the sky purple and orange. 

6:05 am: don't text and drive!

He replies with a photo of a full mug of coffee on his counter. It's a silly one, a dinosaur wearing a Santa hat. You think Sarah got it for him as a gag gift. 

6:05 am: home already. let me know when you land

6:06 am: will do. have a good day!

The flight is pretty okay. You spend the bumpy moments thinking about Joel's hand on your leg and get through it just fine. A shuttle takes you to your hotel and you have to hurry a bit to be ready for your first panel. 

You're busy all day. So tired by the time you get back to your room that you flop on the bed with a groan. 

"Ugh," you say, face smushed into the sheets. You're tired and hungry and...you miss Joel and feel a little silly about it.

That sense of puppy love, as most people would call it, hasn't faded. Your feelings for Joel are more than the crush they were when you first started seeing each other but they still linger in the realm of infatuation. You like to look at him, to feel the solid warmth of him beside you, above you, underneath you. You like being near him. But you're also starting to love things. You love the way his voice sounds when he wakes up, the way he says your name over the phone, the way he asks you what you want, how you are, how your day was. You love to see him on your couch, in your kitchen, in your bed. You've started to miss him when he's not around. 

And what you said to him in his truck is true. You do miss him. It's an ache that sits in the center of your chest, an ache that feels like the best kind of bruise -- because it comes from something good. And because you know it'll be soothed soon enough. 

But, because you're only human, you doubt that it's as serious for him. Joel keeps his cards close to his chest and while you feel like you know him pretty well by now you also have so much to learn. So, though you really want to, you don't pick up the phone and call him. Maybe the next time you're away. 

7:54 pm: day 1 done! ready to get in bed. why do men talk so much?

He texts back immediately. 

7:54 pm: god knows. don't forget to order room service on the company dime. sweet dreams.

You laugh and do as he says. 

The rest of the conference goes the same. By day three you're exhausted and your face hurts from smiling at so many people. Your shoes are no longer comfortable and as soon as the closing keynote ends you're out of there, changing into soft clothes and taking the shuttle to the airport. You text Joel a picture of your airport dinner and then your eye bags and he replies with a cute that has you giggling a little too loudly in public. 

You just want to get home to him. Your own bed is a bonus. 

But then your flight gets delayed. Twice. Joel tells you not to worry, he'll pick you up in the middle of the night if he has to. Once you board you get stuck on the tarmac for another half hour before finally taking off. It's a decidedly less relaxing experience because you're so anxious to be home but you make it. When you land it feels like you're sitting in your seat for ages. You're tired and feel gross and you want to go to bed. Your phone turns back on and you've got one text waiting for you.

10:34 pm: i'll be by baggage claim

That was 15 minutes ago. He must have been checking your flight in the air to get here at a reasonable time. God, you want to touch him. You want to stick your nose in his neck and inhale. 

You try very hard not to run through the terminal to the escalator that goes down to arrivals. It seems to move really fucking slowly once you're on it. As soon as it gets far enough for you to see the baggage claim level and everyone waiting there your eyes search for him. You see some families, a few tired children sleeping in arms that hold them tenderly. A group of girls with a sign that reads WELCOME HOME RACHEL!

And then there's Joel.

Once you spot him it's hard to keep a smile from your face. He's standing there with his hands in his pockets, eyes glued to the escalator. Jeans, jacket, boots, and a firm set to his jaw that might be intimidating to anyone else but to you it's familiar. It's him. Once he sees you he stands a little taller and you see his cheek twitch. If someone wasn't in front of you you'd be down the steps in seconds but you wait until you're at the bottom to race forward. 

It's probably a bit dramatic. You drop your suitcase and backpack at your feet in front of him.

"Hi," you say, and then you throw your arms around his shoulders. Joel laughs. 

"S'like you're comin' home from war, or somethin'," he says, though his hugs you back just as tightly. "Should'a made a sign."

"Feels like it." Your words are muffled by his shoulder. 

"That bad, huh?" His palm drags up and down your spine. "Let's get you home, then."

Neither of you pull away. "I missed you," you say softly. 

Joel breathes deep and pulls away, hand on the back of your head as he makes sure you're looking at him. 

"Missed you, too," he says gruffly. Then he kisses you. It's less chaste than your goodbye kiss but still perfectly acceptable for airport arrivals, you think. 

"You hungry?"

"I sent you a picture of my dinner!"

"Not what I asked." You shrug and tangle your fingers with his. His thumb strokes the back of your hand. "We'll get you somethin' on the way home."

"Do you want to stay over?" you ask in a rush, realizing too late he's got no reason to want to. It's late and tomorrow is a workday. "I'm just gonna shower and go to bed but I--"

Joel's nostrils flare. "If you want me to I will." Simple as that. 

"Okay," you say. He squeezes your hand.

You walk in easy silence for a few moments. Once you're in the car you'll ask how his week was, tell him about the gossip you learned at the conference. You'll look at him the entire drive to your place, drinking your fill of him after three days without. Yeah, you're going to love him. It's just a matter of time.

"Thank you for coming to get me," you say. 

Joel looks like he wants to argue but he allows it.

"Anytime," he says. It sounds like a promise. 

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, general masterlist here!

[cressidagrey]

Looked to the Sky - Chapter 3

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was, however, Azriel‘s mate with her own mysterious, untrained powers.

Also known as: Azriel tries to court his mate the human way.

Warnings: 

THIS IS THE LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE SEQUEL! SO READ THAT FIRST IF YOU WANNA READ THIS ONE OTHERWISE THIS MAKES NO SENSE!

Elain Bashing, Amren bashing, Cassian is being annoying, Azriel's scars and his thoughts about them, Chronic Pain and without @k-godling this would have never happened.

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

Azriel was quite certain that his shadows were out to kill him.

They were acting like a couple of obsessed, lovesick teenagers around Eira, unable to keep away from her for even a second, constantly wrapping around her hands, winding through her hair, curling around her fingers, as if eager to remain in contact with her 24/7.

And they also kept...dressing her.

He knew they did that because the dress she wore that evening was nothing he had ever seen her in before.

It wasn't like it was particularly revealing. It had long sleeves that covered her wrists and the skirt fell to the floor as well. It wasn't even the fact that the neckline bared her shoulders, elegant, flawless ivory skin on display for him. It wasn't even that it bared the arch of her neck with the way they had swept her hair up into an elegant knot high on her head...or the silver pins they scattered through the updo...It was the rich cobalt blue of that dress that matched his siphons perfectly.

The sight of her in that gown had nearly stolen his breath away, his heart nearly having stopped altogether at the way the rich blue fabric looked against her ivory skin. It made her skin glow and accentuated each and every contour of her body…showing him the soft swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, her hips…

She was the most breathtakingly beautiful sight, the very picture of grace and loveliness and perfection.

And the most infuriating thing was that Eira didn't even seem to realise it.

She ducked her head shyly…like she expecting him to say something…negative about how she looked, instead of seeing how he nearly fell all over himself as he saw her descend the stairs in the River House...and the fact that he kept clutching that bouquet of flowers like an absolute idiot.

The books had told him to give her flowers. And then they had also supplied him with a whole list of flower meanings when they were already at it.

He had chosen snowdrops. They weren't even in season, which meant his shadows had gone so far as to go to the Winter Court to find them for him, but they clearly thought it to be worthwhile, if the look on Eira’s face when he had offered her the bouquet had been any indication.

There were two reasons for this choice: Her scent had always been a perfect match to them for him...and their meaning: Hope and new beginnings.

Part of him had wanted to tell her the reasons for his choice. Had wanted to tell her the meaning of the snowdrops, to tell her that more than anything, he hoped that the bond between them would continue to grow…But he had bitten his tongue and simply handed them over, silently praying that she would like them.

For a moment, her eyes had widened, her lips slightly parted in surprise, a look of wonder on her face. "They’re gorgeous," Eira had whispered, carefully taking the bouquet from him. “Thank you so much.”

Her words had made his heart flutter. But nothing had quite hit him quite so hard as when she had leaned slightly forward to bury her nose in the blooms, inhaling the delicate scent with a blissful little smile on her face.

And then the shadows had whisked them away and Eira had smiled at him, grey eyes wide and happy. "Do you often attend the symphony?" she had asked him quietly.

He had needed a moment to remember how to form words in his head, too focused on the smile on her face, the soft scent of snowdrops still clinging to her, making his instincts go berserk. Azriel had to force himself to focus, to remember that she had asked him a question. A question he actually had to answer.

"More often than one would think," he admitted. "I...enjoy music," he told her quietly. The soft confession left his lips before he had consciously realised it.

It was the truth, of course. He hadn’t lied. He did enjoy music, though it wasn’t something that people tended to associate with him much at all. Most people tended to think that he spent his time stewing in the darkness and brooding. (Which wasn’t to say that he didn’t do that…but he did have…hobbies of sorts. Music was one of them.)

But he did enjoy the concert halls in Velaris immensely. The symphony in particular.

Eira’s smile softened at his answers. "Do the shadows like the music too?" she wondered. His shadows practically vibrated with excitement at her words, preening at the fact that she had thought to ask them.

Very much so, they answered brightly. 

He looked down at the way they twirled around her hands, the way they twisted around each other like dancing ribbons, as if they were showing off their enjoyment, unable to deny her a single word. Azriel suppressed a smile at the sight.

"They love it," he confirmed quietly.

"So are you going to winnow us one of these days, Az?" Cassian broke into the conversation, his patience clearly ending.

Azriel shot him a glare, though Nesta was there before him. His brother wasn’t even subtle enough to have hidden the smirk on his face. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing. 

Azriel wanted nothing more than to throttle him.

He held out his hands for Cassian, who in turn had his arm around Nesta, who had watched the whole interaction with sparkling grey eyes...and then he held out his arm for Eira. She slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow, giving him one of these shy but dazzling smiles.

The minute her hand slipped into the crook of his elbow, his shadows purred in satisfaction, their voices sounding oddly smug as they twirled around their fingers.

One moment they had been in the Foyer of the River House...the next they were in the private Box the High Lord kept at the Symphony in Velaris. courtesy of Rhys. It made security much less of a hassle and the private box would also ensure some quiet. Which meant he could give Eira his undivided attention. Something he very much intended to do.

Eira stared around wide-eyed, her hand tightening around his arm and he allowed himself to pat it with his other...feel the perfect, flawless skin underneath his own scarred hands. It was hit or miss on a good day how much he could even feel with his hands at all, but that day he could swear he could feel every freckle. 

Her skin under his fingertips was so smooth, so flawless, completely unblemished. The thought that his hands, his hands rough and calloused, marked with scars, were touching her soft skin seemed almost like blasphemy. As if he shouldn’t be allowed to touch her, as if his hands weren’t good enough to even be near her.

"Oh," she breathed out, still wide-eyed. "It's beautiful."

Azriel followed her gaze, taking in the sight of the great hall, of its black and gold, the sheer size of it, the great stage, the hundreds of seats. He had to admit that it was pretty, but in that moment he hardly noticed the beauty of the hall. His eyes were on Eira, the look of wonder on her face as she took in the symphony.

"Did you never go before?" he wondered, but she shook her head.

"I haven't really seen much of Velaris," she admitted quietly. "I found the alterations tailor shop where I take commissions from and...sometimes I go in a shop that piques my interest but I have never gone to the symphony."

Azriel had to fight down a wince at that confession.

He knew that she mostly spent her time in the River House but the thought that she hadn’t even seen the city...it bothered something deep down inside of him. How could she have been here for over two years and still not have seen everything Velaris had to offer? 

But it also gave him...it gave him options what he could show her next...what they could do. If humans did carriage rides, could he get away with offering to take her out on a midday flight?

The thought of her flying with him tugged on something deep inside of him. A primitive part that he usually wrestled into submission easily. But this time it didn’t want to be silent, insisting that he could show her far more of the city, could show her himself while doing so. That part of him practically preened at the thought of having her hold onto him tightly as they flew through the air...

"Do you play any instruments?"  Eira asked suddenly as he escorted her to her seat, letting her gracefully slide into it.

Azriel’s brows shot up in slight surprise.

For a moment, he just stared at her blankly, blinking, his brain needing a moment to get back on track after the thought of a flight.

Then the question registered and he just about managed not to flinch. He shook his head, mutely. "I...I can't," he said, his voice hoarse. "I tried the piano but my hands..."

He trailed off and gestured vaguely towards his scarred fingers. 

He gestured to his hands, the scars, to the crooked little finger on his left hand. The scars were one thing, but the fact that he could barely feel anything in his hands...he usually managed the tremors, but his hands never cooperated enough to allow him to properly play the piano. Sometimes, on the worst of days, he could hardly hold a pen and actually write something legible.

He had enough pure grip strength to hold a sword, a dagger, and a knife… sometimes the fact that he didn’t actually have much feeling in his hands was a good thing in a fight. 

He had learned to mask it, of course...learned to use the right amount of pressure in a myriad of situations...learned to be gentle enough not to hurt anybody accidentally. But even with that...playing the piano had been a try once and never again.

He had made his peace with the fact that he simply wasn’t meant to play the piano. Had long since accepted that he was simply not good enough. But the part of him that still burned, that still ached when he thought about what he had lost, ached at the thought that he would never be good enough to play the piano, to play anything, really…it never stopped. 

His half-brothers hadn’t just given him unspeakable constant pain…but they had also taken so much from him. 

Eira stared down at his fingers in surprise, as if she was only now noticing the scars in them. His fingers itched at the way she stared at the scars on them, his instincts suddenly screaming at him to hide them from her, to not let her see. But he couldn’t do that. So he let her stare, letting her see even the scars.

There was a strange intensity on her face as her eyes roamed over the scars, almost as if...

Almost as if she was memorising every single one of them.

And then she reached out, taking one of his hands into both of hers, carefully touching the thick scars that covered the back of his hand completely.

Azriel nearly startled when she took his hand, only just managing to keep his instincts in check. His entire attention honed in on the touch of her hands, the soft way her fingertips traced the scars on the back of his hand, almost as if she was treating his skin like something very, very fragile.

The moment the lights went out and darkness engulfed them, his shadows twirled through his hair with soft, almost mischievous voices in his mind

He had to stop himself from closing his eyes, from focusing on the feeling of her fingertips tracing his scars, from focusing on the fact that she was holding his hand.

Instead, he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to actually look towards the stage, to pretend that he was not focused on every single point of contact between their skin.

He wasn't sure what he had expected. Wasn't sure if he had expected her pity or anything else...

He had never talked about the scars much. Hadn’t really talked about…how they appeared on her skin. Didn’t talk about what they meant for him…how they still hurt him, to this day, centuries later and how they would still hurt him decades from now. 

And he certainly had never had anyone actually look at them so intently, so gently...let alone touch them like she was now.

He never allowed anyone to touch his hands, if he could help it, except for the people he trusted with his life.

And now here Eira was, holding his hand and tracing every single one of his scars so softly...like she wanted to memorise every single one of them.

She didn't let go. Not once. Not during the whole three hours.

Eira didn’t let go. She didn’t flinch back in disgust or shame or embarrassment…she did nothing. She held onto his hand during the entire performance, gently tracing the scars on his skin, as if she was memorising each and every single one of these markings.

She didn’t flinch back like they were disgusting. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t…

Azriel didn’t know what to do. Didn’t quite know what to do with the way his head was racing, the way his shadows were practically purring in his mind.

So he didn’t do anything.

He just sat there, silent, still, and let her hold his hand.

He couldn’t recall a single piece that had been played, not a single instrument that the symphony had played, not a single second.

His entire focus had remained on the feeling of her touching his hands, tracing his scars, holding him delicately like he would disappear if she let go.

Even as the last performance ended, the final violin notes echoing off the walls of the great hall and the lights came up again, her hand remained in his, her fingertips gently tracing the same scars that she had been tracing for the past three hours.

He wasn’t sure if she was even aware she was doing it, still tracing his scars as if they were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen as if she couldn’t bring herself to stop. Part of him wanted to shake her out of it, to tell her that his scars were not something that she should be admiring. A far bigger part of him relished the feeling of her stroking his hand, almost as if it was the most delicate, fragile thing she had ever touched.

But then she seemed to realise what she was doing, her fingers pausing in their movement. Her head whipped around and her eyes met his, wide and nearly panicked.

She looked as if she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t have, as if she somehow expected him to be angry at her for holding his hand, for tracing the scars.

He could practically read the words on her lips, could practically see the question on her tongue as she looked at him, her eyes still wide, her hand still holding his tight.

Could practically hear her ask if it was alright that she had touched the scars, if he was alright with her holding his hand for so long, if she had gone too far.

He wrapped his ruined fingers around hers, squeezing just tight enough to move her fingers.

Her fingers were small between his, so tiny and slender, but for once the difference in size didn’t make him feel monstrous.

He felt...he felt as if her fingers had been made to fit into his as if they belonged there. He felt the urge to bring her hands up to his lips, to kiss each and every one of her slender little fingers…

"So, are we gonna get some food?" Cassian said brightly, looking bored out of his mind.  Azriel was quite sure that his brother wanted him to snap his neck. Or maybe they should all just be happy that he hadn’t actually fallen asleep and started snoring halfway through the performance. 

Azriel had to fight down a low, rumbling growl at the interruption, shooting a glare at his brother before his eyes snapped back to Eira’s, to the way her slender fingers had tangled with his.

"I could eat," Nesta agreed with her mate, giving him a look.

Which left Azriel to look at Eira, to hold her stare.

"What about you?" he asked quietly, his voice strangely hoarse. "Are you hungry?"

Eira looked at him with those beautiful grey eyes, taking a moment to think.

He couldn’t stop staring at her as she bit her lip in thought, the sight of her teeth worrying the plump skin sending another shudder down his spine.

And then she nodded once, a shy, hesitant move. “Yes, I am hungry,” she admitted quietly.

"Sevinda's?" Cassian suggested immediately.

Azriel had to resist the urge to sigh at Cassian’s enthusiasm.

While he didn’t particularly mind eating at Sevinda’s, he would have rather stayed somewhere more private. But it wasn’t going to happen. So he merely nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Sevinda’s sounds good.”

Another bout of winnowing later...they found themselves at Sevinda's, tucked into one of the tables outside. Eira was still holding his hand. He had checked in with her twice if she wanted to rather sit inside, but she had waved him off. He could feel her uncomfortableness...but it seemed to ease.

Azriel did notice the way she tensed the moment they appeared out of the shadows at Sevinda’s, the way her eyes darted around her as she looked over the restaurant they were now sitting in.

He could see her clenching her jaw, could see the way her hand tightened around his, could see the way the other hand clenched around the fork.

She wasn’t comfortable here, that much he could see.

But it did get a little better as the evening went on.

They ordered. Azriel tried not to notice the way she shifted in her chair, eyes darting around her like she was expecting a battle to break out any moment.

He gently squeezed her hand under the table, pulling her attention away from the people around them.

“Are you alright?” he mumbled to her, low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

She started at his question, her grey eyes wide as she looked at him, clearly surprised that he could tell that she wasn’t at ease in the restaurant.

“I...I’m fine,” she muttered, her own voice low. “Just expecting...the worst.”

Azriel could see the truth in her eyes, and could practically feel the tension radiating off her.

He gently squeezed her hand again, drawing her attention fully to him. “We’re at Sevinda’s,” he told her quietly. “This is one of the safest places in Velaris. If only because everybody is terrified of what Cassian will do if Sevinda isn't there to feed him," he quipped.

Azriel heard Cassian snort across the table. “Damn right,” he said.

He could see the corners of Eira’s mouth twitch at Cassian’s comment, a slight smile pulling at her lips

It was such a tiny smile, but for Azriel, it felt like the most precious thing in the world. 

*****

Eira had never really ventured deep into Velaris. 

She had the alteration tailor shop where she took commissions from…and then she sometimes saw a shop that piqued her interest and she went in there…but she had never…never really gone exploring. 

Never actually trusted herself to do that, in this strange place. Because as long as she had been High Fae…it was still a strange place for her. Never had been…quite home. 

But the Symphony with Azriel? That had been…utterly beautiful. Utterly perfect. 

The symphony with Azriel had been something close to magical. She had spent hours with him, holding his hand, tracing the scars, feeling his rough fingers under her own. Her entire focus had been on him during the performance, the only thing on her mind was the feeling of his skin against her own. His scars underneath her fingertips.

It had been a little terrifying, the realisation that she hadn’t looked at a single instrument, hadn’t heard a single melody...only him.

But that was nothing against the...pure rage she felt when he had told her that he couldn't play an instrument. He had stared at her as if he had never had anyone actually...console him for the fact that he had never been able to learn how to play.

How to learn this art that he clearly had a deep affinity for.

She could feel the scars on his hand, the ruined skin underneath her fingers. But she refused to be revolted by it. The scars on his hands were just that…scars. Just part of him. And she wasn’t revolted by him. The thought of being revolted by Azriel...it didn’t even cross her mind.

She traced over the scars on the back of his hand, gently touching the rough skin.

She wanted to be near him desperately. Wanted to be wrapped in his arms, as close as she could possibly be.

And still, she had wondered...if this one thin line on her chest still ached weeks later...how did these hands feel to him? How much pain was he in on a daily basis?

She had seen him writing, the trembling hands… She had seen him clench and unclench his hands as if struggling with the shaking. And that was just the fact that they were shaking. She didn’t even dare to think about the pain he had to feel, how he still managed to use them while fighting….

She knew, instinctively, that the pain in his hands was still there, and had never truly left after he had been… tortured. Because that was what had happened. Regardless of what anybody else thought.  And now the pain in his hands served as a constant reminder of that, how close he had nearly come to being absolutely broken.

She knew that every tremble, every shake, every clenching of his fingers was just a reminder of what had happened.

And she hated it. She hated those scars on his hands, hated that they caused him so much pain. 

She wished he had never gone through it. 

But then she wished that about so many things. 

So Eira did what Eira always did when she needed some peace and quiet: She went to hide in the kitchen. 

Not even Elain was there these days. Which was something that…Eira didn’t want to think about it either. She wanted…she didn’t even know where to start with that…still didn’t know how to feel about…any of this. 

How she was supposed to feel about her twin sister trying to take away her…daughter. Her daughter. 

Trying to take away her mate and her baby. 

The more she thought about it…the more angry she became. 

Elain was her sister, her twin. But that didn’t change the fact that she had tried to steal her daughter.

Eira clenched her teeth, leaning back on the kitchen counter, arms crossing in front of her chest.

She wasn’t sure how she was ever supposed to forgive Elain for that. 

Nyx took that moment to bang the bowl onto the counter where he was sitting. Eira couldn’t help but laugh at her nephew. 

Nyx, as sweet and adorable as he was, had a temper. And he wasn’t the most patient child. Eira had learnt that the hard way. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t love him.

“Are you trying to make a mess, you little rascal?” she teased him. “How about we make some cookies?”

"kies! kies! Ra Ra!"

“What, little monster? You want cookies?” Nyx babbled incoherently, grinning wide at her.

Eira chuckled, ruffling his hair affectionately before moving to gather the necessary ingredients. Or she would have if the shadows hadn't been quicker.

“Come on…” she grumbled, watching the shadows creep over the ingredients, gathering everything necessary. She gave a small huff. “I was gonna do that.”

You aren't supposed to do anything strenuous, they said softly.

Eira rolled her eyes at that, the motion just a little fond.

“It’s cookies,” she protested. “That’s hardly ‘strenuous’.”

The shadows just glided around her, gathering all the necessary ingredients on the countertop, just within arm’s reach of her. They seemed to almost be…arguing with her if she interpreted their movements correctly.

“Fine, I won’t pick anything up,” she said with a huff. “You happy, you meddling shadows?”

For their part, the shadows just swirled around her with a low, almost smug-sounding whisper.

Eira grumbled under her breath but couldn’t quite help but smile.

She didn’t mind the shadows. They seemed to always be around her, as if they were…watching out for her, in some way. She had stopped trying to question it a while back. 

“Let's go make some cookies," she said with a sigh.

Nyx gave an excited, loud babble, clearly excited at the idea of baking.

Eira chuckled softly. “Alright, alright,” she mumbled. “Maybe if we make them good enough, your parents will give you a treat after.”

And maybe she could steal some for herself as well.

Nyx babbled and giggled.

Eira chuckled and ruffled his hair again before looking at the ingredients the shadows had gathered for her, a smile pulling at her lips.

“I think the first thing we have to make is the dough,” she mumbled quietly to Nyx as she started measuring out the sugar. “Do you wanna help me with the bowl?”

Nyx babbled happily, watching with round, wide eyes as she gathered the ingredients and started mixing them into the bowl.

He seemed a little too excited at the sight of her mixing everything together, little giggles tumbling out of him as the liquid in the bowl churned around.

Eira chuckled when she saw he leaned forward almost as if he wanted to stick his fingers in it.

No," she said, gently pushing his arms back. "Do not stick your fingers in the cookie dough."

Nyx only made a huffy sound, as if he didn't like that she was stopping him.

Eira chuckled. "You'll get to lick the spoon once I'm done," she told him. "If you wait nicely, that’s it.”

Nyx looked at her with wide, round eyes, a little pout on his face. He babbled at her as if trying to convince her to let him dip his fingers in the dough at that very moment. She laughed at the betrayed look on his face when he realised that she wasn't gonna let him eat the dough right away.

Instead, she started humming, Nyx happily clapping along.

She continued humming while she finished mixing the dough, still fighting to keep Nyx from sticking his fingers in the bowl.

The boy was determined, she would give him that. As soon as she was satisfied with the dough, she pulled the bowl away, looking down at him.

"We gotta let it rest for a bit, alright?" she said with a chuckle.

He yawned.

Eira chuckled at that, gently poking his cheek. "Are you getting tired, little rascal?" she teased him. "Did all that baking exhaust you, hm?"

Nyx just yawned again, blinking sleepily.

She chuckled again and shook her head.

"We'll let the dough rest for a bit," she said quietly to him. "And I think a little rascal needs a little nap."

He babbled something in protest as if offended at the very idea of a nap. Eira only laughed and shook her head.

She picked him up, resting him on her hip. "No napping is not an option," she told him in a quiet, mock-stern voice.

Nyx was already looking slightly sleepy, his little head dropping against her shoulder.

Her chest twinged at carrying him, but she didn't try to get up the stairs. Instead, she brought him into the living room downstairs, sitting next to him as she laid him down on one of the couches, curling up next to him.

"Sing, Ra Rar?" he requested softly.

Eira was only too happy to oblige.

She gently settled down on the couch, shifting so she was resting next to him. Nyx curled into her side and she gently wrapped an arm around him, holding him close.

Then she started singing, humming a soft tune under her breath.

Soft, soothing lullabies.

A human lullaby. One that she had used to humm to Feyre when she had just been a child. 

The boy's eyes started drooping as she sang, and his breath started to even out. He nuzzled against her as if seeking out the comfort of her embrace.

Eira smiled and shifted a little, wrapping her other arm around him and pulling him closer.

He yawned and curled against her, letting out a little sleepy babble. She chuckled at how he curled against her, like a cat seeking out warmth. Her nephew was more than a little affectionate, a constant need for cuddles and hugs and affection. But he was sweet.

Eira continued singing, holding him close as he started drooping more and more against her, clearly struggling to keep his eyes open.

It didn’t take long for Nyx to fall asleep, his breaths evening out and his body going heavy and pliant against her. And still, she kept singing, her voice quiet. 

She wasn’t really focused on the song, on the words…her entire focus was on Nyx, on the fact that her nephew lay in her arms, in her embrace, completely and utterly relaxed.

Safe. Safe and sound and not a single scratch on him. She hadn’t failed to protect him. She hadn’t…Nothing had happened to him. 

Eira was so focused on the little boy in her arms that she didn’t even realise that the shadows were gone. She continued singing, gently running one hand over her nephew’s back.

She wasn't sure what it had been that suddenly made her look up...her singing ceased as soon as she realised that Azriel stood in the doorway, watching her.

His gaze was fixed on her and on Nyx, lying in her arms. She wasn’t sure what it was, but there was a look on his face…a look in his eyes. Something soft, something almost…. tender.

She didn’t dare to breathe.

"I am sorry," she apologised softly. "Did I bother your meeting? I'll stop." She hadn’t even known that he was at the River House that day, hadn’t known that Rhys would be busy with meetings. Otherwise, she would have been quieter. 

Azriel just shook his head, taking a couple of steps closer until he was hovering next to the couch.

“You aren’t bothering anything,” he said softly, voice rough. “You can keep singing if you’d like.”

Eira’s breath hitched a little as Azriel took a few more steps, moving until he could slide into one of the armchairs.  She swallowed. 

“Amren said I should stop my screeching, “ she blurted out suddenly. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Azriel blinked. Once. then twice. 

“You could never bother me,” he said, his voice fierce. “And your singing is anything but a screech.”

Eira felt her breath hitch in her throat, her eyes wide. She could feel that her cheeks were warm, embarrassment coursing through her.

And yet…there was still that look on his face, that softness in his eyes as he looked at her, holding their nephew against her chest. 

She swallowed a little before speaking. “…you don’t think it’s terrible? You don’t think I sound like a dying crow?”

He shook his head. “Not at all,” he said softly, voice low enough so that he wouldn’t wake Nyx up.

His gaze was still fixed on her, on the picture they made, on how she was curled around the tiny little boy, still that soft look in his eyes that she couldn’t quite place. 

For just one single second Eira allowed herself to think about…the future. Think about that little girl that she had seen. Would she one day sing her own daughter to sleep?

“You want me to keep singing?” she whispered quietly, shifting a little so she was sitting up straighter.

Azriel met her gaze, as he nodded. 

He nodded. “Please,” he mumbled, his voice low and hoarse, rough even. “Please, keep singing.”

So she did. 

[vasyandii]

💡RAM & CAM⚒️

Included are my headcanons of AM's Older Brothers, and some explanations of their designs! (I took big inspo with CAM's design from @kibutsulove so please go check out their design as well!) Yes this pertains to VernonAM, No I can't shut up about them.

RAM (Yaroslav Machavariani)

Physically 53, around 6' (182 cm) in height.

Greying hairs, scaring around the cheek area.

Colour palette is blue leaning.

His Emblem is Я (Ya) for the Russian word "I", "I am"

RAM can speak with his mouth, however, his hearing is subdued (Think "Hear No Evil")

Because he can't hear that well in his physical form, he's extremely loud. To the point his jaw almost fell off, hence the scarring.

Perpetual smirk, as if he is scheming something.

Despite his looks, he is not the oldest Mastercomputer.

"MY LITTLE BROTHER FINALLY GOT A GIRLFRIEND!! THANK GOD, I WOULD BE SO EMBARRASSED TO BE RELATED TO A LOSER!"

CAM (Shengli "Samson" Min)

Physically age ambiguous (55), 5'10 (178 cm), still taller than Yankee AM

Monolids/Epicanthic folds, mole near nose

Colour palette is red leaning

His Emblem is 是 (Shi) as in 我是 (Wo Shi); "I am."

CAM is unable to use his mouth to speak, often having difficulty with his mechanical jaw. (Think "Speak No Evil")

He relies on his omnipresence or hand gestures to convey his messages. His hearing is extremely good, unfortunately.

Extremely observant. Sick of AM and RAM's shit, still gets them out of trouble.

The oldest brother, he's so tired, let him take a nap. Please.

"Look at her. Am I crazy, she doesn't look well adjusted. She- she's trying to eat the slug. Okay. Fun. Happy for you two. Fucking freaks."

((their mechanical designs totally aren't political/government commentary COUGH COUGH, if you don't see me in 5 days assume I've been killed and replaced by a body double))

[kechiwrites]

gentle touch

könig x massage therapist!reader kinktober countdown day 5 (body worship)

synopsis: oh, the military boys were your favourite.

wc: 2.8k

cw: massage therapist reader doing bad medical-ish practice, body worship, light sub!konig, mentions of edging, hand jobs, a little oral as a treat, biting, konig being petnamed as he should (honey), size kink, hints at touch starvation, groping, begging, uncut konig, afab!reader, no gendered pronouns or language.

author's note: i know his dick hex code and it's glorious. mdni.

He’s your last appointment of the day. And what a fucking day it had been, ten hours that should’ve been eight, cinnamon scented candles instead of eucalyptus, a rushed lunch because a client had shown up early, not taking “I’m on break” for an answer.

You knock on the faux bamboo door, waiting for your appointment to allow you entry. When he does, so quietly you almost miss it, you open the door, only for your eyes to land on a broad, strong back, still wrapped in a dark grey long sleeve. He turns slightly, just enough for you to see the thin stubble on his chin, cheek and jaw.

"Hello! I didn't catch you undressing did I?" This time he turns all the way around and you are sure your swallow is audible. Hell, you hope it's audible, you want this dude to know just how impressed you are with what you're seeing.

"No." He shakes his head, rubbing his aquiline nose against the inside of his wrist. It must’ve been broken once before, if the uneven bump on his bridge is anything to go by. Why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot. You eat up the motion, eyes tracking every twitch or movement of his massive arms.

“Oh…" you're ogling him. You need to stop ogling him. "I actually need you to strip down.” The words burn on your tongue. You must say that a thousand times a work week, but this time, when you say it to him, it sounds…dirty. Like a shitty porn set up. Makes your clean white polo feel vacuum sealed to your skin. He takes a step towards you and you shudder a breath, tensing until you realize he’s getting closer to the lockers to your left.

He’s huge, you think, and when he still doesn’t look up at you, content to let the strands of dark brown hair, nearly black hair, hang in his face, you figure he’s shy too.

Cute.

“And you can use the towel to maintain modesty, Mr. König.” You get the inflection of his name wrong, you know because you’d googled it prior, held your phone to your ear in the staff washroom and listened to a soft spoken German man lilt it to you. There’s a hard ‘g’ on the end where it shouldn’t be, and you apologize, trying again to master it. “König.”

“Right.” He murmurs, “Just around my waist, yes?”

Or it could go on the floor and I could rub my clit on your abs.

“Yes, sir. Around your waist.”

You exit the room, closing it softly behind you. You figure you’ll use the few minutes you have to get a bottle of water, or a sedative. Something strong enough to bring you back down to your customary professional detachment.

When you return, he’s where you expect him to be. Face down on his stomach, his head in the cushioned hole. “S-sorry.” He speaks, voice muffled by his position. The apology comes immediately upon the sound of the door closing and you worry his large frame has cracked the massage table or something. You peer around him, looking for any chunks of polished wood or loose screws.

When you don’t find anything you realize he’s apologizing for his scars, the pit marks of bullets dug out in haste and healed with spite, lacerations haphazardly stitched, then redone a second time with the careful, practiced hands of a doctor in no rush.

“Oh, please don’t be. We get military boys all the time. Nothing I haven’t seen before.” You murmur, and it’s a lie of course. Not that you’ve seen scars, of course, you’ve seen some really storied skin in your time here, being near a base and all. No, it was the man who was an oddity. Mandy at the front desk told you that he’d had to duck through the front door.

His skin is also ultra pale in a way military men usually aren't. Near transparent, the sprawling blue lines of his veins thread underneath his skin, and you can see yourself getting distracted tracing some of the pathways with your fingers.

He hums, and you hope you’ve put him at ease a little bit. You haven’t even touched him yet and the tension in his back is glaring. Anxious people tended to hold a lot of stress, anxious soldiers? You’re just glad he’d booked a two hour instead of the customary hour and twenty.

The oil is cold straight from the bottle and you warm it between your palms before you make contact. He’s warm to the touch, bridging on hot, and he flinches when your hands meet his skin. “Was that too cold?” He groans, but doesn’t affirm or deny it, so you figure it must just be the contact. Slowly, you begin with his calves, tending to and pushing on knotted muscle and tense areas, working out kink after kink, soothing his compounded aches. The oil smoothes down his leg hair and you must be going insane because even that is hot to you. His thighs are even worse, strong and muscled and dimpled in the sweetest places. He shivers when your palms glide over his inner thighs, and he clenches them together when your fingers brush the hem of the towel shielding his ass from your greedy view. As quickly as it happens, he relaxes, murmuring another apology. You hum your own response, and push your thumb into an adorable cluster of moles you see just under the towel.

By the time you get to his lower back, König is almost purring, his gentle breathing often interrupted by drawn out, guttural moans. Whines and whimpers that make your blood hot. He’s holding the worst of his tension there, and you have to lean almost all your body weight into the motions of the massage. His hips jerk up and then down just as sharply when you crest your palm over her shoulder blades, and you don’t imagine the keening noise he makes as he grips the massage table. You’re used to military clients being a lot more stoic but it seems Mr. König is most assuredly not the sort. You reach his neck, framing his throat with your palms and using your thumbs to rub firm circles into his nape. His breath hitches and you find yourself cooing. “Breathe for me, I got you.” The soldier’s hips snap downward again, this time hard enough to shift the table beneath him. Which is more than enough to make you pause. 

No.

It couldn’t be.

The soft music and sound of the water feature on the wall nearly drown out the curse König whispers, but you catch it, and can’t stop your lips from curling into a pleased little smile. This was just too good. You start to finish up his neck, brushing some of his hair out of the way so you can rub your fingertips into the skin just below his earlobes. You guide him to turn over and when he doesn’t respond, you wonder if he’d fallen asleep.

“Mr. König?”

He makes a wordless groaning noise low in his throat, laying motionless.

“I need you to turn over, honey.” You don’t even realize you’ve pet-named a grown man you don’t know. Which is just as well, because it seems to be what the soldier needs, and he rises from the table, clutching the towel in a tight fist to maintain his scant modesty.

You turn towards the side table, pouring more oil into your palm. When you return to face him, you witness why exactly he was so reluctant to face the ceiling.

He’s at least half-hard, a very noticeable ridge lifting his towel. You can’t stop staring at it, even though you know König is trying his best to ignore it. You circle around him, and begin at the foot of the table, going through the massage cycle again; feet, calves, thighs, arms. You zone out, following through your motions, listening to the man beneath groan and sigh his contentment. You reach his chest, spreading your hands over his pecs. They’re big, just like the rest of him, you think and it’s hard not to fucking drool on him. He’s firm but soft, still pleasantly warm, despite being exposed to slightly below room temperature air. He shifts again when you hit a stubborn knot right below his collarbone, and you pause to check in.

“Still good?”

His breathing is uneven, shuddering and laboured. His hands clench and relax from white knuckled fists.

“Yes.” he hisses through gritted teeth, and you’re worried he’s undoing every bit of relaxation you’ve tried to bring him. It’s painfully clear where the stress is coming from, hidden underneath a paltry white towel, the enticing elephant in the room. You put your hands back on him.

Still got 45 minutes left, after all.

You try your best not to look smug, and you fail miserably.

Every stroke and rub you perform across his chest makes his cock jerk and twitch under the towel. You can practically see the cloudy drops of precum that’d be beading as his tip. Your thumb nail skates across his pectoral and catches his nipple and the whine he makes is so sweet you just have to do it again. Soon, you’re barely massaging him, groping the poor man under the guise of your job. A weak grunt snaps you out of your reverie, and when you glance down his abdomen at that godforsaken towel, you can’t stop the quiet gasp of shock you release at his erection. “Ah, I’m so sorry. Very sorry” His flush spreads from his cheeks all the way down to his chest, a gorgeous stewed cherry colour that overwhelms the pale skin you’d worked into submission. His eyes are screwed shut when you can bear to drag your eyes from his cock to his face. His soft, pink mouth is pulled down at the corners, and the heavy, dark slashes of his eyebrows are furrowed together, creating a wrinkle between them you want to smooth out with a kiss.

“It happens all the time. Are you alright to continue?” Your voice is deceptively calm, serene and soft, when all you really want to do is snatch the towel off the battering ram he’d smuggled in here. Your blood thrums, and you ache at the sight of it, at the mere thought of the ungodly stretch he’d put you through.

You will yourself to keep your hands where they are, force yourself to look literally anywhere else. The faux waterfall ahead of you, the wireless speaker droning pleasant, melodic mood music, fuck, you even try staring at the dimmed light fixtures hanging from the ceiling. But every cry and whine forces your eyes down, tempts you to catalogue every inch of flushed skin and threaded muscle. You gnaw on your own lip, and find your hands drifting down, back around his abdomen. You’ve worked through the area already, there is no excuse to be down there, to slip your finger tips under the towel, to push your digits into the skin around his pelvis. “Is this okay?” You have the gall to ask, when you push your fingers lower still, and basically sign your own severance package. Oh but it’d be worth it, to get what you want, to make this big strong man sob with pleasure, to have his mouth on your throat while you stroked him to completion. The memory of his cock in your hand will keep you warm in the unemployment line.

König nods, turns his head towards you but doesn’t open his eyes. His hips cant upwards again, and his towel shifts, parting to reveal his angry, desperate hard-on. He raises a hand from the massage table, letting his mammoth paw land on your hip. He squeezes you, and exhales sharply through his nose when his thumb touches your bare skin, skating over your flesh underneath your work shirt. “Say it.” You mutter and his eyes crack open, just wide enough for you to spot the crystalline blue of his irises between his inky black lashes.

“Please.”

And that’s all you need.

He’s uncut, and the veins blanketing the length of his cock are visible under his foreskin. Pretty in a way you aren’t used to, a denser blush than the rest of his body, but still quite pale. It feels like your hand is moving in slow motion towards it, your fingers twitching in anticipation. The heat of his dick warms your skin before you even make contact, and when you do, wrapping your fingers around the root of it, your fingertips can’t touch. You press your lips together and try not to squeal happily, glee crinkling your eyes.

God is real and he’s an uncircumcised cock on a shy giant.

König’s erection is searingly hot. Soft skin and hard core, jerking in your palm, leaking steadily, nudging at your hand, insistent. Your brain is working full steam and connections necessary to utilize common sense are still not being made. Slowly, you tighten your hold on him, the weight of it is so imposing, you wouldn’t be surprised if imprints of the veiny surface were branded onto your hand once you withdrew. If you ever withdrew. You should fucking withdraw.

You do not withdraw. Instead, you slide your hand up slowly, choking up on the head of his cock before dragging your grip back down. You chance a glance up at his face, watching his Adam’s apple bob with each laboured swallow. The poor man’s jaw clenches and relaxes while you slide your palm over his flesh again and again. Somehow, he hardens further and your eyes widen impossibly larger, the pit of your stomach doing somersaults at the idea of where you want that thing to go, what you want it to do. You get fevered flashes of König bending you over the massage table in your mind, hands on your hips, rutting without sense or logic into you, so hard the surface scrapes against the floor, all while he sobs, his overwhelmed, overstimulated tears splashing against your back while he rearranged your insides. The head of his cock is exposed every time you slide your hand down towards his pelvis. By the third peek, you’re dragging the pointed end of your tongue over the tip of his dick, licking against his head, and coating your mouth with the taste of him. He grips at your side harder, his fingers digging into your hip as he chases the warmth of your mouth. He keens loud, almost mewling when you pull off him, using your spit to ease your hand’s path. By this point, your handiwork is audible, noisy and wet, König’s voice filling the small room. You use your free hand to guide his head to your chest, letting him bend toward you, press his nose into your tits while he begs for you to finish him.

“Are you gonna come, Mr. König?” You thread your fingers in his hair, letting your nails scratch against his scalp, drift down to his nape and up to his crown again.

“Yes, please, please. Fuck.” His voice is reedy and thin, and he wraps his arm around your waist, burying his face deeper in your chest. And then his whole body trembles, and his hips roll towards you, and for a fleeting minute you consider edging the poor bastard, sliding your hand completely off his cock and watching it twitch violently, uselessly in the air.

But he begs so sweetly. And his next session was already pre-booked.

The hand you kept on his head leaves his hair, and you rub the head of his cock with your flat open palm, jerking him off with firm, fast strokes. He bites down on the curve of your breast, and you’re grateful he still managed to retain enough brain cells to not break skin.

“Do it then. Come, honey.” You trill, feeling his tears wet your skin through your shirt. It’s almost instantaneous, so fast it’s kind of impressive. His body goes bowstring-tight, and he squeezes you so hard it almost hurts. Ropes of sticky white seed shoot from his cock, covering your hand and his spasming abdomen. You slide your hand up, milking just the first two inches of him through his orgasm, until he stops your movements himself, covering your hand with his own.

When you finally break contact, you stare at your hand for what feels like ages, thick beads of his cum rolling down your palm, sliding to your wrist. You extricate yourself from his hold, using your clean hand to brush his sweat damp hair from his forehead. You press that kiss you wanted to the space between his brows. Why start restraining yourself now? His body shivers periodically, and you turn to the sink, to wash your hands clean, clenching your own thighs together, his moans and sighs echoing in your mind. You turn to face him, grinning wide and cheery,

“So...I’ll see you next week?”

hoe, you are getting fired! at least you got a man outta it though.

support city girls who love gummy worms, reblog what you like.

find the rest of the masterlist here.

[findingavoiceif]

Intro post:

Step into the shadows as an Elyn, a creature feared and hunted for your dark, mysterious origins. After narrowly escaping the brutal grasp of your former master, you find yourself in a world that views your kind—Elyndras—as beings of nightmare: demons with unsettling, untapped powers.

But in this land where terror and superstition reign, your journey is just beginning. Thrust into an unpredictable adventure of treachery, harrowing dangers, unexpected sorrows, and moments of tender love, your path twists in ways you never imagined.

Forge bonds with one of four unique companions, each with their own secrets, desires, and hidden wounds.

Tell me, creature of the night... Will you reclaim your power, your voice, your freedom?

Features:

Choose your name,gender and parts of your appearance.(Some of the mc's features are locked to fit their heritage)

Romance one of four companions or maybe...5?

Trigger warnings-

Finding A Voice is rated 16+ for violence,self-harm,hunting of an entire species,assault,language and fade-to black scenes.

Love interests:

Quill Riviera – The Charming Bard

Quill’s got that effortlessly cool vibe—shoulder-length auburn hair streaked with dark highlights, usually tied half up, half down like he didn’t try but somehow nailed the look. His light brown eyes glimmer with mischief, though his right eye is a little clouded from an old injury, and his full lips always seem to be curled into a teasing grin. Freckles dust his nose, and he’s got a small gap between his front teeth, giving his smile a touch of imperfection that just adds to his charm.

Underneath his confident exterior is something darker, though he keeps it hidden well behind sarcastic jokes and playful arrogance. His tan skin, slender hands, and lean frame are decorated with piercings—hoops and studs running up his pointy ears, an eyebrow piercing above his sharp, teasing gaze. You’ll catch a glimpse of a burn mark on his left hip if he ever lets his guard down. Despite the mystery and flirtation, Quill’s a bard at heart, working part-time at the inn, always ready to spin a story or play a song. But don’t let his facade fool you; there’s more beneath the surface.

Pierre Blanchet – The Cold Commander

Pierre cuts an intimidating figure—a tall, athletic knight with flawless bronze skin, dark red eyes that he’s always been self-conscious about, even though they burn with a fire few can match. His curly blonde hair is cut short and shaved at the sides, making him look every bit the battle-hardened warrior he is. A small mole beneath his nose and a permanent shadow of stubble give him a rough, no-nonsense appearance.

Despite his role as Knight Commander, Pierre’s introverted nature and quiet insecurity make him seem distant, even rude at times. He doesn’t let people in easily, but those who get past his defenses see the man beneath the armor—stubborn, loyal, and fighting his own inner battles. His large hands grip a sword with ease, but they fumble when it comes to opening up to others. If you can break through his walls, though, you’ll find a heart worth fighting for.

Celeste Dupont – The Witch of Warmth

Celeste is the type of person who draws people in with her warmth, even though her pale skin and sharp grey eyes might make her seem icy at first glance. She keeps her silky black hair tied up in a messy bun, and no matter how chaotic it looks, it only adds to her effortless elegance. Her lips are always painted a cherry red, and a small scar on her bottom lip hints at the fact that there’s more to her story.

As a baker and healer, she’s as likely to serve you a fresh loaf of bread as she is to patch you up after a tough battle. A rune tattoo graces her palm, a subtle sign of her Valdranna heritage—an immortal witch with powers as ancient as they are mysterious. With her hourglass figure, dark eyeliner, and a nose ring that looks like a simple dot, Celeste balances the mystical with the everyday. She’s your boss, your best friend, and maybe something more if you’re lucky enough to win her heart.

Ash Valdaryn – The Sickly Royal

Ash is the reason this whole adventure started, their deep violet skin standing out against the pale world around them. Their lavender hair, soft and wavy, falls just past their shoulders, and they dress in flowing, feminine clothing that complements their elegant, yet slightly fragile build. White eyes gaze out from beneath small, curling horns on their forehead, giving them an otherworldly look that is as captivating as it is delicate.

Ash’s health is failing, which is why the journey began in the first place—to find a cure for the illness that threatens to take them away. Despite their condition, they insisted on coming along, determined to be part of the adventure. They may look fragile, but there’s a quiet strength beneath the surface—a will to live, to fight, to hold on. And though they may be royalty, with all the expectations that come with it, Ash’s soft voice and gentle demeanor make them someone you’ll want to protect... even though they’d never ask for it.

[zarnzarn]

The doors to Olympus are sturdy and strong, given everyone's preferences for drama and slamming said doors open and sending them cracking into the wall whenever the opportunity arises. Which is why it's a surprise when they creak open during the once-a-decade pantheon meeting; less so because no entity worth their salt would take so long to open the doors, and more so because everyone who is anyone is already there.

But if everyone is being honest with themselves- which no one is, usually- these gatherings are boring enough that the bland conversation is dropped immediately in favour of craning their necks to catch a glimpse of whatever is coming to relieve them of their boredom.

When the doors finally open however, several of the pantheon murmur in surprise.

"Odysseus," Athena whispers, wide-eyed as she pushes herself off her throne to her feet. It is him- in the king's garb he was buried in but the face he has when he reached home, hair till the shoulders and speckled with grey, face oddly blank. His feet are transparent.

"What are you doing here, sceptre?" Poseidon booms, hair the color of a stormy sea. Zeus, beside him, looks reserved, observing the ghost with something approaching curiosity- eyes flicking to the lightning scars on his daughter's face and back. "Your time has long passed, and Hades-"

"It is a temporary agreement," Odysseus says curtly, barely sparing him a glance as he approaches his patron. "Athena."

Her armour clinks as she steps forward and the gods all twitch, trading glances. Owls are silent creatures- to have her aspect so affected to make noise was... uneasy to say the least. She even holds herself different than usual, something like confused delight shining in her eyes. "How did you-"

"Did you sleep with my wife?"

The throne room is silent. Several jaws drop.

Athena straightens back up, blinking in surprise. She looks a bit shifty, some of the nymphs closest whisper to each other, which- well, almost every single god present owed some part of their existence to the mere story of Odysseus loving his wife.

Would he fight his own patron goddess over it in front of Mount Olympus, though? He certainly was unbalanced enough; Athena herself looked rather uncertain of her odds, even though-

"Are you addled in death, King of Ithaka?" Artemis drawls, looking amused. "Did you forget that your own patron is celibate? Whatever rumor you-"

"No, I-" Athena says suddenly, shifting her spear to her other hand. "I did."

Artemis chokes on her breath and several assorted divine beings gasp in shock and the rest shouting for explanations, although everyone is nearly drowned out by Aphrodite's loud, "WHAT?"

Odysseus inhales sharply and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I cannot believe you."

"She asked-" Athena starts, only to be drowned out by the din of various beings screeching and shouting about the scandal.

"ATHENA!" Hera hisses, peacock tail fanning behind her sharply as she pushes herself up. "Explain yourself!"

Athena half-turns to face her, face creased in a frown. "Mother, I-"

"LET ME REPHRASE!" Odysseus cuts in loudly, and the shouting settles down into silence. He walks to his patron, eyes blazing. "I cannot believe," he throws his clenched fists wide as he growls the last word, "-you took Penelope to bed-" Athena surprisingly stays still as he reaches her, mouth falling open as he grabs her by the chiton to yank her down, uncaring of the gasps of horror from all around as he snarls, "-before you ever kissed me."

And then Odysseus grabs Athena by the face roughly and kisses her.

This time Aphrodite's shriek cannot be escaped by anyone.

"Aphrodite, please," Zeus says a few moments later, wincing as his throne reforms around him, stained oddly pink. Quite a few minor entities have discorporated, and the ones nearest to her are still trying to regenerate their hearing. "Control yourself."

Their eyes land back on where Athena has dropped her spear- dropped her spear, Ares in the corner seems to be having some minor hysteria over this, well warranted- and is also on the floor, still being thoroughly kissed by that insufferable, mannerless hero of hers, perched on her stomach to reach. Zeus inhales in fury, Poseidon close behind him as the shock wears off, lightning crackling around his fingers as he opens his mouth to shout- of all the indignities-

"If you two ruin this for me," Aphrodite thunders, warping in front of them and glaring. "I will make you both regret it."

Both gods visibly blanch at the threat, taken aback for one brief moment. Threats from Aphrodite are far worse than any of her more violent siblings, at the end of the day.

Zeus visibly gathers himself just as Athena's helmet clatters to the floor, and he gains a second wind immediately, eye twitching as he spreads a hand to the spectacle in the middle of the hall. "WHAT MANNER OF DISRESPECT IS THIS? TO BARGE INTO OUR MEETING AND THROW ONE OF THE OLDEST GODDESSES TO THE FLOOR LIKE A COMMON WENCH-"

"Zeus," Hera says quietly. Everyone falls silent, although it's not quite enough to stop the two tangled together on the ground. She clears her throat, which finally seems to get through to Athena, who had finally seemed to have gotten over her shock enough to reach out, hands hovering over Odysseus hesitantly. Still, at the noise she seems to remember herself, pushing herself up on an elbow and dislodging him enough to break their necking. He pouts at her, but Athena's eyes are too glazed over to notice, heaving for breath.

Hera opens her mouth to speak, crown manifesting on her brow as she steps in front of the throne, but closes it as the door rattles again.

This time, the spectre shimmers with a faint hint of scales that comes with a freshwater nymph's heritage and excited whispers starved for drama explode across the room as the Queen of Ithaka steps into the room, skirts hitched in her hand and panting as if she'd been running.

"Your Graces," She bows respectfully before entering, Spartan princess through and through, until she catches sight of her husband and Athena, the former of whom seems to have taken the opportunity to start kissing the wisdom goddess again, fingers in her curls.

"What are you doing?" She snaps, rushing over. The entire courtroom holds its breath. She slaps her husband upside the head, making him yelp and move back to shoot her a betrayed look. Athena looks even further dazed than before, cheeks red. "Argos has more manners than you! No wonder Lady Athena wanted nothing to do with you- ah, hello, darling, by the way."

"Penelope," Athena murmurs hoarsely, and the Queen of Ithaka leans down to kiss her as well.

Odysseus chuckles, then jumps with everyone else as Hera slams a hand down on the throne elegantly, cracking it to the base.

"Ah, goddess-" He says, clambering off Athena to bow.

"Silence," Hera interrupts, holding up a hand, eyes cold. "You will not say anything to me apart from an explanation. My agreement for your release from Ogygia was due to the assurance that your marriage was one of the truest I have ever witnessed, conveyed by Athena herself when bartered with all of us to let you go. Tell me, was it a ploy? Because from the disgraceful looks of it, this seems to not be the case in the slightest."

Odysseus frowns, face twisting in confusion. "Athena bartered with...?" He turns to look at his patron, who stares back, unspeaking. His eyes flicker to the lightning scar over her right eye as Penelope traces it with horrified eyes and a gentle thumb, and understanding seems to dawn.

For a moment, rage seems to fill him, glaring with a hatred towards Zeus that everyone whispered later wasn't met by the god king with anger, but a flicker of remorse- before he visibly throws it away behind Athena's old smile and bows.

"God-queen," He says formally, gracefully. Hera twitches a bit, and they'll all talk later about how odd it was to so clearly see Athena's younger mannerisms in the man, down to the curl of the letters. "My marriage to Penelope has never been false, never been broken, this I promise you." He takes Penelope's hand and squeezes it for emphasis, and she raises them as acknowledgement. "But... can you not argue that Athena has been part of our marriage all this time? From its start, where she advised me on courting and her on what to look for, to the twenty years she spent with both of us- me on the battlefield and Penelope in the court; to say nothing of how she helped raise our son and lived in our palace in the days after. And is she not so unbearably beautiful that even my Penelope couldn't wait-" He shoots a glare at her, which Penelope returns with a smile. "-when the chance was presented? How can you fault us for disgrace, after being so long apart from our wife?"

Hera raises both eyebrows at the impudence, the kind of disbelieving expression that hides a warning to tread carefully. "So you claim to be both married to Pallas Athena?"

"In every way that matters except legality," Odysseus says, fearlessly. He is dead, after all, what much can you do to a shade that they didn't already put him through when alive. He is sort of worried about Athena, though, as they both help her back to her feet, Penelope busy whispering compliments and updates and endearments in turn- she's not usually one to be quiet in face of a problem.

Hera tilts her head. "Ah, but you see. I need the legality, if I am to finally-" A helpless, excited smile pulls at her lips once, twice, before unfolding into a bright grin, peacock tails unfolding to their full wingspan. "-finally arrange for a marriage for my eldest daughter who has not once- oh finally, I can hardly believe this day has come-"

"I do not like the way you grabbed her, Sacker of Troy," Ares steps forward as Hera starts ranting half to herself, half to an equally loud assemblage of joyful entities about wedding arrangements, eyes narrowed.

Odysseus barks an incredulous, loud laugh, gesturing to Athena with a slightly crazed look in his eyes. "This lady has broken- and I do not exaggerate- every single bone in my body before I saw my sixteenth year. I have punched her a hundred times in the face when she taught me how to fight. We'll survive, thanks."

"That is fair," Ares steps back, hands raised.

"What duties will you provide as spouses, Ithakan Queen?" Hestia questions, stepping forward.

"Oh, the same we did when we were living," Penelope huffs a laugh. "Keep her busy, make her laugh, be of mild frustration to her, love her well, worship her-"

"I do not. Need to know," Hestia closes her eyes and raises a hand to cut her off, stepping back. Around them, the din catches speed and volume as no further objections arise, excitement spilling into the air.

"What is happening?" Athena says faintly, looking around as if she was just waking up.

"-oh, and we can get out the decor once more! Hebe, Aphrodite, loves, do you remember where we kept the fountains-"

"-finally, a reason to celebrate! Call them all out of hiding-"

"-can't believe this is finally happening, oh sister, what songs should we-

"Why am I getting married," Athena says with much more alarm and horror. She turns to Odysseus and shakes him by the shoulder, eyes wild. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!"

"How is this nothing? Do you have any idea the headache-"

"Athena, sweetheart, will you consider changing into that beautiful piece you made for the ceremony?"

Creakily, she turns her head to Hera, disbelief pasted across her face. "Mother," She says slowly. "They are both dead."

"Oh, I'll make a deal with Hades or something, you hush!" Aphrodite leans forward and snaps, before her irritation melts back into a manic joy. "Oh, what paint shall we do?"

Paint, Athena mouths, looking afraid for possibly the first time since her conception.

Penelope laughs and tugs on Athena's hand to make her turn, tucking dishevelled curls behind her ear. She wonders if the goddess knows how beautiful she is when she's flustered. "Take us away," She whispers. On Athena's other side, Odysseus leans against their patron with a besotted, helpless smile as he stares up at her, her helmet and spear in hand. She'd missed Athena like a limb, missed her deep laugh at night when they'd discussed the day's court, the dry jokes, the hands over hers as she weaved- but Odysseus wasn't himself without her, happy though they were in Hades' lands together, all of them.

"I'm-" Athena wavers, then looks around once more at all the excited screaming, something unreadable flashing in her eyes. Almost against her will, her eyes fall to Zeus, who is sitting silently and staring back at her. Poseidon looks like he still wants to start a fight, but clearly by his wary looks below can tell he will be heavily outnumbered by the overexcited crowd to not try, but Zeus just stares back at her, face blank of any emotion.

"We ask you formally this time," King Odysseus says, walking in front of her to take her attention away, holding onto her hand. His voice has strength in it, drawing the eyes of the murmuring crowd, but he's deaf to it as he stares up at her.

"Will you be our wife?" Queen Penelope asks, joining him, watching their beautiful patron shudder for breath she does not need as her eyes flick to one of them and then the other.

"Yes," She whispers and cheers erupt all across Mount Olympus.

"Finally!" Odysseus complains, and then pulls her down once more to kiss her, all three of them fading at the edges as one of the generous gods present there- who seems to realize that they're not very inclined to stop anytime soon- thankfully teleports them away into a nice room with a large bed.

"Finally," He whispers as he breaks apart to lay her down, cupping her face, voice heavy with the longing of a full lifetime and more. Penelope circles to the head of the bed and starts undoing Athena's braid, staring at them both lovingly.

Later the ones closest will murmur, as the silhouettes faded away, that tears had slipped from proud Pallas Athena's eyes as she placed one hand against Odysseus' cheek, trembling.

"I missed you," She will whisper back, and all three of them fade away to their own story, yet to be made.

[moodymisty]

Author's note: I love him

Relationships: Mortarion/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, A man jerkin it, Gross descriptors of Mortarion's body, Pervert Morty and his hot wife the prequel

The lights hit your skin so beautifully.

The dark purple fabric of your dress wrapped around you in an embrace, flowing onto the floor like water in a glittering stream. The color was a dusty, deep purple, much like his cape- But while yours was by design, his was ragged and washed out from years of overuse.

The way it wrapped around your shoulders, down your arms around your delicate wrists; how when you walk, it pulls away to reveal the ever so slight amount of skin just above your heel. Dresses were exceeding rare on Barbarus, and underneath were usually further layers to protect the skin. To see your naked body underneath such thin fabric had made his eyes widen- instinctually thinking that it was dangerous, he felt sickly and perverted to gaze so openly- as you casually walked around to chatter with other baselines.

When you'd turned away from him and revealed the open back of your dress, revealing your shoulderblades all the way down to the small of your back, he had just about choked.

If Mortarion had been a different primarch, you might as well have walked up to him and flashed your tits right at him, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth for good measure.

He left moments after that. You probably didn't even notice, which was for the best. He was better off slipping away unknown to take a moment for himself.

Funny- he hated the remembrancers at first. They seemed pointless at best and actively frustrating at worst, but the other primarchs had insisted he allow them aboard The Endurance. For documentstion, Fulgrim had said. To etch his legion's deeds into history.

Who cares. He and his legion do what needs to be done. History is unimportant.

One by one they slowly left the Death Guard, but you remained; With no signs of abandoning him departing.

Ever so diligent, quiet, and demure, you always did your work- sometimes even with a smile- watching his legion conduct their duties. Sometimes you would even indulge his lackluster and embarrasingyly necrosed conversational skills, showing no reaction other than interest and this odd, soft expression he had no word for.

You wouldn't want him.

He looks down at his body once in the safety of his Terran bedchambers- the way his skin is pallid and sickly, the scars. His nails are chipped, his hair is limp and grey. The clothes he wears are from Barbarus; Old, torn, stained and filthy. Dependable and still useful. But why now does he suddenly want to change them?

His bed groans under his weight as he sits on it, looking down at his thighs. He knows they're scarred underneath his trousers, a bit wider than they were when he was on Barbarus.

His nose curls, his breaths deepen. He's angry- but why?

He takes a deep breath filling his chest and rips off his respirator in one fell swoop, before letting out a sick cough that rips through his lungs like hellfire. He feels the palm covering his mouth get wet, groaning and tensing his neck to try and control the fit.

He then looks to the singular mirror- sees the way the skin around his mouth is dry and discolored, the dark circles under his eyes, before turning his entire back to it.

He throws the respirator to the floor and watches it roll across the marble before skidding to a stop. It feels satisfying, in a pointlessly vindicating way.

The next few breaths he takes are ragged and full of sticky phlem. It racks his body and when he can't stop another cough, he feels the painful jolt of a rib popping. Spittle strings from his mouth to his hand, it tinted blood red ever so slightly.

'Where did you get such attire.'

Mortarion watched confusion bloom across your face, your lips shifting in an erotic dance. They part with the softest little pop. The skin of your cheeks looks so smooth.

'Oh, when I was given as your remembrancer, I was assigned an appropriate wardrobe, formal attire included.'

He felt disgusting, looking down at your bare skin. Almost your entire collarbone was visible, your shoulders, your fingers, your ankles, your wrists, your back- by the throne your back, he felt like some sort of slathering beast barely holding himself together. You looked so soft and you displayed it so openly- so wantonly! On Barbarus, you were lucky to see another's eyes. To see this much was... A fantasy.

His respirator discarded on the floor like rubbish Mortarion moves to undo the fastenings of his trousers, feeling the heavy heat of his cock. The first touch of him pulling it out at attention has him hissing, it nearly painful. He has to start with gentle touches- he knows you would do that if you weren't revolted by him- to build himself up to wrapping his entire fist around his cock. Once he manages it, even the dry scarred skin of his palm still feels otherworldly compared to just rubbing himself through his clothes.

Would you kiss him? Would you risk the poison of his breath and the sickly pallor of his skin? Would you let him mouth at your bare skin, feeling the warmth of your body under his lips?

Probably not. But he abandons the self declaration of him being a disgusting, cowardly pervert to imagine you would.

His cockhead throbs and aches, leaking precum that slicks his hand and shaft as he fists his cock. He hasn't done this in years, touch himself. He never had the need to- the desire to. Until you. Now he feels like he's rubbing himself raw almost daily.

He lets out a louder groan, one that vibrates his throat and nearly sends him into another coughing fit as he strokes himself faster. His lower stomach tenses and his cock twitches in his tight grip, angry, ragged breaths coming out of his nose.

Would you let him show you what you do to him? Would you show him more skin that you do shockingly showed him already? If you were from Barbarus, showing that much of your body would be the absolute height of intimacy.

By the throne, would you do all of that he's imagined and tell him you wanted more? That you wanted him? Would your allow your body to get defiled ruined stained corrupted poisoned touched by him, wantonly begging for more underneath him laying there like a beautiful painting while he falls apart before you?

He's so enthralled by the idea of kissing you, touching you-

Watching you undress-

He barely has a hold over himself. He fists his cock rough feeling his finish coming closer and closer, teeth gnashing. His cock twitches against as his stomach gets tighter, whenever his fingers brush against his cockhead he lets out the most pathetic, overwhelmed groan.

The idea of you touching him has him leaking in his fist, of the hand wrapped around his cock being your smaller ones and not his own.

The thought of actually being able to sink his cock into the tight, wet heat between your legs, of you moaning for him to ruin you more, to make him the only one that could bring you pleasure, has his body tightening up and he lets out a shaky, pathetic cry, coming all over his hand and onto the floor. He hadn't realized his eyes were closed until he opened them, looking at his own mess.

His cock twitches in little aftershocks, and despite the feeling that he could possibly go again, he takes a few deep breaths and rises to his feet. He fixes his half soft cock back into his trousers and sullies himself as to clean up his mess on the floor- the embarrassment of having another do so would ruin him- before returning to the small formal event he left behind.

He finds you moments after entering, as if by fate. You're standing alone, outcast by the other remembrancers.

They all fail to compare to you anyhow. They pale in comparison to your smarts and your beauty, a jewel among a legion of rot.

You are his remembrancer.

When he walks up to you, your face changes in a way that confuses him. You smile, giving the tactful bow he expects of you, though it isn't needed.

"I see you've returned," You say, adjusting the front of your dress. "Do you need something of me, Lord Mortarion?"

Mortarion watches the way your lips curl around your teeth, the way on some letters your tongue moves barely visible behind your lips. The way his name leaves your mouth sends another jolt to his already abused cock; By the Throne, he should just force it down your throat for what you do to him.

He grunts, looking down at you. You're waiting expectantly.

You wouldn't want him.

"No."

[shadowdaddies]

Request ?! Bat boys sucking on readers nipples because they are sore during her cycle🥲😩😩🤌🤌

soo I'm not certain if you meant separate headcanons or all together so I went all the batboys at once😈 hope that's okay

Tender

Batboys x f!Reader

warnings: not explicit smut?, idk maybe. grey area..., okay ya it's smut but it cuts off before the sex

Squeezing your eyes shut, you curled inward on the mattress, tugging the sheets over you as the cramps washed over your body. Stomach churned, your cycle so painful it took the breath from your lungs as you laid in bed.

The door creaked open, Rhysand’s violet eyes studying you with a graceful caution as Azriel and Cassian forced their way around him. Cassian’s nose scrunched at your scent, Rhys cooing as the three Illyrians moved closer towards you.

“Your cycle?” Az questioned, a scarred hand brushing sweaty hair from your face as you looked up at him with a pitifully weak nod.

“Oh, what can we do sweetheart?” Cassian murmured, gruff voice low as he settled next to you on the bed. His weight dipped the mattress, a sharp pain shooting through your sore chest at the movement.

All eyes turned wide at your reaction, a cautious aura blanketing the room. “Did I hurt you?” Cassian eked out, his voice cracking with guilt while he studied you for injury.

“No, no,” you breathed. “I’m just... tender, is all,” you admitted, cheeks flushing a rosy red as your gaze dipped quickly to your breasts and back.

“Oh,” Rhys rumbled, his scent turning darker, muskier. Breathing grew heavier among the group, need rising painfully in your core at the sight of three powerful Illyrians, barely restrained from touching you.

“I- It helps, to massage them, usually,” you breathed, hardly above a whisper. You refused to look at any of them, sure of your own arousal wafting through the air. “If you all would go, I can take care of myself.”

Rhys and Cassian shuffled awkwardly toward the door, but Azriel’s voice cut through the air like a dagger. “Do you want to?”

You resisted the urge to moan at his husky tone, daring to meet the hazel eyes which bore into yours. “Want to what?”

A smirk turned up the corners of the shadowsinger’s lips, gaze turning predatory as he stalked toward you, Rhys and Cassian close behind. “Do you want us to touch you? To make you feel better?”

An involuntary gasp escaped you at the question, wide eyes searching each male in the room only to find desperate need and desire. “Yes, please,” you breathed, chest subconsciously arching toward them.

Azriel was first to reach you, gently grasping the straps of your nightgown as he tugged the silky fabric down to reveal your chest to all three males. They sucked in a collective breath, their scents thickening the air in a way that had your pussy clenching around nothing.

“Please, please touch me,” you pleaded with Azriel, gaze then flicking to Rhys and Cassian as you grew impossibly desperate. 

With a grunt, Cassian dove past Az, tongue flicking out against your left nipple as rough hands kneaded your breast. The pain and pleasure mingled with each other in a dance, gasps forced from your mouth, head tilted back in ecstasy at the sensations.

Yet, still you needed more, and begged for such from your High Lord. You swore you could feel approval ripple through the air, Rhys’s long nimble fingers toying with the bud of your right nipple, the feeling so different from Cassian your mind reeled to catch up.

Hips ground against the mattress, your arousal mixing with the blood from your cycle to create a pathetic wetness between your thighs. “Gods, I need more,” you half-moaned, half-cried as Rhys’s tongue flicked your nipple, Cassian’s canines brushing the other as he sucked the bud.

Dazed eyes found Azriel’s, the male standing proudly with arms crossed as you came undone in front of him. “You,” you growled, hand finding the strength to yank him toward you by the collar. “I need you.”

That cocky smirk only deepened, Azriel looking down at you with unconstrained pride as shadows wound up your limbs, sending goosebumps over your skin. “Oh believe me, love. We are nowhere near done with you.”

[simp4konig]

I'm undecided as to whether or not Nikto would ever show his lover (you) his face willingly — and if so, how he would go about it... 😟❤️‍🩹

I'm torn between him putting it off as long as he can put it off for, so paranoid by the prospect that the sight of his mangled face will repulse you, that it becomes a phobia that his traumatised mind justifies.

Nikto valued you over anything, and should the sight of his face — irreversibly disfigured and ugly — look utterly repulsive and nauseating to you, it would devastate him.

So, with that said, perhaps Nikto would wear the mask always, parting with it never, ever, and refuse to be seen without the reinforced plastic mask strapped tight to his thick skill — with a black balaclava beneath just for safe measure. Only when you'd be soundly asleep would he brush his teeth and wash his face, cursing silently in Russian at the hideous face that stared back at him in the mirror. A stranger who he couldn't recognise.

I doubt he'd be able to raise this with you, and I headcanon that you would feel sheepish to ask. At this rate, he would never, ever take off the mask, for as long as he could help it. And any glimpse of his profile would have been on accident, and a secret that you'd keep to yourself. Out of respect for his privacy, you'd never sneak a peek behind the rare door left ajar, closing it quietly for Nikto before he realised his mishap.

Or, Nikto, considered the nobody, no one worthy of your love, thinks that if his stoic personality and traumatised self haven't done enough to drive you away from him, surely the fact that he is an ugly brute ought to do so? Surely you'd come to terms with how he doesn't deserve you, and that you deserve better? Deserve better than a shell of the man that he once was?

Because you were too good to be true. There was no reality in which a sweet little one like you would love this repugnant, disfigured face, even if his dick — miraculously in one piece — satisfied you and the scarred tissue after chemical burns and scars on his body alone weren't a sore sight to begin with. He didn't deserve someone so lovely, so loving, the epitome of beauty. The complete contrast of him.

So, thinking, “Fuck it”, having convinced himself that you'll inevitably leave when you see the face he keeps hidden from view anyways, he rationalises his impulsive action as not prolonging the inevitable. As not getting his hopes up and letting himself be disappointed later when he won't be able to imagine his life without you.

Maybe Nikto would impulsively discard the mask on the ceramic sink after a shower, and exit the bathroom nonchalantly, his expression emotionless and unreadable to conceal the inner turmoil and hurricane of emotions like a whirlwind in his mind, silently awaiting your approval. Maybe Nikto would surprise you by having you in his arms after a long deployment, and catch you off-guard by his face, laid bare for you to see and criticise. Maybe Nikto would ask you to help him paint his eyes with black warpaint, pretending to need help, when in reality it was simply an excuse and a test. To see if his face would shock you.

In any case, whatever the case, Nikto would feign indifference, appearing uncaring, when he was internally in turmoil, a violent storm of emotions like a whirlwind in his mind.

Were you repulsed? Did the scar tissue from chemical burns on one side of his face disgust you? Did that lifted lip — cut when he was tortured — resembling an animal’s snarl make you visibly cringe? Was the hooked nose that had been broken so many times that it was permanently off-center and deformed, the root of his snoring and inability to breathe, make you grimace? What about his crooked teeth? His thin, cracked lips? Those stained, out-of-shape teeth really that bad to look at? The bald patches of closely-cropped, prematurely grey hair on his scalp that would never regrow a full head of hair? The sunken cheeks? The hollow eyes? The slight concave to his jawline?

He noticed the initial wince, the reaction that came instinctively, which hurt regardless, even after having had braced himself for that grimace.

Bozhe. Stop looking at him with sympathy with those earnest eyes. Don't pity him. Don't pity him. Don't pity him.

Yet, when your eyes wouldn't linger on any specific aspect of his face, and you would offer him a smile that reached your eyes, the stormclouds would calm, and the intrusive thoughts slowly dissipate.

TL:DR, either Nikto will never show his face to his lover, or will do so impulsively.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N

Couldn't sleep, so I decided to brainstorm Nikto drabbles 😍😍❣️❣️❣️

My neighbour wouldn't stfu. GOD I hate my street!!!!! 😡😡😡👊👊✊👊👊✊💥💥💥💥💥🥊🥊🥊🥊 (and Linda!!!!!! )

The description of Nikto's face is a compilation of my own headcanons. 🥹 (I want to kiss him SO BAD 😣💔💔💔)

This was going to go in another direction, but I have another Nikto work coming after I realised that I could write a separate ficlet 🤭✨✨

[toastnotonfire]

Couch Crasher

pairing: Daryl Dixon x (Fem!)reader

summary: Daryl carried you to bed, because you fell asleep on the couch... again. (SLIGHT! mention of Daryl's scars nothing big just reader thinking)

You obviously don't mean to fall asleep on the couch, just whenever you come home to the warm sanctuary that is your house in Alexandria the couch seems an inviting space to rest your feet... and maybe sometimes rest your eyes too.

Daryl comes home from the hunt, toeing off his boots in the hallway and strolling into the living room where he is confronted with the sight of you.

your curled up on the edge of the couch, in your sweatpants and stained worn hoodie. Your hair is covering part of your face as you sleep peacefully in the middle of the room, soft breaths leaving your parted lips.

Daryl falters for a second in the doorway, scanning over your sleeping form, allthough you look tranquil enough he wouldn't nessacarly describe the way your lying as comfortable in the long term.

He thinks for a momment, of the last few times he's found you like this, allways too tired to make the extra trek to your bed, he thinks of the way you've never got rid of the dark circles which took up stubborn residence below your sparkling eyes a few years ago.

He shakes his head, a little frown finds its way onto his lips as he stalks closer to your side while you sleep, trying not to wake you. As carefully as he possibly can he reaches out, grabbing your legs with one arm and using the other to support your torso, carrying you bridal style, close to his chest.

A small groan leaves your lips in protest as you turn hiding your face in his chest.

"yeah I know, I know..." Daryl muses, carrying you steadily towards your room, knocking the door open with his shoulder to avoid lessening his grip on you.

He gently lays you down on your bed, pulling the blanets over you and stroking your hair back from your face as you scrunch your nose in annoyance at being disturbed.

"don't give me tha' look" Daryl tilts his head to the side, amusement flickers in his face then he turns away, rummaging through his chest of drawers. He carefully shrugs out of his treasured leather vest, hanging it over the back of a chair before unbuttoning his flannel shirt.

You watch intently, blinking heavily from your place in the warm bed as he shrugs out of yet another layer, revealing his back to you. Your eyes scan over the long scars that litter his back, some thin and some thick and suddenly your ribcage is tightening around your lungs.

You wonder how in the face of all the awfull things against him, he still turned out good... so so truly good.

You take this thought, mulling it, turning it over in your head as you watch him slide into a worn grey t-shirt.

But then he's turning around and every worry, every concern and every bit of anxiety that riddles your worn and exhausted bones is washed away, painted instead in the warm, comforting glow of his little smile. The soft one he reserves for your eyes only in these quiet moments.

You adjust a little as the mattress sinks to his weight, pushing yourself closer to him slightly and wrapping one arm tightly around him, and the other arm across yourself. He holds you closely, running one of his large hands gently through your hair, soothing you softly.

"better than the couch huh?" Daryl jokes, his voice just as soft as his soothing hands are.

"mhm..." you mumble back a tired response, smiling at Daryl, who just shakes his head in fake dissaproval then places a small peck on your forhead.

"back to sleep hun'" he murmurs back, closing his own eyes slowly.

You both lay like that, curled up in one another's embrace, without a single care for the cruel world outside the door of your bedroom. The two of you find refuge in one another's arms, like a safe harbour to a sailor who had been lost in a storm.

Your very last thought before joining Daryl in the realm of peacefull sleep is that, yeah... this is WAY better than couch crashing.

A/N: hope you guys like it! been sitting in my drafts for fucking ages so I just thought I'd post it and see what ppls thoughts are, IF U SEE ANY SPELLING MISTAKES OR GRAMMAR ERRORS OR JUST ANY CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM ID LOVE TO HEAR IT!!! and if you have any prompts or ideas for little drabbles then my requests will be open, I'll try my best ❤️

[knightjpg]

landslide | chapter 1

Ghost grits his teeth and fights it down; wrestles the images back into the coffin and puts his full weight on it. Back into the dirt. If he can repress it hard enough he won't have to feel it. He won't have to think about it other than just another nightmare. Just another bad night.

tags: ghost/reader, finding each other again after years have gone by, reader has a toxic boyfriend

chapter 1 | next

Ghost rarely sleeps well. 

Magnesium, painkillers, valerian, melatonin, passionflower—they make him sleepy and slow, but don't do much for actual rest. White noise gives him headaches; weighted blankets sleep paralysis.  

He's come to accept the ever-present dull throb behind his temple, the constant foggy weariness that only fades on his third strong cup of Earl Grey.  

It's not like he's unfamiliar with pain. Part of the job. 

But that doesn't make it hurt less. Most days Ghost feels as though his mind is a landscape fenced off with barbed live wire; do not touch. Do not go here. 

Do not trespass. 

In daylight he compartmentalises; he puts the fear and the stress and the adrenaline away in their coffins and buries them deep. It lets him keep his head level, keep his patience, keep his anger and spite to fuel his body. Keep moving.  

But in dreams the boundaries grow muddled. Memories, both false and real, mix with the present; a torrent of rain batters on his shoulders. Back into the ground. He tries to walk and finds he can't, feet stuck in the sludge. 

When he wakes he tastes the silt stuck behind his teeth. 

Years have gone by, and the scar is no longer a raw wound. It has grown new skin, thick and gnarled, though Ghost can't think about it too hard. He can't look at it— 

(the pain) 

—or it'll be real. 

“How'd that last run of sleep meds go for you?” 

Ghost shrugs. “Bad. Quit 'em after three weeks.” 

The man before him hums and scribbles something down on his notepad. “What was bad about it?” 

“Look, Jo-boy! There's uncle Simon!” 

Simon ruffles the snow out of his hair and stomps his boots on the mat again for good measure. He has to reach around the Christmas decorations to hang up his jacket; the shiny foil crinkles under his fingers. 

“Alright, Tommy?” 

Simon steps into the living room. The floorboards creak under his weight. Joseph laughs up at him and garbles, waving tiny little hands in the air. 

Beth pokes her head out from the kitchen. It smells warm. The oven hums; there's the scent of good meat, of new candles just lit. Home. 

“Simon! Oh, I'll be right there—we're almost done. Can you set the table, honey?” 

“Sure.” Tommy stands, picking up Joseph and giving him a twirl as he does. Joseph shrieks in delight. Simon smiles; he and Tommy clap each other's backs in greeting. 

While Tommy wrangles Joseph into his highchair Simon sets off for the plates. There's four of— 

Four— 

Four plates? 

Simon pauses, counts in his head. Yes, that's right. Four plates. 

The front door opens and closes again. A flash of winter wind chases through the gap. Another set of footsteps, a high voice that's not Beth's— 

Simon turns around— 

and wakes drenched in sweat. He's panting, desperate for air; a violent shiver rolls over his spine and suddenly he scrambles upward, dry heaving off the side of the bed. Nothing comes out. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, but the afterburn of three charred corpses clings to the back of his eyelids. One no bigger than Simon's arm, cradled in the arms of— 

Acrid smoke in his nose, eyes stinging with tears. 

Three—there was—there were four— 

Another dry heave. 

No. Ghost grits his teeth and fights it down; wrestles the images back into the coffin and puts his full weight on it. Back into the dirt. If he can repress it hard enough he won't have to feel it. He won't have to think about it other than just another nightmare. Just another bad night— 

“Is that the first time you've had recurring nightmares?” 

“No.” 

Ghost is looking down at his hands. He picks at a hangnail. He hates this.  

“But you did say it was different this time around, wasn't it?” 

Another shrug. 

The man in front of him taps his pen on his clipboard in thought. 

“If you're not against it I'd recommend you keep at it a little longer. That might give us a better idea of how you're reacting to it. Maybe we need to up your dose...” 

“Wine, Simon?” 

...have yourself a merry little Christmas, the radio sings. Let your heart be light... 

A glass is poured. Cutlery clinks against plates. The candle flames dance, shimmering under the sparkle of everyone dressed in their best. Joseph makes a mess on his face of spaghetti and marinara sauce; people laugh. A photo camera clicks and flashes. 

“A toast!” 

Four glasses raised to the light. The wine filters through Simon's glass like deep red petals, a ruby halo ring smattered against the surface of old wood. 

“What a shame your boyfriend couldn't make it,” Beth says. “What was his name again?” 

An answer, blurred. Simon looks down; the person on his right has slender hands. No ring. 

“More for us,” Tommy says with a wink. He looks so happy. He looks so in love. Simon feels more than anything— 

This was worth it. Everything he had to do to have this was worth it— 

“Simon?” 

Tommy's not looking at Beth anymore. He's looking at Simon, brows furrowed. His lip curls the way it does when he's worried. Why? Things are good. Things are... 

“Are you alright? Simon—” 

Simon's hand clutches at his side. A hook pierces through his flesh, glinting in the candlelight. There's wine— 

blood— 

spilling everywhere. 

“Where are you going?” Roba's voice rasps in his ear.  

“Did you think you could leave?” 

The scar on Ghost's side burns when he wakes; he grabs blindly at the nightstand for his painkillers. Swallows them dry, grimacing against the bitterness. Feeling his stomach clench and protest, sweat rising to his temples. Wine, Simon? 

He never drinks wine. Hates the stuff; prefers bourbon, whiskey. Beer on occasion. 

Ghost presses the palms of his hands against his eyes. It's not real. A dream. It's just a bloody dream. His mind is making shit up and those fucking sleeping pills have been making it worse— 

A photo camera clicks and flashes. 

Ghost breathes out through his nose, going through breathing exercises with gritted teeth and clenched hands. Relax. Fucking relax— 

“Do you want to hold him, Simon?” 

Simon wordlessly holds his hands out. Joseph blinks at him, brown bighuge eyes and a wet nose. His rosy little cheeks glow under the lights of the Christmas tree. 

Simon keeps holding him like that, hands firmly tucked under his little arms. Beth laughs a little when he doesn't move. 

“On your lap, Si, like that.” Beth gently guides Simon to cradle Joseph in his arms, tucked against his chest. Joseph reaches up and swats Simon's chin. 

“No, no, no hitting, honey,” Beth says, catching Joseph's sticky little hands. “Be nice to uncle Simon, yeah? I'll pop on the kettle.” 

Simon can't answer. Jesus, he's so small. Soft. Something catches in his throat when Joseph gurgles and yawns, sagging into Simon's hold on him. 

“She's a good person,” Tommy said when he first told Simon Beth's name. “The best kind of person.” 

Cigarette smoke curled up into the night sky. Cold out. 

“If I ever...” 

Tommy hesitated. 

“If I ever... fuck up again. You set me straight, yeah? I wanna—I'm gonna do it right. For—for myself, but also—to be someone that she...” 

“’Course,” Simon told him. 

“Thanks.” Tommy's lip curled. “You know. You're a pretty good person too.” 

Simon blinks back into the present when someone asks him, “He's so little, isn't he?” 

“Yeah,” Ghost says in his sleep, and wakes himself up. 

----------

You drain the last of your complimentary water because your hands are starting to itch for having something to do. You pointedly look away to the wall when you tip the glass; if you catch the waiter's eye by mistake again you're going to burn a hole in the ground from shame. 

You set the glass down. Tap against it. Notice, and stop. Fold your hands in your lap. Bounce your leg. Eye your phone—you've checked it every other minute since you got here and know there's no point; it's set to buzz. There's no way you'd miss a text. 

... 

You tap in your passcode and slide open the screen. It's still open on your texts: delivered, unread. 

17:34 Just got here! Are you on your way? 

17:48 Can you let me know when you leave? xx 

(1 outgoing call, missed) 

18:15 Is everything okay? I'm worried. Please text me back? 

(2 outgoing calls, missed) 

18:25 I'm really worried babe, can you please let me know you're okay? 

Another ten minutes have passed. You give the restaurant's entrance one final desperate glance, then get up and leave. You pay for the drink you felt obligated to get on your way out with a stiff smile. 

Just when you've reached the station—and have resigned yourself to an uneasy end of your night—your phone buzzes in your purse. 

You stop straight in your tracks; someone bumps into you from behind and grumbles at you as you make your apologies and squeeze yourself off to the sides of the grimy London Underground. 

“Dave?” you ask upon picking up, voice tense with stress. 

“Hey babe. Saw you called. What's up?” 

For a moment you're at a loss at what to say. The gift bag dangling in your free hand weighs a million pounds. You swallow. 

“We had a date tonight and you weren't—you weren't there. You weren't responding to my texts, and you didn't pick up, and I thought—” 

“Slow down,” Dave says. “What d’you mean we had a date? I don't remember making plans.” 

You close your eyes, begging whatever is up there looking over you for strength. “We did. Make plans. Why—where are you?” 

There's muffled laughter on the other end of the line; faint shouts, fragments of music with a fast beat. “Just out for a few drinks,” Dave says. His voice drifts; he moves away from the speaker and says something to someone else. You can't make out the words, but you can hear his tone. Nonchalant. Unassuming.  

Completely, totally relaxed. 

You stay silent. 

After a too-long pause Dave speaks up again. “Cool, guess we'll see each other next weekend?” 

“I want you to apologise.” 

Dave sighs. “C'mon, don't be so uptight. I forget a date one time and you get so fussy. I'm fine, don't be worried, just go home and sleep, yeah?” 

“This is the third time, actually—” you start to say with a tight throat. 

“Gotta go, babe. Bye!” 

The line goes dead. 

You stand there for what feels like a long time, looking down at your phone. Strangers shouldering past you in a blur.  After a few minutes a venmo notification pops up; Dave sent you twenty quid. For the dinner x. 

You cry a few silent tears on your way home on the tube. The reflection in the dark windows mocks you; a sad, pathetic little girl wearing grown-up clothes. 

What are you getting so wrong?

Is it unreasonable to expect your boyfriend to remember your anniversary? To show up when you buy tickets for a film he said he wanted to see? To be excited when you tell him about a promotion at work? 

Dave's never shouted at you. Never hit you, never called you cunt or slut or stupid little whore. It could be worse. That's just what men are like, your girlfriends say. Dave pays for your dates? He got you something for your birthday? He popped to the pharmacy when you were sick? 

You're so lucky! 

Lucky.  

You sniffle, wipe your nose on the back of your hand. You miss Beth. 

When you get home you don't bother turning on the lights. You flop onto your mattress still wearing your pretty dress—new, the snipped tags still on your desk—and close your eyes. 

Kettlebell hops up the bed moments later, and despite everything you smile a little when his whiskers tickle your cheek. “Hey, buddy,” you whisper. 

He chirps back. Another dip in the mattress signals Mim has come to give you a welcome-home sniff as well. 

You roll on your side, stroking your cats’ fur. You wish you could be petty and vindicative. Not show up next time Dave arranges an outing. Ignore him when he reaches out. Tell it to him straight—that he can be a real jerk sometimes. 

But just like all the other times you know you'll crumble when he comes over with flowers. “Movie night for two?” he'll ask with a smile. Cheesy pizza and inside jokes, falling asleep together on the couch. 

Comforting. Familiar. 

“I never asked, but these people aren't family, right?” 

You look over your shoulder from the kitchen. The microwave hums in front of you, corn popping arrhythmically against the bag. Dave is leaning over the arm of your sofa, looking at the few photos you have in your apartment while he waits. 

“Not by blood, no.” 

“You've never told me about them,” Dave says, craning his neck back. “Who are they?” 

You abandon microwave duty and move closer, perching on the sofa next to Dave. “That's Beth—next to her is her husband Tommy.” You point to a laughing, chubby baby smearing spaghetti sauce over his face. “That's their son, Joseph.” 

“Huh.” Dave cocks his head. “When was this?” 

“Long time ago. Seven—no, eight years?” The microwave beeps, and you get up to get the popcorn. “They died in a horrific accident a few months after this photo was taken. Gas leak. The explosion took out the whole apartment complex they were living in at the time; Tommy's brother, too. He was there when it happened.” 

It's long enough ago that the loss is no longer paralysing. You miss your best friend—you miss the family she'd built that welcomed you so warmly. You miss little Joseph, and you miss Tommy, too—from the moment you first met him you could tell he'd fallen head over heels for Beth. 

Who wouldn't? Young and beautiful and vibrant, filled with so much hope and dreams for the future. A dull sadness washes over you sometimes while doing the most mundane tasks. Laundry. Loading the dishes. Filling a bowl with popcorn. 

“Jesus,” Dave says. “That's awful.” 

“Yeah. I miss her every day. Miss all of them.” You put the popcorn down and look at the smiling faces in the photograph. The telly hums quietly in front of you. 

You startle when Dave suddenly claps his hands. “Alright, let's turn that frown upside down. Deadpool to the rescue.” He grabs the remote and presses play, music blasting from the speakers on cue. 

You settle in beside Dave silently. You've never cared much for action movies; prefer romance. Fantasy. Something you don't have to flinch away from—where explosions are the outlier and not background noise. 

The photo frames reflect the colours on the telly, jumping from bright white to red to white again. Illuminated in its glow, cut off at the neck at the right edge of the frame, a man holds up a glass of bourbon forever frozen in time.