#The Giant Under the Snow | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

josephquinnswhore · 2 months ago

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somewhere only we know - joel miller x female reader

summary: joel has been the only constant in your life since you’ve been at Jackson. But you don’t know if you deserve him despite his persistent efforts.

word count: 3.3k

content warning: emotionally unavailable reader, depiction of readers ptsd, public sex, being caught, raw p in v, tension!!! Age gap implied but unspecified, creampie, exhibitionism, choking, breath play, f orgasm, m orgasm, dom! Joel. Not proof read lol.

an: inspired by the song ‘somewhere only we know,’ by Keane. good to listen to while reading :) @sunshineispunk 🫶🏼

More often than not you’d find yourself in this position, stuck in thought, eyes in an emotionless glare off into the distance as you attempt to escape the reality around you. All of the noise, chattering, even the wind whipping your hair around your face all seemed unnoticed by you.

So much had changed from the previous years, where you struggled to find canned food, living off of very little from foraging. With the group you’d been caught up in, all of the slaughtering, merciless killing of men and women, families. All for a torn up jacket, or a can of two decade old beans.

There was blood on your hands, so much of it, even if you werent the one to pull the trigger, or plunge the knife deep into someone's flesh and bone. The blood and bodies accumulated, so did the guilt.

Being in Jackson felt wrong for many reasons, you were a deplorable human, yet you were living now–lavishly. Electricity, hot showers, warm clothes and a full stomach. Hell, even a giant christmas tree in the centre of the civilised town.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

What about those people that died? Their children, the women, the men. Good people.

Jackson winters are harsher than any you’d ever endured, the wind swirls around the snow jacket and penetrates your skin, landing on your skin and spreading like an infection. Your hands are freezing, fingertips red from being exposed.

He always knew where to find you, how much you torture yourself with guilt. He offered the hand that wiped your tears, the ear that listened to you as you sobbed into his chest. The heart that offered a home for you. Somewhere only you knew. Offering you a haven within him that he had opened for you alone. It was simple, really.

That was the worst part, that he had willingly opened his door, his arms, given you his heart on a silver platter. Falling for a man that tried, that gave you all he had. He could just as easily pull it all out from underneath you.

His multitude attempts of courting you, asking you to be his girl–all gone unanswered or denied. So he stopped asking, knowing that when the time was right you’d come to him.

Joel was aging, he would take any minute he could to spend with you unknowing of what day would end everything. The risk climbs with each patrol.

He knows where you’ll be, by the back of the stables, watching the horses as they play in the snow that had fallen on the ground over the past week. The snow surrenders under his feet, walking the pathway to you he knew like the back of his hand.

With the softest voice he could muster, he attempts not to startle you. “Hey.” He leans on the fence beside you, his elbow barely grazes your own. “Everythin’ okay? You've been here a while, ain’cha?”

It stings, to turn and look at him. The muscles in your neck seem frozen as you manage a small smile, realising that you've been leaning against the wooden fence for a while, the sky is thick and dark with snowcloud. Snowflakes fall around the two of you.

“Just thinkin’,” you clear your throat and manage to choke out. Inhaling sharply, you wiggle your nose in an attempt to clear the mucus from your cold nose.

Turning to face you, he knows what's going on within you, although the two of you weren't exclusive, he knew what the two of you shared. Something that felt so fragile in moments like this. He hums, gravelly noise cuts through the wind.

In a swift pivot, he's turning to face you, his gloved hands delicately brush the hair from your vision. “What is it?”

“Everything,” You're barely able to look at him, managing a quick sideways glance. The last thing you wanted right now was to start breaking down. Moments of you opening up were sparse, and Joel knew now was not one of those times.

He had to treat carefully, nursing your emotions delicately so you wouldn’t back away, start rebuilding your walls he had carefully and pliantly plucked one by one. To get here, where the two of you were, had taken months.

Dropping his hand to cradle your stiff neck, with gentle encouragement manages to coax you to face him, a gloved thumb caresses your cold cheeks. “Everything’s a lot to be thinkin’ about.” He utters in thought, “wanna tell me about it?”

Conflicting, the ache in your chest. Guilt. The urge to blurt it all out in one ugly, uttering cry, as if it were some dirty confession. “Not particularly.”

His brows furrowing were a response of disappointment, knowing that if he weren't careful you would brazenly resort back to isolating yourself. “You know how much I care about you.” Preferring a statement, a confession, it left no room for you to start questioning yourself.

“I know.” Part of you cracks a tight lipped smile.

The forced smile doesn't appease Joel, his own lips tight, hand curling around your jaw to look at him. Things seemed particularly bad today, he recognised. “Stop lyin’ to yourself an’ me, tell me the truth.” the attempt to coax you failed, with you pulling away from the gentle grasp on your cheek.

As you pull away from Joel's touch, your skin feels cold. All of you feel cold. It felt so wrong to pull away from him, but to confront the fiery flames of truth–you would bear the cold.

His hand falls to his side, the ever tugging frown on his features deepens as you pull away from him. Refusing any comfort he offers, a noticeable feat between you. The exhausted expression on your face, eyes weary, and now defeated silence.

But Joel had questions, something he desperately needed an answer to. “Are you happy?”

It was a loaded question, confronting. Are you happy here. With him. With your life. You can’t manage to decipher which one of those probabilities he wants answered. So it seems impossible to come up with an answer that was acceptable. “What do you want me to say Joel, that I’m thriving?”

Of course you resort to lashing out. “I want the truth,” his eyes take you in, the way you stiffen as he refused to be spooked by your natural act of stoicism. He shifts on his feet, you bet the cold is starting to take a toll on his aching joints.

The silence had become unbearable. “I'm miserable, Joel.”

“What is it that’s makin’ you miserable–”

With a stern warning, you interrupt him. ��Don't go there.”

Each emotion you felt in this moment, guarded but vulnerable to him. He knew what was causing this turmoil. Him. your feelings for him.

“It’s me.” He utters matter of factly between you, looking over the fence as the horses whine and run inside the stable as the snowflakes start to fall faster. His hand contemplates holding your hand, realising that they are bare. Deciding against it, he pulls off his own gloves, sliding them onto your own.

“You ain’t happy because of me.” his bare fingers run through the hair at the back of his head and rub his neck as he exhales deeply.

Fixing the warm gloves on your fingers, it feels like you’re getting some much needed circulation. “It ain't like that.”

He was trying to give you the flexibility to open up to him at your own accord, but he's beginning to hurt, wondering if his love will be unacquainted until he’s buried beneath the soil, if your hand would be the one to push him in with an unwelcome gaze.”Then tell me what it’s like..” he pushes again.

All he wanted was for you to drop the veil, to reach forward and bring you to his chest and remind you that he was here, always had been.

“I need to learn to live without you.”

You can't swallow the shocked expression on his face, now bare fingers clutching onto the fence, the warmth of his palm melting the snowflakes that had fallen there. “You think I wouldn't miss you if you just walked away from this?”

“Don’t,” you plead, he was breaking your guard down.

Vulnerability and desperation roll of his tongue in a firm utterance. “I would.”

Deciding against what your reaction might be, he reaches out and takes a hold of your hands, thumb rubbing against the leather in an attempt to soothe you, to calm you before you could flee.

“I go on missin’ you as it is. You go on days without lettin’ me in. I can't stand it, everyday i don't see you is hell knowing you’re right there an’ dont wanna see me. Knowin’ you don't wanna be mine.”

Pulling away from his grip again, you step away from the fence, fleeing. “Don’t. Don’t fucking do this to me.”

With one long stride forward he's snatching your wrist, turning you back around to face him. God dammit, he was trying. He wanted to be everything you need. If you would just let him in.

He growls at the realisation. “Don’t what, huh? Say how I feel because you won't.”

“I’m fucked up!” You shout, emotion thick in your throat, unable to pull away from his vice like grip.

There's a tremble in his voice, a swirling mix of despair and desperation. “I’m tryin’ to be here.”

A bitter scoff rolls off your tongue, “that doesn’t fix anything!”

His chest heaves, up and down repeatedly until he finds the words to say. All of the pent up emotions he has toward you all rising to the surface. “Then what will?”

“You can't fix me.”

He drops your hand, “bullshit.” That was something he couldn't handle hearing, he was good at fixing things, repairing, protecting. The thought that you were a lost cause was as good as enough for his chest to begin constricting.

His fingers are succumbing to the exposed cold, tips of his fingers are cold on your cheeks, cradling your delicately compared to the ruthless things he had done with them.

Taken lives, stolen, abused substances, relieved himself, all with anger, all without meaning. But you–holding you was something he wanted to do right. He would do right. There was no room for mistakes. “I need to fix this..” the whisper is so quiet it's almost swept away in the wind.

It felt like a slap to the face when you pull away from his hands, the shared warmth from skin to skin was ripped away as you step backward.

That's all you knew how to do, retreat.

“You’re still pushin’ me away. Tell me when you’re gonna let me in,” the bitter edge was a clear indicator of the pain and disappointment he was feeling.

“The last thing I need is to trust you! Then what? You turn around with my heart in your hands and stomp over it?”

There it was, whether you realised what had slipped past your lips. Your greatest fear. Abandonment.

For a brief moment Joel hates that you distrust him after all he has done for you, proving time and time again that he would do anything for you. But it's quickly swept away by the realisation that you’d unclogged the blockage that kept him at arm's length. “How..” he pauses, realising he has one shot at this.

“What can I do, to prove that I ain’t ever gonna hurt you?” Of course, of course he looked absolutely torn, his throat bobs up and down as he swallows nervously.

The fact that you were still standing before him was a good sign. “How can I trust this is real?”

“Because I love you. I’m gettin’ old an’ I need somethin’ to rely on.” his hazel eyes softened with the admission, searching your face for any sign that you felt the same way. That you wouldn’t tear his heart open here and toss it to the snow, letting it freeze over once again as it had been before he met you.

He couldn't bear to go back to that, the loneliness, lack of heart and purpose.

There's a million thoughts running through your head, begging for your tongue and voice to cooperate, to blurt out somehow that you love him too.

His eyes continue searching your face at your silence, hoping to find any glimpse that you felt the same way. “Nothin’ to say then?” His heart ached, tone bitter.

This could be the end of everything.

In this moment of utter vulnerability, there are no words you can find to pluck from your throat, barely registering that you’re reaching up to grasp his face with both hands, pulling his head down to meet your own cracked, wind burnt in a soft kiss, lips brushing against each other.

For the short moment they are pressed together, you feel them warm against his, your heart races in reaction to the bold display.

“I.. I love you too,” you whisper thickly once you part from his lips, praying it wasn't too late. Foreheads pressed together, this is what Joel had been dreaming of, a simple act that had made his heart race, relief sparking each vein in his body.

“Oh.. baby..” he whispers, his own hands grasp your hips, grounding himself. Holding onto something to convince him this was real.

But at this innocent gesture, a small breathless moan rattles through his brain.

God.. the thoughts he had about you.

He stutters, “baby.. d-don't do that. You have no idea what it does to me. Tryin’ to be good to ya.”

Running the risk of taking things too far, you kiss him again, this time more desperately, seeking the validation and love Joel had always devoted to you, a newcome hunger growing within you. Your lips clash against his own, and you moan into the kiss, your hands roaming through his hair as you grasp onto the soft, overgrown follicles.

The both of you get carried away, both touch starved and seeking physical affection after having tension brewing thickly for months. Your hands find solace in the softness of joel's hair.

He cannot keep his hands on your hips, greedily giving in to your willingness to reciprocate his affections. Tracing the curve of your ribs to your hips, memorising each curve and dip. The way your body squirms closer into his chest as his revenant exploration of your body makes you whine into his mouth.

Deepening the kiss, his tongue wrestles with your own. Finding a rhythm that the two of you manage for a desperate long minute. His hands are groping the curve of your ass desperately through your jeans, whinging when he pulls you closer to him, the hard bulge in his jeans rub against your mound.

“Joel..” you whine, breaking away from him, his own hazel eyes blown out from the fiery kiss. Your lips are moist with a mix of his and your own saliva. Chests heaving in sync as the tension between you expands into something that cannot be contained another moment.

Without another word your gloved hands are attempting to unbutton his jeans, with much difficulty. Frustration wears your short fuse and you tear them off your hands, unbuttoning and yanking down Joel's zipper.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go, baby.” He utters as his hands work quick to tear your own jeans, pulling them down until they reveal your ass, getting stuck mid-thigh. He lets out a deep grumble at the sight of you, bare ass and pussy all for him.

“We’re in the middle of town, dirty fuckin’ girl.” He scolds breathlessly against your neck, his hands commanding you flush against his chest, holding your wrists together with one hand.

Bending yourself forward a fraction, you whine, feeling his hard cock spring against your bare ass. “Let them see.”

Closing his eyes for a moment in an attempt to ground himself, convince himself this was a bad idea, the rational part of him loses the internal battle. “Fuck you’re gonna be the death of me, you and this pretty pussy,” his voice husk with need.

With his free hand, he positions himself at your hole, damp and warm. A wonderful contrast to the rest of him that's freezing as you stand in the mild snowfall. Your hole opens up for him with no protest, his thick tip pushes into you with carnal need.

His hand frees your wrists, grabbing onto your waist, his thick fingers curling around the skin of your hips. “Made f’me baby.. fuckin’ hell.”

There's a slight sting as you adjust to his girth, but he can't hold himself back, bottoming out in your warmth, grunting into the nape of your neck, leaving an opened mouth kiss.

The pace he sets is relentless, ploughing into your willing hole that slicks more with each thrust. His cock is coated in your arousal, nevermind how loud you are as he pumps into you. Not bothering to try and be subtle, uncaring of the straggling townsfolk of Jackson on the other side of the barn that are entering the hall for lunch.

“You’re gonna.... get us caught baby..” he ruts into you desperately as he utters his concern. Pressing his chest against your back, unable to pull away from you.

“Don’t care,” you manage to choke out incoherently, your hole clenched around him. Theres a warmth in your stomach, feeling the pressure build as he fucks into you like his life depended on it.

With one hand, he forces his hand under your chin, grasping onto your throat, fingers squeezing the sides lightly. Applying enough pressure to make your eyes roll, a soft moan of surprise and lightheadedness equals the raw pleasure of the pad of his pointer finger rolling around on your swollen clit.

“You wanna get caught like this hm? Sweet girl getting fucked by an old man, what would they think of you, hm?”

The thought makes your stomach twist, attempting to close your thighs to stop his hand from swirling softly against the wet bundle of nerves.

He tuts, “uh uh, this is what you wanted, wasn't it? You’re gonna cum for me, baby.”

Throwing your head back, he applies a fraction more pressure to your neck and you cry out with a crack in your voice, spiralling as your hips rut against his hand. Legs and hips unwillingly jerk as you orgasm. His muffled voice is runging in your ear as Joel continues to fuck you through your intense climax.

“Atta girl, so good f’me.”

He releases the grip on your neck and snakes his hands underneath your jacket, the warmth of your skin underneath his desperate fingers.

There’s some distant muttering you don't understand, too overstimulated and crying from still taking Joel’s cock as deep as he can bury himself inside of you.

He gropes your tits harshly, crossing his arms around you as he forces you down onto him, taking his thick cock as he bottoms out, his cock twitching as he fills you with his warm load. Turning your head to kiss him as he cums, you moan into his mouth.

“Oh my god–that is them, Joel and–” the voices utter your name and you tune in as you hear your name being spoken from a distance, hearing slowly returning. Your cheeks warm as you realise that someone has indeed caught the two of you in the middle of town.

Joel slides his hands from underneath your shirt, covering you the best he can. “You gonna stand there creepin’ or y’all gonna move the fuck along?” He snaps in irritation at the invasive eyes.

With a whimper, he pulls out of you. Both of you slide your jeans up. He turns you to look at him, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

There’s an expression of vulnerability plastered on his face. “No more runnin’.”

Hopelessly, you nod. “Can we go back to yours?”

With a possessive swat of your ass, he hums. “Our place.” He corrects.

Is this the place you’ve been dreaming of?

#joel miller #game joel miller #game joel #the last of us #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #joel miller tlou #joel miller angst

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gremlingottoosilly · 3 months ago

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Sheltered!Reader that gets lost and finds herself at Slasher!Konig's doorstep

He sees a pretty fucking girl in a pretty winter suit, her breath labored and coming out in short puffs of steam, her hands trembling and, oh, so obviously frozen - he knows the weather wasn't kind. Lately, the harsh winds and snowstorms even forced him to stop hunting for a little, supplying himself with a ride to the nearest town's shop and eager to sink his teeth in a new victim or at least some unlucky deer once the weather clears. But, oh, the victim had come wadddling to him. In a pretty parka, with a pretty expression, with your scarf bundled around your neck. It was too thin - not nearly enough to actually warm you up. It's fine though, he is enough of a heater. Can warm you from inside out, force his cock inside until you're nice and toasty. You ask him if you can enter the house, ask him for a phone, for something to warm you up. You're a trembling little thing, barely able to speak through your teeth chattering, and he can't find it in himself to drop you into the basement immediately. Oh no, he checks if the coast is clear first - reminds himself that the house is clean of all possible blood and guts - and then lets you in. Pats you on the back, assuring that it's fine - wordlessly, unnervingly silent even as he slowly unwraps you from the scarf and a bundle of your clothes, letting you dry your hair with a towel. He barely says a word as you snuggle to the fireplace, all of your desire to flee at the sight of a silent and giant man - mask off, since he was in his house - disappearing once you finally melted into the warmth of his house. Konig looks at you, toasty and warm, sitting on the floor like a housecat - so adorable and precious, he just can't help but touch you, feel the meat on your bones. Press a flat hand between your shoulder blades, smiling as you tried to swat him off, too warm and too tired to deal with this weird man. You didn't want to ask for help at first, but you got lost on the road - and you didn't want to freeze to death, either. And, by gods, his house is so, so precious - so cozy and warm and big and- Ah, but he has a little bit of a weird staring problem - he just...looks at you, not even blinking. You can't say you dislike him, he has somewhat of a handsome face - riddled with scars, of course, but you still found it nice to look at. And Konig found it quite nice to get lost in the fantasy about taking you right on the carpet, making you squirm and cry as you cum under him, completely unaware of the bodies buried in the snow not that far from here. God, you're so shy and so quiet, so, so adorable - you would make a perfect housewife once you're properly housebroken. He just hopes you'll be a strong enough girl to really survive this.

#cod #konig x reader #konig #yandere konig #cod x reader #yandere cod #slasher!konig #slasher

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superbat-love · 1 month ago

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Diana: Due to some rather extravagant gifts given out last year, this year we’ll be restricting Secret Santa gifts to under $100. Any questions?

Clark: Can we give someone rare items that we’ve found?

Diana: That’s fine, but it can’t be something that could potentially endanger anyone’s health—unless you want a repeat of the Pink Kryptonite Birthday Incident.

Clark: We… We agreed to never talk about that again!

Hal: Well, then I don’t want Bruce as my Secret Santa anymore.

Barry: I thought the giant statue of Diana that Bruce got her last year was pretty cool! Not that the Martian sculpture you gave me wasn’t cool, J’onn. It’s just… I wasn’t expecting it to start telepathically singing in the middle of the night. It shocked me.

J’onn: I’m glad to hear that. I heard humans enjoy surprises. And I liked the ancient artifact you gave me.

Barry: Uh… that was a souvenir from a gift shop in Hawaii.

Arthur: I got a snow globe of Atlantis from Hal. The Disney version.

Bruce: Priceless.

Hal: Hey, you got a Superman body pillow!

Clark: I got him a Batman body pillow too! They came as a set.

Barry: Aww, I bet Batman’s secretly a big softie and cuddles them in bed all night.

Bruce: [scoffs] Why would I need to… when I can just cuddle the real thing?

Justice League: [gasps collectively in shock]

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todays-xkcd · 1 year ago

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If they're going to make people ride bikes and scooters in traffic, then it should at LEAST be legal to do the Snow Crash thing where you use a hook-shot-style harpoon to catch free rides from cars.

Urban Planning Opinion Progression [Explained]

Transcript Under the Cut

Typical urban planning opinion progression [Each panel is connected to a point on a timeline]

Cueball: I wish there wasn't so much traffic to get into the city. They should put in more lanes. Megan: And more parking. Megan: Parking is so bad here.

Knit Cap: I have to go to Amsterdam for work next week. I hear they all ride bikes there. Ponytail: Bikes are fine but people shouldn't ride them in the street! I worry I'm going to hit someone!

Cueball: It would be nice if we had better transit options! Cueball: I tried a scooter. It was fun but I wish there were more bike paths.

Megan: It's funny how widening roads to speed up traffic makes them more dangerous to walk near, making driving more necessary and creating more traffic. Megan: Really makes you think.

Knit Cap: Visiting the Netherlands was cool! Knit Cap: Amsterdam is really neat.

Cueball: We've ceded so much of our land to storing and moving cars, with the rest of us tiptoeing around the edges and making drivers mad for trespassing on "their" space. Cueball: Even though we're the ones in danger from them!

Megan: Those giant trucks with front blind spots that keep hitting kids should be illegal.

Knit Cap: We should be more like the Netherlands. Knit Cap: They design their street to prioritize...

Cueball: The problem is car culture. It's systemic. Cueball: I don't know if we can fix it.

Megan: People approach road planning decisions from the point of view of drivers because that's how we're used to interacting with the city, so we make choices that make it more car-friendly. Megan: It's a vicious cycle.

Knit Cap: Netherlands! Netherlands! Netherlands! Netherlands!

Cueball: Anything that makes a city a worse place to drive in makes it a better place to live, short of scattering random tire spikes on the road.

Megan: Honestly, I think the city council should consider the tire spikes thing.

#xkcd #xkcd 2832 #urban planning opinion progression #webcomics #urban planning #transport #car transport #walkable cities #bikeable cities #cars

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specsthesecond · 3 months ago

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°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

This time, you're roused from sleep by the sound of deep snoring coming from the orc under you. You blink away sleep and adjust slightly on the orc's massive chest, resisting the soothing lull of his slow breaths tempting you back to sleep.

He has an arm around your back, unconsciously keeping you against his chest. You lean up on your elbows, as much as you can manage at least, to gaze at the sleeping giant. You never thought the word pretty could possibly be used to describe an orc, but when you see the way his eyelashes flutter in sleep, you second guess that notion entirely.

His stubble is scruffy and unkempt just like his hair but it doesn't look dirty. His pitch black mane looks so soft you want to run your fingers through it and that fleeting thought shocks you so much you almost fall off the orc's chest.

Luckily, he seems to be a rather deep sleeper, he only mumbles something in Orcish and pulls your body closer to him in his sleep. You try desperately to ignore the fire his touch lights under your skin. You're actually not sure if you've ever been this close to someone else before, and that thought makes you unreasonably angry. You're not some puritan who shies away from bodily desires. You've just never been good at getting close enough to people to experience it. Nobody chooses to live alone in the woods if they're good with people.

You adjust your hands under you, moving your open palm to where his heart should be. You feel the steady movement of his chest going up and down and it dawns on you, you've never really known what it's like to have a warm, breathing body next to you.

And just like that, the ugly inkling that's been haunting you all these years is confirmed, you do crave intimacy. No matter how much you ignore it, you're weak and lonely. Hell, you're so desperate, you'd seek out the touch of an Orc of all beings!

You feel one pathetic tear trickle down your cheek and you quickly wipe it away. Your fingers lightly brush his soft tunic, seeking heat from the warm skin just underneath. You place your palm flat, letting his heartbeat soothe you again. Your fingers trace the hem of his tunic, where the white cotton meets his hair-covered green chest.

The feeling in your fingers has returned, just enough to really feel how soft his skin is. You slowly trail your fingertips up to where his stubble begins on his throat. This type of intimacy is so distant from what you know that it causes another pang in your heart.

You lightly brush the bristly hair, you'd always thought orcs would have abysmal hygiene but his stubble feels clean, if unkempt. There isn't much reason to shave or look presentable when you live alone in the woods, you know that much. Your eyes follow the trail up past his chin to his lips, way too soft-looking for an orc. You get a closer look at the carvings on his tusks but it doesn't help you discern what exactly the carvings depict or what they mean. Your eyes flick up, back to his pretty lashes and meet his dark brown irises, they glow so nicely in the fireligh-

Shock electrocutes your body and you jolt away from him with a speed like lightning. You stare wide-eyed at his very awake self and embarrassment runs through you like you've never felt before. He sits up, clearly startled at the speed you jumped away from him. You can't look at him, the concern in his eyes only mortifies you further. You desperately look around the room for anything else to focus on and you spot the rest of your clothes still on the rack next to the hearth.

You stumble to your feet, a numb pain still gnaws at your muscles but it feels just like the pain of a long hike, almost familiar. You reach for your two pairs of thick socks and start pulling them on one by one. The orc, still sitting on the floor, only seems to realize what you're doing when you start slipping your snow boots on. He springs up and heads to the kitchen, where you hear clattering and water boiling. You slip on the rest of your clothes, tucking everything in super tight for extra protection. A good while must have passed because even your fur coat is completely dry, you drape it over your shoulders, followed lastly by your thick scarf. You walk a few laps in front of the hearth, stretching out your unused muscles for the trek back home. When you think you're ready to leave, you awkwardly stand in the middle of the living room, gaze flicking from the front door to the kitchen.

Why are you waiting? You shouldn't even be here. You take only one step towards the door when the orc comes back with a flask in his hands. He rather bluntly holds it out for you to take and you do. Looking from him to the flask, you open it to catch a scent of what's inside. As you guessed, it was the spicy honey tea he had served you before, you close the lid tight before your mouth starts to water.

You look up at him, unsure of what to do or say. Neither of you have said a word to each other, You don't expect him to know Human Common and you guessed he doesn't expect you to know Orcish. You decide on nodding your head low, in what you hope comes across as an expression of appreciation. Apparently it does because he nods back to you with an expression you don't really understand, like he wants to smile but he's sad.

He steps outside with you, you can tell even through the clouds that it's daytime now and you once again wonder how long you spent cuddled up with this orc. He walks out into the snow and leads you to the edge of the little clearing around his home. He points in the direction you need to go, apparently trusting that you can find your way back. You definitely can, and you appreciate his acknowledgement of this, nodding to him once more before walking off into the woods, eager to get back home.

You only look back once, when his stone cottage is almost out of sight, he stands on the veranda, watching you leave and for some reason you find it endearing. He's truly just letting you go, after saving your life, feeding you and giving you shelter he's really not going to ask for anything in return?

You sigh to yourself, knowing it will weigh heavy on your conscience if you don't do something for this kind stranger in return.

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°

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#(announcer voice) Will they find love in a hopeless place? Find out after this short break!#monster x human #monster lover #monster x reader #monster fucking #exophelia #monster boyfriend #orc x reader #orc boyfriend #orc x human #orc romance #monster fucker #❆orc woodsman

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 10 days ago

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Neighborly (Part 3/Ending)

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: SMUT, vaguely dom Ghost, unrealistic recovery time from near death experience/hypothermia, cuddling for medical reasons, implied medically-related stripping, implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

The next day, Ghost had you write a list of things you needed from home. He assured you Johnny wouldn’t be stepping foot in your place, but that did leave you on your own with the Scotsman while the giant lumbered through the snow to pack an overnight bag on your behalf.

Your extremities still had fits of unpleasant tingles, but when Ghost examined your hands and feet, he assured you there shouldn’t be permanent damage. First degree frost bite at worst. He praised your choice in winter boots, thick socks, and heavy mittens.

You’d asked how he knew.

“Had some experience. Nothing to worry about. Trust me.”

Instantly flustered, you’d looked down at the huge socks over your hands, fighting away the question of which man they belonged to, and assured him you did. Stupid, since you barely knew him, but you did, and much more than you should.

It didn’t matter if the man was handsome under that mask or ugly as sin. His voice did things to you. It made you want to sin so much he looked like an angel. And the way he handled you in bed, if only platonically, woke your libido from hibernation. Which was un-fucking-fortunate, all things considered. You’d be a horrible lay at the moment with your chapped skin and lingering exhaustion.

Besides, your neighbors were definitely in a relationship.

As you dozed after a cup of sugary tea, Ghost stepped away to speak with Johnny. You could see through the open door when the big man seized his partner by the back of the neck, leaning forehead-to-forehead as he rumbled something in that intoxicating voice. The mask didn’t come off, but you’d definitely spied a tongue stretching the knit to stab into Johnny’s mouth. Hands went to waists, drifted to asses, displayed affection they probably didn’t realize was so public.

You tried very hard to actually go to sleep after that. It wasn’t like you’d meant to creep on them. And they were the ones who chose to make out in front the invalid’s open damn door.

But it put your thoughts in a tailspin, and everything overwhelmed you. A near death experience preceded by robbery and car problems made for a long day. Waking up in your neighbor’s boyfriend’s arms and realizing they’d seen you naked took the knot of emotions and twisted. Then there was the fact that Ghost was likely elbow deep in your underwear drawer – again for platonic reasons – and it wound you up in the worst way. You were a fucking mess. A wad of feelings without an outlet.

You needed to get off and have a good cry. Either or both. And you weren’t in a position to have either.

When you’d suggested going home, Ghost shut you down before you even finished the thought.

“We’ll take care of you. Owe you, yeah? Besides, you’re still recovering.”

So, you wrote the damn list, asking for your comfy clothes, your toothbrush, phone charger, and other necessities. You resisted asking for your favorite throw blanket or the heavy, knitted monstrosity you tried knitting a few years back that was almost a sweater. Nothing you loved was safe around Johnny, and you didn’t want to be a burden, anyway.

Fuck.

Right.

You were a burden.

When you felt a bit better, you’d handle the empty mugs on the nightstand. What else could you clean? Efficient as Ghost was, he was babysitting for two adults. There must be a mess to clean, laundry to fold, something.

You’d make it right. When you’d put some distance between your waking thoughts and death’s shadow.

Trying to think your way out of the lingering pain with your thighs clenched and your glare drilling into the far wall, you almost managed to dissociate for a beat.

Until he knocked.

“Hey.”

Fucking Johnny.

You rolled over, glowering with the blankets up to your nose. Ghost should hurry and come back.

“’M so sorry, hen.” Failing to take the hint, Johnny inched into the room. His folded arms and heavy frown left him looking severe. The boyish illusion was missing. He was all bulging muscles, faint scars, and dog tags.

You’d wondered more than once if he was military. If he was, you’d bet anything Ghost was, too.

“I almost died,” you mumbled, speaking through the blankets. “I would’ve helped with whatever you needed if you’d fucking asked.”

His eyes snapped shut. His head dropped. Deep breaths lifted his shoulders, and he looked like he was in genuine pain.

Good. That made two of you.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Aye.”

“You’re a jerk.”

“Aye.”

“You almost got me killed.”

“Aye.” Eyes wide, hands pressed to the foot of the bed, he towered over you, bubbling over. “I’ll make it up to you. Whatever it takes.”

He was practically panting, trying to escape his guilt. Just one more thing he wanted from you: absolution. A knight seeking a quest of atonement.

If he could take away the memories of betrayal and isolation as you felt your mind break and your body fail, that would work. You almost found enough spite in your heart to say it.

“I thought we were friends.” Half confession, half accusation.

“We are, bonnie, I swear –”

“No, we’re not.”

He clenched the blankets, white-knuckled with wet eyes that promised rain.

“Bonnie –”

“Stand down, Soap.”

You both turned to find Ghost peering in from the hall. He held a duffel bag, lightly dusted in snow that hadn’t quite stopped falling. Doordash had arrived with your order.

He set the bag on the end of the bed, nudging Johnny aside and nodding towards the open door. Johnny got the message, slinking out with his tail between his legs.

“Brought your things. Feel up to a shower? It would probably help at this stage. I’ll set out some towels for you.”

“Thanks.” You ignored Johnny, grateful for the escape Ghost offered from both the conversation and the room. “That sounds great.”

“I’ll get things sorted, then.”

He left you to choose your things from the bag, disappearing into the ensuite you had yet to explore. You got what you needed. Toiletries. Robe. Toothbrush. Just the basics. You’d address your hair later. And… everything else, really. You weren’t ready to see your clothes sitting folded in a tidy pile on your neighbors’ bathroom counter, even less so on their bed.

Ghost reappeared, and he pointed out the towels he’d prepared. “Assume your shower’s like ours.”

“Probably. Thanks.” Again. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Take your time.”

A nice sentiment, but you really couldn’t. You practically jumped out of your borrowed clothes as the water heated, and you got in when it was just north of tepid. You would not use all their hot water. By now, they had to be running on generator power. The power always went out for a day or two when the big one hit. All it took was one tree.

Still, once the sweat and stress-stink washed off, your hand lingered over your chest, an echo of your host’s. He hadn’t gotten frisky. He’d been entirely respectful. But if his hand had strayed even a little…

Or a lot.

Shit. Fuck. No.

You could not get off in your neighbors’ shower. That was out of the question. Even if they didn’t hear you, it was… rude.

Your core ached, stirred from passive aggression to full on fit by the water and your overactive imagination.

Enough. You were clean. You needed to stop.

So you finished your shower (and nothing else) in record time. You wrapped yourself in your robe, wondering if Ghost had packed any sports bras comfortable enough to sleep in.

Both men were waiting for you when you emerged.

“Uh…” Were you supposed to get dressed in the bathroom? Shit. You should’ve…

“Thought it was about time you got that apology,” Ghost said. He stepped closer. His fingertips brushed over the back of your hand, conjuring goosebumps like magic. “You’re cold again.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh, aye.” Johnny winked. Caught himself. Cleared his throat. “Really am sorry. Wanna prove it. First step towards reparations, aye?”

He inched closer as he spoke, and Ghost stepped back to give him space. You held your ground, but only out of confusion. You technically had more skin covered than you had since they rescued you, but you were hyper aware of the loose knot holding the robe closed.

“What did you have in mind?”

Tea? A year’s subscription to a meal delivery service? A note?

His eyes flicked to your lips. “Thought I could warm you up.”

Your brain sputtered. It even made a sound like your engine had when it ran out of gas.

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I think you do.”

He wasn’t touching you. Yet. But his breath fanned over your lips. His body heat reached through your robe.

His partner was in the fucking room. “You’re in a relationship.”

“Already discussed it.”

You turned to Ghost, shocked, but he was relaxed. Almost casual about his boyfriend seducing the neighbor in his bedroom.

“We both like ya, bonnie,” Johnny whispered in your ear.

You shivered.

It sounded like such a bad idea.

But you wanted it. You wanted a real apology, and a reason to forget it all ever happened.

“How about it?” Johnny was hovering. Waiting for the green light. “Let us make you feel good?”

One more time, you looked to Ghost. You had to be sure. You wanted his permission. His confirmation. He nodded. So did you.

With one hand on your cheek, drawing your attention back to him, and one on the back of your neck, your neighbor pressed you into a kiss. There was no demure pecking. No sweet warm-up. Lips, tongue, and teeth leapt into the fray at the first trumpet blast.

A gasp gave him a window of opportunity, and soon you were eagerly kissing him back, yanking on his stupid mohawk for vengeance and a pitiful attempt at control.

Johnny licked a moan out of your mouth. He scoured your whimpers clean, gulping them down with a happy rumble.

“The best apologies are given on your knees, don’t you think Johnny?”

A silent exchange passed between the men, and Johnny was all smiles.

“Couldn’t agree more. Here, sit down, pretty girl.” He arranged you on the edge of the bed, dropping to his knees to keep the kisses coming. He plucked the robe’s knot free and tugged it open. His lips stayed on yours as fabric fell away from your shoulders, legs, and chest, pooling around your wrists. There was no time for the usual, momentary panic of finding yourself naked for the first time with a new romantic partner.

One more peck, and a whispered, “Lie back, bonnie.” And he was working down your sternum, pushing your knees apart. “Gonnae give you an apology you never forget.”

The apology came letter by letter, spelled through your folds. The S snaked around your entrance, looping over your clit. The O stayed there, spinning around your bud. The Rs wandered, following the O’s path before tracing each side of your entrance. The Y started at your base and swept up, teasing either side of your clit in turns.

He said it over and over again. The clever rhythm had him smiling against you as you tugged at his mohawk, trying to chase each sensation. But his hands were strong, and he kept you spread and stationary. At the mercy of his repentance.

The Os never circled long enough, and his tongue dipped inside just enough to remind you how much you ached for more on every Y.

It was driving you crazy, and tears of frustration gathered, blurring his self-satisfied gaze. You’d had it with him. Even when he went down on you, he took his own pleasure first, playing games you had no spoons left to enjoy. You wanted him to take care of you like he’d promised. You wanted to lose yourself. Wanted to feel desired. Wanted to feel good.

Your whining plea didn’t sound at all sexy to your own ears, but the way the tongue shook with suppressed laughter between your legs proved someone was having a good time.

Solid heat you’d learned to recognize in your sleep slipped up behind you. Long, thick fingers petted back your sweaty hair, and a hand pulled you back, urging you to relax into a solid chest. Ghost, once again coming your rescue.

“Be good, Johnny,” he rumbled. “Stop teasing.”

Eyes glinting, your tormentor’s face appeared. He licked his lips with a wolf’s fervor, eyes flashing from yours to Ghost’s.

“Yes, sir.” His voice had gone rough. Deep. You shuddered, and he squeezed your thighs. “Mind givin’ me a hand, LT?”

Ghost huffed, almost a dry laugh, and his hands left you. You had a mind to complain again, but then his grip appeared under your knees, lifting and spreading even farther than Johnny wheedled earlier. You were obscene. You were desperate.

“You doing alright? Let us make you feel better. Give Johnny the chance to start paying you back for all the trouble he’s caused, yeah?”

One hand clamped onto his arm, unsure whether you planned to push it away or simply cling on. As you vacillated, Johnny craned forward, blew on you, and you spasmed. Your free hand jumped back to Ghost’s balaclava, and you knew what you wanted.

“Yeah. I’m alright. Please.”

“You heard the woman.”

“Happy to serve.” Johnny grinned, nearly feral, and lunged forward with fresh determination.

Now free, his fingers pulled you open, giving him better access to the mess he’d made with all his teasing. His tongue pressed hard, spearing deep as it could reach. It worked relentlessly, trying to scoop out every last drop, but the slick only grew, and he returned to your clit.

Ghost held you at an angle that defied your attempts to ride Johnny’s face, and you turned into a twitching, writhing mass in his lap. When his partner started suckling your bud, you shrieked, and Ghost crooned. His thumbs worked circles in your flesh, soothing the edge of delirium rising with your pleasure.

“Good girl. There you go. Finally letting us take care of you.”

A finger pressed inside, petting and curling as it hunted for the right spot. Every muscle rolled, trying to participate, to join the dance, and then Johnny found what he was looking for, and you screamed.

He’d tormented you so long. You didn’t have a chance to give a warning or brace for the snap. Your orgasm practically exploded, and for a minute you couldn’t even breathe. Everything froze, trying to catch and keep the high as your vision went white and your ears rang. Your thoughts ran slow and thick, like honey in winter, just soft enough for Ghost’s words to penetrate.

“How you feelin’? Rung out or ready for more?”

What a stupid question. Appreciated, but stupid. You’d ask for more until your voice gave out.

You consciously, carefully unclenched your fingers from his mask, from his sleeve. He still held you open, shivering and bare apart from Johnny’s face, still pressing slow kisses with tongue and teeth anywhere he was tempted to taste. Glimmers of firelight caught in the arousal smeared over his cheeks.

“More.”

Johnny muttered something very Scottish you couldn’t quite make out through the fading white noise in your head. But your eyes worked perfectly well, and he put on a show, yanking off his shirt, showing off like he used to when he shoveled the drive.

“Tell her, Johnny,” Ghost prompted. “Give her everything you’ve been thinking since you moved in here.”

“Fuck.” The Scotsman worked his belt free as talked, staring at you. His eyes roved, chasing the paths his tongue had traveled, rising to your heaving chest, to your face, so close to his LT’s commanding gaze. “Heard the neighbor was a hermit. Expected – doesnae matter. Prettiest hermit I’d ever fuckin’ seen. Showin’ up with biscuits and makin’ friendly.” The belt swished free from its loops and clattered to the ground. “Had me graspin’ after my manners with one look. An' after I tried catchin’ your eye in the snow, you took care of me an all.” He popped his button free. The zipper went down. “Wanted to bring ya inside and make things cozy. Had to wait for Ghost. Had to let ‘im see ya. Let him understand.” His hand slipped under his clothes, bringing a swollen red tip peeking over the elastic of his underwear.

“Should’a heard him on the phone,” Ghost murmured in your ear as Johnny pushed down his remaining clothes, already hard and weeping for you. “Thought he was gonna come to just the thought of you some nights. Started giving me ideas before I even had a chance to thank you for minding him.”

Naked, practically glowing in the fire, Johnny swooped down for a kiss. He squeezed a breast, thumbing the nipple relentlessly until you broke for air. Everything about him hummed with energy. A livewire sparking over the street. “Wanna fuck you. Please? Please let me fuck you, bonnie. Sweetest little cunt I’ve ever had. Please?”

Standing where he was, and held as you were, his dick rubbed against you as he spoke.

You were going to combust, and you’d enjoy every fucking second of it. All thoughts of snow and ice had melted. Everything had turned to steam.

“Yes.” He’d dived to work a hickey into your neck during your brief hesitation, and you fought to even whisper your answer. “Please.”

He lined up, rocking shallowly once, twice, and pushing home in a long, burning stroke. You yelped, and he moaned, both going still until the sting had passed. By the time you nodded your permission, he had his hands on your hips, trembling with need.

He fucked you like he was dying. Like you were his last meal and the only lifeline thrown in a storm. It was months of yearning, months of confusion and false starts and greedy hunger that spilled over and burned you like hot wax. There was no shelter – not that you wanted any – and you once again seized Ghost’s arms because they were the only fucking thing he’d let you reach. They would take care of you. You weren’t allowed to do any of the work. Not in that bed. Not that night.

Johnny keened, huffing and growling and whimpering as he went faster and faster. He brought you so far. So close. Just a little more.

But not enough.

His hips stuttered, his head bowed, and his warm release splashed out.

“Fuck.” Blushing from exertion – and probably something else – he looked up from where he was still balls-deep to sheepishly meet your eyes. “I swear, never finished so fast in my life. Didn’t get you there in time, did I?”

He pulled out, and you dropped your head back on Ghost’s shoulder with a wail of frustration. You were too close to stop now. You reached down to touch yourself, but before you could rub one out, Ghost shifted. He moved closer to the edge of the bed, dropping one of your legs to swat your hand away from your clit.

When you didn’t fight him, he reached behind you, and you both heard and felt him work his cock free.

“May I?”

Too horny and too frustrated, you nodded wildly. “I said I trusted you.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He didn’t pick up where Johnny left off. Thick fingers that had really only held you up to this point reached down, groping over breast and belly to reach your center. Long strokes kept the spark in your belly alive as he ran his hand over you, lubing his fingers in the mixed spend.

One dipped in. He paused, considering. Then a second joined.

“Minute I saw you at the door, knew you were a carer,” he said. “Knew it’d been so long since someone took care of you that you’d forgotten how a good neighbor should act.” The fingers curled, scissored, working you with clear and vulgar intent. “Wanted to be more than neighbors. Had to close that door quick. Every filthy thing Johnny said hit me, and I wasn’t fit company.” The full implications of that didn’t quite hit you in the moment, but a hazy vision of him watching you through the windows, palming an erection sent your cunt fluttering.

A third finger. All together, they were wider than Johnny’s cock. A deep breath helped. The thumb flicking over your clit like a moth drawn to a porchlight did more. “Had to figure out how to fix all the fuck ups then. So many delays. Took too damn long.” He pulled his hand free, denying you release.

“You said you’d take care of me.”

“We will, sweatheeart. Easy now.” His hand hovered in front of you, fingers spread so he could watch his good work cling and drip like a liquid spiderweb between his digits. “Fuck. You’re perfect.”

He spread his knees, pushing yours wider, and he lifted you up until his dick rubbed over your entrance. Even without looking, you could tell he was massive. You’d need to relax. You’d need to trust him.

Unlike Johnny, he took things slow. He read every flutter and clench, every gasp and hiss like he was fluent in your personal language of carnality. The stretch constantly rode the edge of too much, but it touched places no one else had reached, stuffed your senses full of bliss. And he was so careful. Tactical.

When he’d sheathed himself, his hands slid to your thighs, positioning you in a similar way as before.

“Think you’ve got more apologizing to do, Johnny.”

“Yes, sir.”

You’d closed your eyes at some point, overwhelmed by everything Ghost had to give, but you snapped to attention when a tongue ran over your clit. Johnny smiled up at you, pleased as punch. Devious fucker.

Ghost thrust, and the sound he pushed out of your mouth was pure filth. Helpless, you made it again with the second push. It happened again and again until it became an unbroken string of praise and pleas. Johnny made a game of keeping his tongue on you, pulling back, going still so Ghost would bounce you along it as he drove into you.

A hand pressed over your lower belly, and you moaned in tandem with Johnny.

“Fuck, Simon. Can feel you moving in her.”

After Johnny’s performance, Ghost clearly had something to prove. The first time you came, you clenched so hard on his dick it actually slowed him down. You thought that would be it, that he’d ride high to the end having achieved his goal. Instead, he kept going, fucking you brainless as Johnny actually giggled below. A second climax left you boneless, and by the third you’d entered a fugue state. Ghost slowed down until you could respond (I’m okay.) and then he drove you over the edge until you forgot how to count. Johnny offered kitten licks and praise throughout. When Ghost finally finished - pulling you flush to his chest and panting in your ear (Good fucking woman.) it was Johnny’s attention to your clit that broke you. He sucked and worked his tongue under your clitoral hood like he was sucking nectar from a honeysuckle blossom.

But you were tapped.

“Can’t. Too much.”

Johnny disengaged immediately, and two pairs of hands lifted you from where you sat impaled. Soft words and warm washcloths bathed you in the afterglow. Gentle suggestions guided you under the covers, and a familiar touch turned you to rest with your back to a heated chest. Warmth crowded in from the front, too, murmured joy and praise leaking through the haze to find you.

You didn’t even realize as you slept that you’d found something far better than a good neighbor. But that understanding would come with the dawn, a cup of tea, and a suggestion to go thrifting when the weather broke so you could find a matching set of truly hideous mugs.

#fic: neighborly #ghoap x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #cod x reader #141 x reader

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ofleafstructure · 1 month ago

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The Giant Under the Snow by John Gordon ; Cover art by Antony Maitland.

#John Gordon #Antony Maitland #The Giant Under the Snow #Puffin Books #Book Cover #Illustration #Book Design

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feralforfrank · 1 month ago

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simon riley x fem!reader

simon gets hit by an umbrella like three times, sorry for not knowing proper british and scottish slang, i'm greek and trying my best 👍🏻 implied age gap (reader is in uni)

holidays in Edinburgh, part 1/?

the 141 is home for the holidays. home being all over the uk, with gaz and price spending their time somwhere in the country with their partners and simon accompanying johnny and his partner in Edinburgh. johnny insisted he come along, Edinburgh is full of bonnie birds, you never know, you might meet your match, lt.

you're miserable. spending yet another holiday in a foreign country, isolated in your flat with only your cat, warm tea, and a book to pass the time. you couldn't go back home due to finals starting soon, and your parents decided to spend Christmas in warm weather down under (Australia).

it's not half as bad, you try to convince yourself. your flat is quiet, as are the neighboring ones and the building in general. your bedroom window overlooks a busy street, and you envy those who flood them with shopping bags and smiles. you haven't made that many friends, and the ones you have are already visiting their hometowns. the upside is that you're in a warm, comfortable space while others are freezing their pinkies off.

even johnny is gone. the loud scot from next door, a guy you had disliked at first without having officially met him - thin walls was the only bad thing this building has, and you were forced to listen to him do everything, from weight lifting, to watching tv, to having sex - but when you bumped into each other your opinion changed drastically. a gentleman, funny and light-hearted. he hadn't taken to heart your complaints about the noise, only promising to take it down a notch.

without the muffled sounds of his tv to annoy you - his partner had apologised for the volume, saying he's partially deaf in one ear from having been too close to explosions way too many times - you were left reading your book in silence. maybe you'd go to the grocery store later, stock up so you won't need to leave your house - the weatherman said it's going to get colder, heavy snow expected.

johnny hands simon the keys to his flat. him and his bird are going to the supermarket, there's nothing in the fridge or the cupboards for the next few days. the scot told him to take a shower, relax and make himself at home until they come back, and he didn't have to be told twice with the biting cold making his nose stuffy.

johnny's building is freshly painted to look new on the outside but old on the inside. he's been here before, and he remembers mactavish struggling to open his front door sometimes, for the lock got stuck.

he tries to reenact the technique his best friend uses to get in, trying his hardest to open the door gently instead of pushing with his shoulder like he does back at his own flat. he turns the key one, two, three times and pulls forward softly, trying to turn the key for the fourth and final time.

fuck. you gotta be fucking joking.

"fuckin' hell."

he tries again. and again, this time throwing his bag on the floor. the door rattles as he uses a bit more force, frustration building steadily and quickly.

you press play on spotify, the familiar voices of joe and frank from the basement yard podcast filling your ears. your headphones are pushing the hair out of your face and also act as ear muffs. you check your coat pockets for your phone and keys, nodding to yourself before kissing your cat goodbye. you promise her treats from the grocery store.

at first, you don't notice the hunk of a man at the door next to yours. the podcast is on full volume and your securing your scarf around your shoulder. it's when you turn to shut your door that you freeze mid-step.

in front of you, with is back turned to you, there's a giant guy pressing all his weight to johnny's door. he's wearing all black, hood drawn up, which makes this situation much much scarier.

fuck fuck fuck fuck. what the fuck. he's tryinf to break in the flat. oh fuck fuck fuck, what do i do? has he noticed me? he hasn't turned around yet. what the fuck. shit fuck. FUCK. what the fuck?!

your body reacts a few seconds later. with wide eyes and pursed lips, you hold your breath, and take a step inside your home. half your body is outside, facing him incase he decides to turn around and your arm is blindly reaching for your big umbrella.

once you have a stready hold on it, you don't hesitate to take two big steps forward and hurl it on the intruder's neck. your headphones for on your shoulders, and you hit him again, and this time he physically recoils.

you hit him another time, not quite as hard, and flinch at the sound the plastic makes against his jacket but you're gaining confidence as he grunts in pain. you shout something at him, something about this being karma for trying to break into somebody else's house, and he yelps something in response, but the blood rushing in your ears is louder than your voices.

you swing the umbrella back to hit him again, gathering all the courage you can muster for a final blow. you take a millisecond more to do so and he has time to move before it can connect with his back. unfortunately for the guy, the umbrella hits the side of his face.

he yelps and you drop it with a gasp, hands covering your mouth in shock.

his face is still hidden under his hood, but his ungloved fingers reach for his cheek, where the tip of the umbrella connected.

there's a moment of silence. your eyes are wider than before, as wide as saucers, and you're breathing heavily like him. you're scared beyond your mind, the fear having paralysed you once again. you stand there watching him rub his face witha grunt.

"you fuckin' crazy or wha', lady?!" he finally speaks with gritted teeth. his accent is hot. "'m not a fucking intruder."

oh shit.

"...you're not?"

"no, the fuck 'm not," he says calmly, and your heart rate picks up. "would an intruder have keys to the bloody flat?" he shows you the keys and you gasp softly, recognising johnny's scottish flag keychain.

"i'm—oh," your hands reach out as you try to approach him. "i'm so terribly sorry, i just—mactavish isn't home and you're huge and you were throwing yourself at the door and you have your hood up and you're so. fucking. big, i thought you were trying to rob the place—" you take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts - you just beat a guy with an umbrella for no fucking reason!!!!!! ‐ "here, let me help you." you signal for him to enter your flat.

simon watches you for a moment. flushed cheeks, eyes glassy and overflowing emotions, hands waving frantically as you open your own door wider for him to walk in.

he should refuse. flat out say no. you just attacked him with an umbrella for fucks sake. it's still in your trembling hands. he should refuse. but you said mactavish. you know johnny. and he knows himself. he must've looked terrifying to you, back hunched over the lock, shoulder pushing on the old wooden door.

you look genuinely sorry and worried, very willing to let him into your home, even though he hasn't given you any information about himself. for all you know, he could've stolen the keys from johnny or his bird, he could be a proper burglar.

he should shake his head and turn your back on you. it doesn't even hurt. he's had worse. he thinks his cheekbone might have a scratch, but he's fine. ghost has been through torture before - your hits are nothing compared to that.

but you're pretty. extremely so.

so, he nods slowly, removing his hand from his cheek and grabbing his duffel bag from the ground. you wait by the door, watching his every move as he walks in.

you point to your kitchen chair, he sits - he's so imposing, your kitchen seems smaller with him in it - and you immediately rush for a pack of beans from the freezer and a towel.

"put this on your cherk," you instruct and disappear somwhere further inside the flat. he watches you.

when you come back you have rubbing alcohol, cotton pads and a packet of band-aids. simon begins to stand.

"'s not necessary. 's barely a scratch, ma'am."

you don't even look at him as you set the stuff down. he stares at you. "no, no, i feel terrible - the least i can do is fix your face."

"you sayin' my mug is ugly?"

you pause, head snapping to the side to meet the stranger's eyes. you frown, another apology ready to escape your lips.

he's smirking. right corner of his lips tilted up. he's joking. your shoulders sag and you exhale with a smile.

"no, your face is quite nice, stranger."

it is. strong features, long nose - looks to have been broken a hundred times - some scars here and there, long eyelashes and pretty brown eyes.

"simon. simon riley."

simon. nice name - suits him. friend of johnny's, you remember. probably military, judging by the width of his back. and the unintenional scrutinising and intimidating gaze.

you introduce yourself, breath hitching when he repeats your first name slowly.

"pretty name." you shrug, grabbing a wet cotton pad and slowly moving it towards him. he doesn't pull away, and you press it against the small scratch on his cheek as he speaks. "suppose a pretty girl deserves a pretty name."

you chuckle, heat rising up your neck and spreading to your cheeks as you move on to the pack of band-aids.

"so, you know johnny?" you ask.

"saved his ugly mug a coupl'a times. we're spending christmas here."

your smile falters as you stick the small band-aid on his cheek (only now realising it has anakin skywalker printed on it). you're once again reminded of how lonely you'll be during christmas. simon notices it, but hesitates asking if you're okay.

"sorry for the uh, band-aid. uh, i don't have any normal ones." he brushes it off with a shake of his head. "you're good to go, now. i'm sure you have things to do."

simon silently gets up and grabs his things, all while watching you put your coat and scarf back on. whatever light you had on your face moments before is gone, and he's trying to figure out what he said wrong to cause this.

he follows you out of the flat, mind forming different ways to ask if something's wrong. he can't help but ask when he hears you sigh heavily, almost defeated.

"you okay, love?"

"huh—what?" you look at him once and then continue locking your door.

"you alright? did i say something that upset you?"

your smile returns with his words, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

"no, i'm all good, don't worry. just don't want to go for groceries in the freezing cold, ya know?" he nods, jiggling johnny's keys in his hands. "anyway, it was nice meeting you, simon. and i'm really sorry for thinking you're an intruder and hitting you with my umbrella and whatnot. i hope to see you around - have fun!"

and before he can ask where you're spending your christmas, or why you're going to the supermarket instead of packing to go back to wherever your home is - your accent clearly indicates you're not from edinburgh, as if the books, pens, and scattered notebooks at your home were not enough - you're walking down the stairs and dissappear from his eyesight.

simon stands for a moment before turning to the door again. you're interesting, to say the least, and you said his face was...nice - he doesn't get that often. and you have band-aids with Star Wars characters, and you laughed at his joke. and you were brave enough to attack him when you thought he was a burglar.

yeah, he hopes to see you around too.

#ehhhhhh idk if people like it i'll finish and post part two 😊#simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #cod #cod x reader #cod mwiii #cod mwii #ghost cod #fluff #friends to lovers #holiday series i guess #johnny mactavish #naewrites #holidays in Edinburgh

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yeyinde · 1 month ago

Text

PRAIRIE WOLF | hinterland

John Price x Reader

MASTERLIST. AO3. [PREV]

“So,” he drawls, eyes skirting down the length of your body before coming to a pointed stop on your midsection, belly hidden under a thick cable-knit sweater he gave to you to wear. “What's the plan?”

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

allusions to abuse. descriptions of injury. trauma.

The sound of rain pelting against glass rouses you from a threadlike sleep, one full of loose, spooling dreams and fractured memories.

(dirty, blood-drenched snow. a hole in your belly. the acrid burn of heated, melting metal in your nose. a grunt—

come on, Coyote, hold still—)

It hums there, even with your eyes open. Even as you blink into existence. Sitting on the edge; little clots, microcosms you can reach out and pop like bubbles. Hypnopompia. A strange place where dream and reality blur—surrealism in fatigue blue. Ghosts pulled into consciousness.

It's dark in the truck when you blink again, sluggishly mapping the features that stretch out before you, all shaded in black.

Through the windshield is a world of dark green. Thick, dense clouds gather above the angular tops of conifers and giant evergreens. Thunderclouds rumble overhead, groaning with the heavy rainfall that pours down over everything in a howling baptism.

Only the orange of the truck cuts colour through the thick deluge of blue-green and slate. Warmed by the heat of the engine. The cable-knit throw covers the red leather seats. It's as close to comfortable as you think you've ever been. Swaddled in a Levi's jacket tucked under your bare feet resting on the bench of the truck, hanging loosely over your shoulders. It smells of smoke—thick and dense, but sweeter, earthier than nicotine. Scorched pine and soot. Bonfires. Laced with sweat and oil and dirt—humus. Like the soil after a rain shower. A summer storm.

It smells good. You sink into it a little more—into this cosm that you know won't last. A blanket of succour, soft wool that tickles your nose and warms your cold hands. Chases away the tendrils of a grasping dream reaching for the edges of your periphery—all claws and teeth and misshapen memories.

Fractured bones. Burst blood vessels. A knot your belly—

The radio crackles as the truck drives down the winding highway, crooning something low and melodic through the static:

—stopped into a church I passed along the way—

The clock on the radio reads that it's just after seven. A jarring thought; the slow, sinking realization that everything happened in the span of hours. Ended only an hour ago. And now—

He's a wild animal you're not sure how to breathe around. A bear. His hand curls loosely over the steering wheel, the other braced on the ledge of the window, fingers tapping to the music spilling out, filling the cab.

He doesn't look over at you, but you get the feeling he knows you're awake. Watching him. Hunter. Hunted.

—well, I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray—

You thought you knew better. Come on, Coyote—

“Gonna stop and grab some burgers,” he grunts, a low growl barely an octave higher than the brassy singer on the radio. Softly spoken—or as soft as a man like him could manage—to not startle you. “Takeout. Tha’ alright with you?”

You're not sure what to make of it. Him, this. Being asked, maybe. That alright with you?

When you don't speak, he peels his eyes away from the road, glancing towards you. A brow raises. Waiting.

You shrug.

He grunts again. “Fine.”

His eyes slip down briefly to the metal name tag still pinned to the faded pink of your shirt, staring at the slanted words stamped into the enamel pin.

Taking them in. Their shape. Then:

“Why Coyote?”

Another shrug. It pulls at the hand-shaped, fist-sized ache in your shoulder blade. “It's what everyone calls me.”

“It's not your real name.”

“No.”

“Why do they call you Coyote, then?”

You think of a different weight on your shoulder. Heavy metal. Stale, warm beer and cigarette smoke coming in a puff of air over your cheek. Stay still for me, pretty girl. Gonna be in a world a’hurt if your squirmin’ makes me miss my shot—

A hand on your thigh. On your neck.

Hole in your belly. Blood on the snow.

“They just do,” you mumble around the crooning verse that swallows the tremble in your voice. “They always have.”

Come on, Coyote.

John brings to you a small, rustic-looking drive-thru with a menu that has less than ten items on it.

It's made of log and glass and smells of sizzling grease. There's a small parking lot to the left of the rectangular shack with a big moose's head on the front. All long antlers and a broad snout.

MOOSEHEAD the sign reads in faded, firetruck red. home of the moose burger.

When he said drive-thru, you assumed McDonald's. Burger King. Harvey's. The small shack nestled in front of a looming, slate-coloured mountain was not what you were expecting, and as he twists the wheel, navigating the winding path to the bright yellow menu behind a brown box, something shifts in your belly. A knot. Hunger, maybe.

You can't remember the last time you ate. Not good for the baby.

“What d’you want?”

You blink through the haze of rain, the thick plume of condensation that gathers at the bottom of the window, and read the boxy letters pressed into the lit board. HAMBURGER. CHEESEBURGER. MOOSEBURGER. FRIES. SOFT DRINKS. MILKSHAKES.

John rolls the window down. The heavy scent of wet, oil-slick pavement and rust fills the cab.

The speaker crackles. “Hi. What can I get you tonight?”

“Moose burger and fries,” he grunts. “Coke to drink.” A glance is sent your way. “And—?”

“Um. The same.”

“Make it two of those.”

“Sure thing, hun. Come ‘round the front. Your order will be ready. Total is twenty-two seventeen. Thank you.”

He doesn't roll the window back up. Mist sprays against your arm, glistening under the smear of neon lights glistening through the wet windshield. It's cool outside. The mountain air is clean. Crisp.

You've never been to this part of town before. To this town, you suppose. An hour out from the flat valley that made up the port city. The bay at your fingertips. Claws in your neck—

It's nice here. Green. Dark. Everything shifts, like it's on an angle. A slope. And you know it is with the towering mountain that looked like craggy chevron from the valley below pressed, imposing and massive, at your back. Your ears pop at the elevation, and breathing is both easier and heavier at the same time.

The air is thin here, but you're so far away from that city, from him, that it doesn't matter if you suffocate now because it'll be your choice and not—

His hands on your neck. Ever try to run away from me again, Coyote, and it'll be the last thing you ever fucking do—

The bag is wet when he presses it into your arm. Dropping it down on your arched legs when you don't take it from him quick enough. You startle. Blinking. He doesn't glance over, just slides your drink into the cupholder beside his, and after a moment, mind reeling because how much did you miss just—

Thinking.

You hurry to settle into place. Legs twitching, sliding out from their protective curl against your chest—

A hand on your covered ankle stops you. “Don't need to move,” he murmurs, glancing at you briefly. But not—

Not really. Not looking at you but out the window, you realise, the truck dipping down on an angle as he hovers near the exit, waiting for the thin line of cars to pass before he turns back onto the highway.

“Get comfy.” It's a suggestion. “Eat.” But that's a command.

Your inside twist at the sound of it. Military, you remember Elliot saying. You feel it acutely in your bones, still thrumming, pulse tripping over that growling demand. Eat.

Your body moves without thought. Obeying. Hands snaking out of the warmth cradled on the back of his Levi's jacket, one he must have thrown over you in your sleep, and peel back the rolled paper bag that smells of grease and meat. It's warm in the bag. You fish out the first burger and can barely close your hand around the thick of it, blinking slightly in startled awe at the size.

Moose burger. A fitting name, but you think of home, suddenly, painfully, and wonder if it's real moose. Feel the clench in your belly at the thought. Of moose steak drenched in fat, seared on the stove. Moose stew in the slow cooker, left to tenderise in the simmering broth.

“Ain't real moose.”

You wonder how he knew, and can't be sure if you like the fact that he did. Guessed right. Chiselled inside of your head. Read you like an open book. It makes your pulse thunder, a roaring in your ears that dulls the scattered thunderclaps from above.

“Oh,” you say, and feel the disappointment trickling in, thick in your throat. “Just the size, then?”

He hums, and reaches into the bag, rifling around for a handful of fries. “Yeah. Jus’ the size. Ever had it before?”

You think of then, of being tucked inside pants that don't fit. A shirt that's too loose. Feet in boots a size too big. All tattered and aged, worn down. Holes. Patches where the fabric was ripped and sewn back together. Jagged lines from an unpractised hand. Loose threads. Knots. The scent of cigarette smoke clinging to your skin. A plastic bag. A bruised apple that your teacher slipped you during the first recess. Leftovers.

Moose meat stew. Rabbit. Ew, Coyote's eating something weird again—

Thirteen and crouching behind a bush as your dad angles the gun over your head. Big boy, he whispers. Gonna be eatin’ good this winter. Look’it the size of ‘im.

The smell of duck fat sizzling in a pan. The crack of a beer can. Squeals of wood on slippery, cheap vinyl. Fried dough resting on the counter next to a tower of pop cans and an old Costco popcorn bottle filled with tabs. remind me t’send Robbie in the mornin’ to drop ‘em off. need the money for cigarettes.

Then:

Moose tonight. Go’an an’ get your sister.

It's mild. Like beef but better, you used to think. Less tangy. Less thick. Depends on the season, your dad would say. Best cut is when they're just on the end of their rut. When they're eating big. Getting nice and fat. Tastes better like that. A bull not in rut, a skinny one, ain't as good.

Moose is a strange meat. Prey animal, but it tastes nothing like a caribou or a deer. Rabbit. Not gamey, like a predator, either—like bear (braised black bear with gravy to make it tender; the fat stored away for later—another staple you think about). It's good. Different.

You miss it—even if the idea, the memories, that come with it make you feel scraped out and raw. Hollow. Empty.

Your tongue thickens. You don't think you can speak. Not right now. So you nod instead—this shallow, jerking thing. Too solemn. Too low. Chin to your chest.

John hums, and sinks the handful of fries into his mouth before he turns on the highway, one hand on the wheel. Knuckles raised. Marbled mountain peaks. Purple and red. Blotchy in the washed out glow of the dashboard. Swollen and painful looking but he doesn't even flinch when he grips the wheel, and the clotted scab peels, lifting off skin. Oozing thick, syrupy blood out from under the cracked shell.

He pulls back when it beads too much, wipes it on his shirt, careless and unbothered by the stain it leaves, and then puts his hand back on the wheel. Smeared ink black in the gloom.

That hand sunk into his—Sam’s—face. Caught on his sneer, knuckles tearing. Leaving blood between Sam's teeth. A split on his lip that made you think of the one—the ones—he left on yours. Tender and painful and swelling up in an instant. A pulsing throb, a heat.

Over and over again—

His hand rifles through the bag. “Eat,” he says again, low, muffled around the dangling end of a fry. “s’gonna go cold.”

It already is. Somewhat. A soggy, grease-soaked bun. Patty still warm. Dripping ketchup and mustard down the sides and onto the plastic wrapper. It's heavy. Thick. You bite the end flattened by the press of your thumbs, teeth sinking into the burger. Taste familiar on your tongue.

It's good, you suppose. Filling. You eat half before dropping it back onto the paper, reaching for the fries in the bag. Thick cut and crispy. Salted.

The truck smells of salt and grease, and when your stomach knots—too much food after too little for so long—you wrap the leftovers up and slip it back into the bag for later.

He doesn't say anything after that. His hand slides over the wheel as he turns up the winding road. Up, up. Deeper into the mountains where the air thins, and the trees thicken. An endless sprawl of darkness cut only by the muted gold glow of his headlights illuminating the wet, twisting pavement.

You sink into the silence. Feeling the heavy, warm weight of the half-eaten burger on your thighs. The stretch of leather beneath your ankle.

Heavy-lidded. Stuck in the sticky cobweb of fatigue and hyperarousal. Never really sleeping for more than a handful of hours at a time. Survival, you think. It's what the text in the pamphlet said, the one the lady shoved into your hands when you went to buy a pregnancy test from the store. It's not your fault: how to seek help for domestic abuse.

Her eyes were kind—like the paramedics. Oh, hun. It ain't your fault.

The problem is you don't think that's true.

He—Sam—was a good man before he met you, wasn't he?

But every so often, your gaze will slide towards his hand still curled around the steering wheel, knuckles split. Eyes suddenly heavy enough that you think you could fall asleep again.

His cabin is perched on the maw of a bay, accessible only by boat.

He seems hesitant as he unloads the luggage from his truck, throwing them into a sleek-looking fishing boat bobbing from where it's anchored in a dock. Wary. Watching you closely like he expects you to run.

And you know there should be trepidation. A strange man you've had less than a handful of conversations with, one who stuck his nose where it didn't belong, and is now herding you into a boat late at night.

Jarvis Inlet, he grunts. A place called Dark Cove. And then he looks at you, just stares, as if waiting for something. A fight, maybe. More questions. But you've slept in worse places, and the idea of being out of the rain as quickly as possible is more appealing than your potential doom.

You slide into the boat, hands curled into his jacket. He follows after a beat, unlatching the ties holding it to the dock, and steps inside, murmuring something when it shifts under his weight. Starts it up. He digs under his seat for a moment, rifling through a box, before grabbing something out and turning towards you. A blanket. He tosses it your way, grunting under his breath about keeping warm.

It's a short trip through the water. You spend most of it huddled under the blanket, hands squeezed between your thighs as he navigates around a massive, jutting rock with thick, dense conifers clustered along the sloping edges of the island.

You expected it to be higher up. Hidden in the mountains. But it sits at an arcing curve that cuts through the ocean. Tucked in the protective curl of his land is the still, ink blue waters of the bay before it bleeds into the sound.

Mainland is a craggy, green rock on the horizon. The ocean dips, dizzyingly vast and unfathomable, behind the jagged mass littered with the lights. A city in light polluted pointillism.

He pulls the boat up to a bigger one. A yacht. Sleek and white and bobbing in the waters. It's tethered to a dock out in the lake. A bridge connects it to the shore.

He reaches over when he cuts the engine, yanking on the makeshift hood you crafted from the loose throw until it covers more of your face. “Hold onto the railings when you walk. Gets slippery.”

John turns away after, hefting your meagre luggage on one shoulder as he pulls the tarp over the boat, shielding it from the rain. You step back onto the dock, back nudging the pristine boat behind you.

The world is awash in shadows. Dark, jagged peaks. Crooked trees drooping in the downpour. Ink black. An abyss that yawns out for an unfathomable stretch before kissing the dark mass of a mountain cutting out from the sprawling pool.

You've heard people say before that places like this can swallow you whole. Slip beneath the waves, turn behind a tree, and no one will ever see you again. But you've always found that sentiment to be wrong.

Cities are where you disappear. Indifferent places made of concrete and money. No one cares if you go missing, but out here—

You think this land spit you back out.

“Come on,” he grunts, sliding beside you. His hand is heavy on your waist. Urging. “This way.”

You follow, clinging to the firm hold he has on your back as you wobble along the slick bridge to the rocky embankment just up ahead.

The bridge continues even on land, sloping up in a set of stairs before coming to a stop on a small cliff above the beach.

You turn back towards the mainland when John stops, hand rifling through his pocket for the keys.

The distance, the knowledge that this mass you stand on—all soft, wet moss; peat soil—is so far away from that place that it clumps, black and jagged and imposing, against the shoreline is calming. In shades. Small increments, like the loosening of your shoulders. The ache there, too. The breath in your lungs comes a little easier when you stare down at the mainland, at the stretch of blue between it and you. The little thread in the distance that ties it together.

He nudges you quietly with the muted clearing of his throat. Not touching you, but—

Hovering. In sight. On the edge of your periphery. Making his presence known.

You're not sure what to make of it.

What to make of any of this.

His chin jerks towards the cabin bracket between a dense thicket of trees. “C’mon. Let's get you outta the rain.”

His cabin is modest in size.

The entrance is on a deck overlooking the bay. All open. Big, ceiling-to-floor windows. French doors. It's framed in thick cured timber. Logs stained a warm, honeyed brown.

Inside is simple in design, too.

The kitchen is to the left. A living room to the right. Straight across is a loft with a staircase angled into the kitchen. A small, dark hallway rolls out from beneath the balcony and leads to two bedrooms, the laundry room, and the bathroom.

The living room is cosy. An old, worn couch is pushed against the vaulted window overlooking the deck. A chair tucked beside it. Against the right wall is a hearth next to another big, open window angled into the forest.

A coffee table sits in front, cluttered with stacks of books—carpentry, woodwork—and pieces of wood. Blocks shaved down into the idea of an object. Incipient creations. A knife lays overtop. Pens, markers scattered around.

Along the log walls—all the same warm honey-coloured—are trophies. A moose head. Antlers. Books line the shelves. Newspaper rests in a thick stack by the armchair.

The kitchen is tucked into a nook, hidden behind an island. The same rustic brown as everything else, save for the faded, yellow refrigerator and the off-white stove.

Where a dining table might sit, is a workbench. Tools. A saw. It spills over the surface.

It's lived in, you know, but something about it feels detached. Cluttered madness, but—

Not really.

Everything, even in this disordered chaos, has a place. From the scattered markers to the books on the walls. It all fits some unseen cohesion even if you thought his house would have been neater. Military.

There's a blanket on the couch that catches your eye. The design—the pattern. Achingly familiar.

“Loft or bedroom?”

You tear your gaze away from it, swallowing down the acrid longing that surges in your throat. “What?”

He jerks his chin towards the balcony. “Wanna sleep up there or in the spare bedroom?”

“Don’t you sleep up there?”

“No. Used to. S’more of an office now.”

There's a guest house to the left of the cabin. A bachelor with the kitchen running into the bedroom. The washroom closed off. But it's not finished, he says, something frissoning over his expression. Knotting between his brows. Something about the look on his face screams don't ask because he'll never tell.

You glance away. It's not in you to pry. To care. Whatever secrets he keeps are his and his alone. Just like yours. Why Coyote—

The only other choice is the spare bedroom tucked inside the dark hallway beside his. Close. Barely an arm's length away—

“Loft.”

He nods like he expected it. Jerks his chin again towards the back, holding your duffle bag out for you to take.

“Showers through there. Go get warmed up. And I'll heat up some stew.”

The bag dangles on the width of his hand, swaying from the momentum. This ugly, tattered black backpack—

“I don't—I didn't bring any clean clothes—” it's embarassing to admit now that inside your meagre bag is nothing but four hundred dollars and an old, tattered blanket. A sweater. Dirty, bloodstained pants. Everything else is with—

With Sam.

The plan had been to cash your last cheque, and go back to the motel. Grab the rest. A stupid decision in hindsight.

There's a tick in his jaw. A terse set to his shoulders. He lowers the bag, letting it fall to the floor, collapsing in on itself. Empty.

“Nevermind,” you say, slipping the wet blanket from your shoulders, letting it pool in your arms. “I can just wear this—”

His eyes rive over the crumpled, wet uniform shirt. Faded pink—bubblegum, you think; with chocolate brown trim—and stained with grease. Coffee.

Another tick. His brow furrows. Knots. Anger slashing over his face, rucking three, jagged lines through his forehead.

“No. I'll bring you somethin’ to wear. Somethin’ warm. Gets cold out here. Go.” Another jerk of his chin. A command.

He does that a lot, you realise, shivering at the bite inside the cabin, the chill ghosting over your damp skin as he turns away from you, walking deeper into the house. Towards his bedroom. The broad expanse of his back bigger than anything you'd ever seen—

All height, and heft. Soft in the middle, but thickened with muscles. And with it, he commands. All biting, unignorable demands. Do this, eat. Go. Get warm.

You're used to it, you think. Being told what to do. How to act. Marionette on strings. All you're good for.

Sam used to say the reason you made him hit you so much is because you never listen. Gotta box you around the ears a bit, just for you to even pay attention to me, Coyote. It's not my fault, baby, you make me do it—

But there's something about his commands that sink beyond noise. Reaching into the slick, pulsing gyri, and sending off his own current of obeyance. Innate. Unconscious. He says eat and you find yourself taking a bite of a burger you didn't think you even wanted. Weren't hungry for. Chewing. Swallowing. Another bite. Chew. Swallow. Again. Again. Again. Utters watch your step and your eyes drop to the slick ground, carefully treading the planks.

Get warm. Go shower. You drop the blanket on the back of the chair, covering up the other one, and walk towards the bathroom. Thoughtless. Head silent. Empty and still. Quiet for the first time since you were thirteen—

It's because you're tired, you think. Exhausted.

That's all.

But when you finally sink into the bed—lumpy and thick and perfect—sleep evades you. Skirts just out of reach until you're staring up at the log ceiling, thinking about nothing. Everything.

Sam. Blood on the pavement. The split in his knuckles. Grease. Burgers. Come on, Coyote—

The knot in your stomach—

Your hand goes there. Slips under the thick cable knit sweater he gave you to sleep in, the boxers that fit like loose shorts, and curls around your lower belly. Flat and empty because this thing inside of you isn't even really there. Small, the book said. Tiny. A speck.

A life-changing, mind-melting thing.

You—

A mother.

The thought is soaked in the rotten, fetid sludge of the past. Of your own mother with her dark hair and her hard eyes. Her strange moods. Don't touch me, Coyote. I don't wanna be touched right now, fuck. Can't you ever listen? Mercurial. How come you never hug me? Actin’ like I ain't your mom an’ shit. Shifting. Evolving. Changing shape depending on who she was with at the time—

Unravelling at the seams ever since your dad died. You look like your dad, Coyote. It makes me fuckin’ sick—

You can't think about it. Won't.

So you don't. Swallow it down. Cotton in your ears. Noise in the back of your head.

Memories on your skin. Ghosts in your veins.

Come on, Coyote.

You'd be a terrible mother, you think, and peel your hand away, knotting it into a fist by your side until your nails sink into skin.

There's something a little grounding about the pain this time.

You stare up at the ceiling all night until the sun rises, golden and warm, and spills in through the vaulted window.

Below you, you hear John stir. Rising.

You follow his lead.

He does odd jobs, he says.

Carpentry. Woodwork. Makes things that people want. That they need. Most of it gets sold in town—patio chairs, kayaks for the tourists—or by the few locals in the bay who need things made. Repairs, too. Easy fixes.

Most of it is on backlog, but he'll get the occasional phone call asking for something to be done.

And that's where you come in.

The loft has a small space made up of a makeshift office. A phone. A ledger. Papers. Pens. It's pushed up against the railing of the balcony, right across from the top of the stairs.

All you really have to do is answer when people call, take their information, and find out what they want him to build. He doesn't do cabins, he grunts. Say no. Always.

Everything else goes into the ledger for him to look at later.

“Don't worry,” he rumbles, scratching at the thick curls beneath his chin. “Most of the orders come from Elliot. You'll just be fielding local work. Kayaks, mostly.”

And he's not wrong. The first week, you get all of a single phone call—a woman down in Osoyoos who wants a kayak. Her information is penned into the thick, waterlogged ledger next to the other names. Contact information. He'll get back to you soon, you say, but John just grunts when you tell him about the woman.

Its mostly just—

Laying around. Organising the mess in the loft. The boxes he shrugs at, and tells you to put them in the closet along with whatever else is clogging the upstairs. Forgotten remnants he seems disinterested in going through.

Or watching him.

John fills space as easily as breathing. Makes noises. Commands. The order he's working on is spread out over the deck, and spills into the cabin. Little saws on the workbench. Tools. He wanders in and out with purpose, grabbing things, using them, putting them back. Silent as he works.

He's a mystery. An enigma. Seems unbothered by you being here, sinking your fingers into his things. He adjusts in that strange, quiet way of his. Makes dinner for two as if he'd been doing it the whole time. Leaves clean towels in the bathroom. Runs into town and comes back with clothes—from Savannah, he grunts out, thrusting the bag in your direction; Elliot's wife, said she'd be about your size—and pads, tampons, that he shoves under the bathroom sink. An extra toothbrush. Shampoo that isn't five-in-one and smells of honey and oats.

But it's not seamless.

Sometimes, you think he forgets. Walks in—caked in sawdust and covered in sweat—and peels his shirt up, baring his thick, hairy damp chest without a second thought, scrubbing his face, his neck, with the bottom of his stained shirt. Or rips it off. Comes in drenched in sweat, and reaches behind himself, one hand curling into the fabric against his nape, and pulls—

Broad, slick skin. All covered in a dense layer of fur.

Bearish.

Remembers himself only when you make a noise. A huff. Silent laughter because this whole thing is a little unreal—

He doesn't apologise, though. Just shrugs. Reaches for a face cloth he keeps slung around the back of the couch and pats himself dry.

Dinner is quiet, too. Sombre. He leaves food out for you, but eats between work. Often outside, reclining on the patio chair on the deck. Pours himself a glass of whiskey. Has a cigar. Inhales his food before you've even put together a plate, and then the saw starts up again. Back to work.

It's tense. The atmosphere is thick. It feels like you're dancing around each other, trying to make room in a space too small for even just himself.

You stay upstairs most of the time. Staring out at the sprawl of glinting blue. The jagged green.

The bay is prettier in the daylight when the sun is high in the sky casting a golden yellow arch across the veridian world around you. Still. Silent.

The city was loud. Cars on the pavement. Horns. Chatter. Noise. People. An endless spill, a cacophony of life. Sirens. Motors. Barking commands.

Sam's condo downtown was never quiet. Too close to the harbour—foghorns, the roar of ships entering the port. Television playing something he was interested in at the time. The radio on. The sounds he made spilling out—fuck, Coyote. Can't you do anything right?

Noise, noise, noise—

More coffee. When's my breakfast comin’ out. Hey, cutie, what time you done work at?

You should really leave him, Coyote, because what the fuck? Have you seen your eye? It looks worse with makeup, come on, girl, you're fuck up our tips!

And now—

The saw. Scrape of a knife on wood. A grunt. Fuck. A loon in the distance. A splash. Watch your step on the deck, Coyote. Got shit everywhere. The lap of the sea against the rocks. The rustle of the trees in the breeze. Makin’ stew tonight. Want some? The ringing of the telephone. Etta James crooning on the radio. The knock of the metal boats against the dock. Grab yourself a beer if you want. Only got that or whiskey. Help yourself. The soft shlick of the fridge peeling open. The hum. Clink of a bottle on glass. The hiss when you open it. A saw. A splash. Rain on glass. The thunk of his boots across the deck. The soft thud of a door.

Anyone call? A grunt. The rip of laces as he peels his boots off. You shake your head, reaching for a bun. No. A sigh. Good.

Most of the noise is in your head.

Memories. Malformed dreams dancing in the recesses of your mind.

Crack of a twig. Hands on your throat. Come on, Coyote—

Inescapable.

Inevitable.

And that's what it all is, isn't it?

He stares at you, too. Sometimes you catch him watching in that careful, measured way of his. The same look on his face as before, in the diner—anger: what happened to you; wariness: whatever it is, don't bring it over here—but morphing. Shifting. Dropping from the curve of your neck tucked under the fold of a pink collar, bruises melting seamlessly into your skin, to the roll of his sweater over your midsection. Pausing there, like he's expecting to see something more than the curl of cream yarn woven together.

It makes you a little sick. Like that time when he and the paramedic hovered. You hate them both, you thought. Felt. An acid burn in your chest. Go away, stop staring. Stop gawking. Leave!

The woman in the drugstore. Oh, you poor thing. Pushing an unwanted pamphlet into your hands. Don't worry, hun, it'll get better.

People look at you and see what they wanted to see. Unwrapping you until they found the hurt below. A reason for their sympathy.

Because girls like you aren't deserving of pity unless you're all broken up. Shallow graves and forgotten names. A box collecting dust.

They looked for the marks, the bruises, and sighed with relief when they found them. Oh, you poor thing.

It's petty, and you hate yourself for it. Just a little bit. But you know how far sympathy will go before it dries up and oh, you poor thing becomes well, you kinda deserved it.

You're not special in this regard. All of your friends had similar stories growing up but what always set them apart is that people would have looked into that room, seen a grown man with his hand on their thigh, a sixteen-year-old child, and thought oh, your poor thing.

When it happened to you, their lips curled in disgust. Stay away from my husband, you slut—

Because at the end of the day, it's always your fault for looking the way you do.

("Like you want it," he grunts into your ear, spiteful and ugly, fingers digging in because they can.)

You figure it's only a matter of time John, too, stops finding reasons for his pity.

His charity.

Because, really—

"What makes you so special, Coyote?"

A pretty face. Split thighs.

The only thing you're good for is being on your knees—

Come on, Coyote. You should know this already.

But the dance continues.

He leaves in the mornings. Goes on runs. You haven't gathered the courage yet to go farther than the deck, too worried about the call of the forest. The sprawling blue. Of sinking into evergreen and sleeping forever—

John doesn't seem to mind your reclusiveness. Only a matter of time. He brings back books when he leaves the island. Little things for you to occupy yourself with. You never ask, won't. The fewer favours you owe, the more of yourself you can keep when the good Samaritan act has run dry.

You don't say thank you. It wasn't your choice to begin with. You clean up after yourself, but that's it. A guest in his house. Nothing more, nothing less.

You do your job, even though it's obvious it was a joke.

No one calls besides the woman in Osoyoos and Elliot—

Something that shouldn't have surprised you as much as it had. Military dogs, he once said as you poured him another cup of coffee. We tend to mingle.

But hearing his voice is a cruel relief. The only exception to the rule has ever been Elliot, a man who seemed to adopt an uncle stance when it came to you.

Kin, he'd said, and laughed when you scoffed. We're practically cousins.

“Might stop by soon. See how you're holdin’ up.”

“Don't bother. I'm fine.”

“Well, maybe I'll come bother Price. He loves it when I visit.”

“I'll pass on the message.”

“No, don't do that,” he laughs, loud and free. It tickles your ear. “He'll call the dock and tell ‘em not to rent me a boat.”

“Should take it as a sign, then. That John—Price doesn't wanna be around you.”

“Ah, cruel girl. You wound me.”

“You don't wanna get hurt, then stop calling.”

“Gotta check in on ya. You get into all kinda trouble when I’m not around.”

It makes you tense. Belly knotting. “No one asked you to do that, Elliot. I didn't ask you to.”

“You're a lot like Price, you know. Both of you…you don't like askin’ for help even if you need it.” He breathes into a line. A heavy sigh.

Elliot is a good man, you know. The best. But—

“I'm fine, Elliot.”

You tend to hurt people like that.

“You're a good kid,” he says instead. “Just—be gentle with him, huh? Been through a lot.”

“He's six foot and like, three hundred pounds. How much damage could I really do?”

More’in you think, is what he says after a long pause, low and solemn; voice full of things you can't unravel. Unwrap. And you scoff in response because what does he know? Huh, Elliot? Be so serious, ta.

A man like John—Price—could rip you apart before you even put a scratch on him.

“Not everyone hurts with their hands, Coyote.”

John's been through a lot. Please remember that.

Something has to break, you think.

And you can feel it, too. This thickness in the air. In the coil of his shoulders. The line between his brow. Anger, inward. The heavy, measured way he stares as he dances around you. Moving in circles. A clumsy routine built on mutual avoidance.

It's I didn't ask for help and don't bring that over here merging into a whitewater confluence. A narrow channel where one must go under first in order to fit.

You're tired of it being you, but you don't think a man like Price has ever backed down from anything in his life.

Stalemate, maybe.

Or—

It cracks after dinner when he lingers. Hovering in the kitchen as you slip down the stairs in search of something to fill the chasm in your belly. The thing growing—

He meets you there, shoulders tense. His head is bowed between them, hung low as he looks over the plans spread out on his workbench. You make to skirt around him, but he looks up when you get close. Pins you in place with his stare.

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

“Adoption,” you force out, squeezed between the ache of the past chiselling inside rotted marrow and the shape of your future; a hole in your belly. Blood on the snow.

You were always meant to die, you think. Snuffed under the heel of a boot or at the end of a shotgun—the how never mattered much over the spread of a carcass on the ground. Inevitable, maybe. Just like—

Just like your mother.

But at least this way, this little thing leaching off of you, an unwanted seedling, will grow. Might have a chance to be different. Escape the generational trauma that plagues your lineage—an inherited curse. Inescapable. Maybe it'll be different. Better.

“I think—adoption might be best. Maybe.”

He says nothing, just stares in that strange, measured way of his. But then—

Why would he? It's not his kid. Not his choice.

It seems to dawn on him all the same. His jaw clenches tight, bruised knuckles peaking as he curls his fingers into a fist.

Something fractures over his expression. Gaze turning inward. Shuttered. Haunted by ghosts older than you, maybe. But he's good at shaking them off. Putting them away.

He catches your stare, eyes following it down to his bloodied knuckles, and his mouth pulls into a taut, absent smile. He knocks them on the wood once, twice. Leaves a drop of blood smeared on the grain.

“Alright,” it's strained, pinched. “If that's what you want.”

It is. It's an unfathomable kindness you wish your mother graced onto you. It—it—will understand. Eventually. With time. Once they realise the only thing in their future was sleeping in the back seat of a car while you worked odd jobs—waitress, stripper, labourer in a factory—and barely having enough money to scrape together to get a happy meal, they'll come to thank you for this choice.

You nod instead, and his lips twitch again in that mockery of a smile. Something shatters. Breaks.

There are more ways to hurt, Coyote, than with teeth and claws.

He peels away after a beat, muttering something under his breath about an order. A kayak the neighbours ordered.

You don't watch him leave. You're too busy staring at the smear of blood left behind, the smear he didn't seem to notice.

for those wondering what John's cabin looks like. Jervis Inlet is just perfect for this little fic.

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #fic: prairie wolf #i hate picking names for people/ocs but i also have plans so the exbf couldn't be a nameless entity 😮‍💨#cod mw2 #cod x reader #john price #captain john price #price/reader #price x you #captain price #cod price

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prokopetz · 1 year ago

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Ways your fortified points-of-light fantasy city with no discernible agricultural base supports itself that aren't "they eat the monsters":

There's no farmland spreading below the city's mountain fastness because all of the crops are above. Most of the mountain's surface area below the permanent snowline is taken up by a series of colossal hydroponic terraces fed by seasonal meltwater from the snow pack above. (Don't ask who built the terraces.)

The city's famed heaven-piercing towers are aviaries for millions upon untold millions of fruit and seed eating birds, which forage the surrounding countryside by day and roost there at night; their meat and eggs form the community's staple diet. In order to fend off ecological depletion, crack teams of combat-trained wilderness maintenance experts venture forth daily, escorting great cartloads of birdshit on targeted fertilising missions (though in truth they hardly need their swords, as the smell keeps the monsters at bay).

Those weird caverns that seem to be present under every random shed and outhouse are all connected. That's why the giant mutant rats in the basement of the local inn are such a big deal – they're not just annoying the guests, they're also obstructing the community's principal trade route!

For Reasons, the city's population is only about ten percent of its carrying capacity. The city's interior green spaces are presently sufficient for food production, and its citizens take turns dressing up as soldiers and manning the walls once a week to create the illusion of a robust military presence. Unfortunately, the ruse can't last forever, as they lack the manpower to maintain their crumbling infrastructure, nor will they be able to defend themselves when – not if, but when – the neighbouring city-states figure it out.

There's actually plenty of conventional farmland; it's just that the entire campaign takes place south of the city, and the farms are all to the north. Why don't the farms expand southward to claim the clearly arable land? Well, there's a funny story about that...

#gaming #tabletop roleplaying #tabletop rpgs #fantasy #worldbuilding #food mention #violence mention #unsanitary #swearing

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lilaccmilk · 9 months ago

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@lulz-nematode-belmont ask and you shall receive 🫶🏻 and i'm sorry this took soooo long.

Since you were little you've always feared monsters and the dark. Especially the monster under your bed. But as you grew up, you managed to convince yourself that it was just a myth. But now, as you've moved to your new house, over the course of past few months, you feel that the monster under the bed thing wasn't just a myth to scare children.

You wake up in the morning, not even remembering when you went to bed, with bruises on your thighs and your pussy sore. You tried setting up a camera, but "somehow" the camera didn't record anything except darkness.

This time around, you're prepared to stay awake the entire night, so you get in your bed and close your eyes. After almost an hour, you feel your blanket being pulled down from over you. You remain still, and you feel giant hands on your thighs spreading your legs apart.

You feel a presence hover over you, and suddenly you switch on the lights, just to see a tall dark figure, he looks almost like a human, except he has a skin that matches the darkness of the night, his hair as white as snow. His face is pleasing to look at. Even the razor sharp teeth, you feel safe with him around, he starts to retreat wide eyed, but your voice stops him— "You've been visiting me?"

"Yeah" he replies kind of guilty. "I'm not....mad, just surprised" you laugh. "What have you been doing in your visits?" you add on. "I've been fucking you with my tongue. Couldn't resist" he speaks softly.

You blush at his straightforwardness about what he had been doing. Honestly you didn't mind, just hoped that you could've stayed awake while he was busy eating you out. "You're aroused?"he grunts. Your eyes widen, how could he sense that? You, yourself couldn't. "Am I?" you ask to no one in particular.

"Yeah, more so than the other days." he replies anyways. "Now what?" you question to him. "I can leave if you want me to, but if you want me to stay, just know you'll never get rid of me. You will be mine and I will be yours." he replies, his voice turning dark at the end.

You pause for a bit and then just say one word, "Stay." And all hell breaks loose, you're on your back, legs spread, shorts ripped apart and him face to face with your cunt. You try to close your legs out of shyness but he holds them apart, his voice rough as he speaks "Don't try hiding yourself from me, sunshine. You're all mine."

He then wordlessly licks up your pussy. His teeth carefully toy with your clit. He eats you out with so much vigor, it makes your back arch off the bed, and he pins you down by your hips to the bed. He gets so messy, it's like he's eating you out for his own pleasure rather than yours. He continues his ministrations on your poor cunt and you cum around his tongue. He keeps on going until you come 3-4 times more.

"I think that's enough for you tonight. yeah?" He speaks. You're too tired to say anything and wordlessly pull him closer to you to cuddle him.

#monster boyfriend #monster fucker #monster smut #monster x human #tw teratophilia #teratophillia #terato #monster under the bed #monster #monster bf #monster romance #monster x reader #monster x you #tw monsterfucking #monsterfucking nsft #monster nsft

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prythiansprincess · 1 year ago

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darling, you look divine.

pairing: regulus black x reader.

song inspiration: eyes don't lie by isabel larosa.

author's note: screaming, crying, throwing up. if regulus looked at me like that, i'd be wetter than the black lake. please enjoy my darlings 🤎

The first symptom reared its ugly head early Monday morning.

You were in the Great Hall eating breakfast with James, Remus, Sirius, and Peter when your skin suddenly felt like you were being engulfed by fiendfyre. The burning heat spread through your entire body, making you feel flushed and flustered. Your fork clattered against the table while you wiped the sweat off of your brow with clammy hands.

“Are you feeling alright, love?” asked Sirius.

You shook your head, fanning yourself. “Does anyone else feel hot all of a sudden? It feels like I’m getting burned alive.”

The boys shook their heads. Remus laid the back of his hand against your forehead. “You’re burning up, Y/N. I think you might be pitching a fever.”

James pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and squinted. “Moony’s right. You’re sweating profusely and you look a bit peaked.”

Peter nodded in agreement. “It might be that new dragon flu that’s going around. Maybe you should head back to the dorms, Y/N.”

“I can’t miss class. There’s an assignment due in Transfiguration.”

Just then, a violent cramp seized your lower abdomen. You gripped the edge of the dining table so hard that you felt the wood splinter underneath your palm. Padfoot’s eyes widened at the appearance of your claws. It had only been a month since Sirius helped you summon your Animagus form and while you still had much to learn, you’ve never lost control like this before.

You needed to get out of there. Transforming into a giant snow leopard in the middle of the Great Hall would be very, very bad.

“Don’t worry about McGonagall,” Sirius said in a stern voice. “We’ll cover for you. Now come on, I’ll walk you back to your room.”

Fortunately, you managed to reach Gryffindor tower with no other incidents. After Sirius escorted you back to your dorm, he barred the door with magic and promised to check up on you after class.

The cramps only worsened. It felt like someone had buried a dagger into your stomach and was now twisting and turning it as they pleased. You doubled over in pain and clutched the poster of your canopy bed before curling up into a ball in the middle of your mattress. Not even your period cramps compared to this torment.

When you thought it couldn’t get any worse, an overwhelming ache blossomed between your thighs and made you groan with need. You twisted in your sheets and pressed your legs together to counteract the wave of lust coursing through your veins, but it only made it worse. You felt empty and hollow and the overwhelming desire to be filled was the only thing you could think about.

This was different from the surge of adolescent hormones that you had grown so familiar with. The desire was a living thing, sinking its claws into your very being. You felt feral, animalistic.

You burrowed into your pillows, your breaths growing ragged as you tried to regain control. A demanding knock against your door broke your concentration. You sniffed the air, whining softly as the intoxicating scent of eucalyptus, bergamot, and sandalwood overpowered your heightened senses. A part of you recalled the warning Sirius left you with. You were not, under any circumstances, supposed to open the door unless it was him or one of the boys on the other side, but the temptation was too strong.

As the knocks grew more insistent, the scent shifted into something sharper. You felt yourself drawn to it and before long, you were opening the door to satiate your curiosity. The person standing on the other side made your stomach lurch.

“Regulus,” you said through gritted teeth. The very presence of the younger Black brother made your entire body shake as you contended against the urge to transform. It was a losing battle. You could feel your canines elongating, making your gums feel sore and achy. “Now is not a good time.”

In fact, it was the worst bloody fucking time. On a normal day, you could barely tolerate Regulus. His surly attitude and cutting glare certainly left little to be desired. Then there was the matter of his falling out with Sirius, which only served to heighten the tension between you. When Professor McGonagall chose to make you partners, you at least attempted to keep things civil. Whatever was going on between your best friend and his younger brother was none of your business, but Regulus had practically made it impossible to stay impartial.

You had never met a broodier, haughtier, snootier arsehole than Regulus Arcturus Black. The pureblood prick acted like he was a prince amongst peasants just because he happened to be born into the right bloodline. Yet a muggleborn like yourself had managed to take the top spot in every class. A spot that previously belonged to him.

To be expected, Regulus wasn’t the least bit pleased about this. He was even less thrilled when McGonagall tasked him to drop off the latest lecture notes so that you wouldn’t fall behind in class. If she hadn’t threatened to deduct points from his house for refusing, Regulus would’ve never set foot in the godforsaken lion’s den.

He pushed his way inside, not bothering to wait for a proper invitation. “Here are the notes from class,” Regulus stated stiffly. “We’re required to transform a thimble into a thestral. I suggest you read up. I’ll not have you dragging me down just because you fancied playing hooky for the day.”

“I’m not skipping for the bloody hell of it,” you snapped. “If I had a choice, I would be in class not doubled over in pain—”

Regulus caught you just before you hit the ground. The dizzy spell had come out of nowhere, nearly knocking you to the floor from the sheer force of its effects. As Regulus snaked his arm around your waist, you almost wished it had. His scent hit you all at once. You whimpered as he tucked you against his side, feeling the heat of his touch even under all your layers of clothing.

The ringing in your ears subsided enough for you to hear the panic in Regulus’ voice. “Y/N, can you hear me? Are you alright?”

You pushed him off with what little strength remained in your body. “Thank you for the notes, but I’d appreciate it if you left.”

“No,” Regulus said.

“What do you mean, no?

“I mean, no. Do you want to hear it in French? Non.”

You frowned, clutching your stomach. The cramps were starting again, but it was different this time. The ache in your lower abdomen was excruciating and your current proximity to Regulus only seemed to make it worse. The slickness between your thighs certainly didn’t help the matter. It was humiliating, plain and simple.

“Get the fuck out, Regulus!”

Regulus caught your wrist. His fingers felt like ice against your overheated skin. “You don’t want that, darling. Not when I’m the only person who can help.”

“You know what’s wrong with me?”

He sighed. “Of course my brother would convince you to turn without thinking about the side effects. Classic Sirius, honestly.” You glared at him to get on with it. “You’re in heat, Y/N.”

You grimaced. There was no way in Godric’s green earth. “Like…a cat?”

Regulus smirked. “Is that what you transform into, little kitten?” You pursed your lips, which caused him to roll his eyes. “Please, I know your merry band of misfits have all conjured an animagus form. There’s no use hiding it. So what are you? A fuzzy little Persian cat?”

“No,” you said rather haughtily. Did he have to be so irritating? “My form is a snow leopard.”

“Still a kitten,” he responded with a shit eating grin. “The same rules apply. You’ll be in heat for at least a week, mon chaton.”

“You mean I have to suffer for seven whole days? This is hell. It feels like my uterus is being ripped apart. How am I supposed to endure this pain for an entire week?”

“Well, there are ways to find relief.”

“What kind of ways?”

Regulus gave you a knowing look. “You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you can figure it out. What’s the purpose of heat?”

“Reproduction,” you answered almost instantly. The realization left your mouth before your brain could even process it. Oh, you have got to be kidding. This was some sort of cruel joke. For Merlin’s fucking sake! This was horrifying. Downright humiliating. “You can’t possibly mean…”

The grin on the stupid twat’s face was growing wider by the second. “You don’t necessarily have to have sex,” he said in an amused tone. “An orgasm will do. I’m sure you can manage that with your fingers, can’t you princess?”

You swallowed thickly. “I—I’ve never—“

Was it possible to die from embarrassment? Discussing the details of your sex life would’ve been humiliating under any circumstance, but this? Standing here, telling Regulus fucking Black what you were about to tell him, this was truly rock bottom.

“Don’t tell me you’re a virgin.”

“No!” you snapped. You’ve had your fair share of experience in that department, no matter how awkward they might’ve been. “I’ve had sex, I just haven’t…”

“You’ve never had an orgasm?” Regulus said, entirely perplexed. “Not even once?”

You crossed your arms defensively, which turned out to be a big mistake. On top of everything else that you were already suffering through, your breasts now felt sore and sensitive.

“No,” you conceded with a sigh. “I don’t need you judging me for it either, so if you’re quite done then please get the bloody hell out of my dorm.”

It may have been your imagination, but you could’ve sworn that Regulus softened just a little bit. He at least loosened his grip on your wrist, rubbing up your arm in a gesture that might’ve been soothing if it weren’t coming from him.

“I’m not judging you. If anything, I’m judging whoever it is that failed to make you finish. It’s quite rude to leave a lady unsatisfied.”

“What would you even know about satisfying a woman, Regulus?”

“Trust me, darling. I know plenty.” Your cheeks heated as he traced circles on your forearm. “Tell me, kitten. Have you ever touched yourself?”

The conversation should have ended there. You should’ve put a stop to it. But this bloody fucking heat was doing strange things to your body. Your hormones were out of control and Regulus was standing way too close for comfort. So close that you could see the little golden flecks in his emerald eyes. So close that one of his curls was tickling your cheek. So close that those full, pillowy lips were mere inches away from your own.

He smirked when your gaze dipped down to his mouth. “My eyes are up here, Y/N and I asked you a question. The polite thing to do is answer.”

“Since when have you ever cared about being polite?”

“I don’t, but I think you and I are playing a very dangerous game here and I quite enjoy sparring with you, ma cherie.” Regulus tilted your chin up and cradled your jaw. “So, have you or have you not touched yourself?”

You glared up at him defiantly; a last ditch effort to keep your dignity intact. “No,” you said with your head held high. “I’ve never touched myself and I’ve never had an orgasm. Are you happy now, Regulus?”

“Quite the opposite,” he murmured. Regulus caressed your bottom lip with his thumb and tilted his head back to study you. His eyes were almost black when they flickered back up to meet yours. “I could teach you.”

“You want to teach me how to…”

“Masturbate. Wank. Get yourself off?” Regulus listed matter-of-factly. “Yes. Yes, I do, ma chérie.”

It should’ve been a no-brainer. This was a terrible, horrible fucking idea. An absolute hot mess that would yield calamitous results, but the ache in your core was too painful to ignore and you were willing to try just about anything to find relief. Including trusting someone you absolutely loathed.

“Fine. You can teach me, but that’s it. None of this goes any further than that.”

Regulus smirked. “I won’t touch you, princess. Not until you beg me to.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “So?”

He nodded behind you. “Get on the bed.”

That was easy enough. You crawled into your mattress and sat cross legged on top of your sheets. “Not like that. Lie down on your back and take those ghastly pajamas off.”

Arsehole. You happened to like your red and gold striped bottoms, but to be fair, they were in the way. The mattress dipped beneath him as Regulus positioned himself at the very edge of the bed. He leaned against the wooden poster, his gaze transfixed on the sight before him.

“I wouldn’t have taken you as a red lace lingerie type of girl, mon chaton.” You frowned in response, which only made him chuckle. “As pretty as those panties are, you’ll need to take them off as well.”

You hesitated, hooking your thumb over the waistband of your knickers. Regulus raised a brow as if he were challenging you to back out. Like he half-expected you to be too scared to continue. He seriously underestimated that infamous brashness that Gryffindors were so well known for.

He inhaled sharply as you slipped out of your panties and tossed the discarded lace next to him. “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”

For once, you kept silent and did what you were told. Regulus nodded tightly. “Wider. Yeah, just like that.”

“What now?” you asked, trying to keep yourself from blushing at this totally undignified position. You were way past embarrassment now.

“Run a finger through your folds,” Regulus said, his voice sounding huskier than it did a second ago. He watched with dark eyes as you stroked your core. “Fuck, you’re soaked. I can see it on your fingers.”

You took a deep breath, feeling that tension coil in your lower abdomen. Every fiber of your being buzzed with lust. “Stroke yourself, kitten. Imagine that it’s someone else touching you.”

With your eyes closed, you let his voice guide you through the steps. You hated to admit it, but he was good at this. “Use your own slick to make it easier, darling. Gather it before rubbing your clit. That’s it, just like that. There’s a good girl.”

The words spurred you on, your fingers working that sensitive bundle of nerves to find release. You could feel the budding orgasm. It was spreading through you, setting your teeth on edge. You were close, so close.

When the momentum dropped, you nearly cried out of frustration. If you thought you were in pain before, this was ten-fold of that. For some reason, there was some sort of mental block that you couldn’t get past.

You looked up, your lower lip trembling. “I can’t do it. There’s this block and I freeze up and I just can’t do it on my own.”

Regulus looked unhinged. Like he was going to jump out of his skin any second. You’ve never seen him like this. Anything other than calm and collected was out of character for the youngest Black.

“Will you help me?” you whispered. To be honest, you weren’t above begging at this point.

He looked utterly conflicted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Y/N. You’re in heat. I don’t want to take advantage when you’re in such a vulnerable state.”

You shook your head. “You wouldn’t be taking advantage. I know I’m hormonal, but oddly enough, I trust you. You know how to keep a secret. Just please, Regulus. I’m in so much pain.”

Regulus was silent for a moment. He seemed to be in deep contemplation. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re aware of what you’re asking for and who you’re asking it from?”

“I am perfectly aware, thank you very much. Is this the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had? Fuck no. Do I still want to do it anyways? Fuck yes.”

The two of you stared at one another. Regulus clenched his jaw and then unclenched it. Finally, he sighed in resignation.

“C’mere then.”

He positioned himself against the headboard, his back pressed up on the wood. Regulus bent his long legs and pulled you against him, your back resting against the solid plane of his chest. You sighed as he rubbed soothing circles upon your skin, his rings kissing your hips with their cold bite. He shuffled behind you, adjusting himself just as you caught a glimpse of the two of you in your vanity mirror.

Regulus stuck his middle and pointer finger into his mouth, making sure they were nice and wet before he moved them lower. You whimpered as he caressed the inside of your thigh and clutched the sheets as he teased along your crease. When he stroked along your wetness, a choked moan escaped from your lips.

“Gods, you’re fucking dripping.” His cold breath fanned over your neck just as he plunged his fingers deep within you. “Salazar fucking save me, you’re even tighter than I imagined.”

His strokes were languid, small ministrations as he buried his fingers inside of you. The cold metal rings that adorned his slender fingers hit your pubic bone every time he thrusted inside of you, but it wasn’t painful. In fact, seeing the Black heirloom ring soaked in your wetness might’ve been the most erotic sight you’ve ever witnessed.

You whimpered as his other hand disappeared underneath your shirt. “Can I touch you here, princess?”

The sound that came out of you barely sounded human. It was a purr more than anything. Regulus caressed your ribs with his knuckles. “I need words, kitten.”

“You can touch me, Regulus.”

Fire skittered along your skin as his hand traveled further up. He palmed you through your bra before he slipped under the fabric and squeezed your breast. Regulus paid equal attention to both of your breasts, admiring the curve and swell of them as he picked up the pace of his fingers. You moaned as he pinched your nipples, which only made you wetter still.

You fisted his curls in one hand as he curved them inside of you. Regulus chuckled darkly, pleased by your reaction. “Right there? Does that feel good, princess?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, gods that’s perfect.”

“You’re doing so well, ma cherie. That’s it. Ride my fingers just like that. Feels good, yeah?”

You nodded, blinking at the image in the mirror. Regulus had his hands all over you, his lips pressed lightly against your neck as he watched his fingers slide in and out of your tight cunt. His eyes caught yours in the reflection, the green completely swallowed by dark pools of lust.

“Look at you, all spread out for me. You’re fucking exquisite. The little moans you make are enough to drive me mad.”

“Regulus, please,” you keened. He smirked against your neck and picked up the pace. Your head fell against his shoulder as that familiar tense built. “Oh gods. Oh fuck. Reggie—“

You felt him grip your chin, tilting it towards the mirror. “Don’t close your eyes,” Regulus growled into your ear. “Watch, kitten. Watch as I make you cum.”

When you dragged your gaze upwards, you almost didn’t recognize yourself. You were in a state of disarray, cheeks flushed, hair matted, and lips parted as Regulus pushed you over the edge. His fingers were magic and every stroke unraveled you, hips bucking, back arching, begging for more and more and more. The orgasm rippled through you like a monsoon, completely swallowing you whole.

“That’s it, princess,” Regulus cooed. “Gods, you’re so fucking pretty when you cum. Darling, you look divine. Je suis raide dingue de toi.”

The comedown had you seeing stars. Behind your eyes was a whole galaxy, a cluster of constellations that you never would’ve reached without him. Regulus had made you cum so hard that your body felt like it was floating through outer space.

When you finally regained awareness, you were surprised to find Regulus gently brushing your hair back. “How was that, kitten?”

“That was—you were—fuck.”

“Well said, love. Shakespeare himself would envy your silver tongue.”

He slid his fingers out of you slowly and you tried and failed to suppress the little whine that escaped from the back of your throat.

Regulus smirked, feeling the way you clenched around his digits in an attempt to keep him in place. He stared at his hand, mesmerized by the arousal dripping off his fingers. You stirred, having every intention to find something that he could clean himself off with.

“Let me grab you a towel.”

He gripped your hips in place and looked you straight in the eyes as he brought his fingers to his lips. “No need, princess.”

Then he sucked, hard. The filthy image was enough to leave you gasping in shock. He lapped up every drop like you were the sweetest delicacy on this earth. Regulus groaned, his eyes rolling back as he savored the taste. The moan that rippled through him would forever be branded into your mind.

For Godric’s fucking sake, the man was downright obscene.

“That should hold you off for the rest of the day,” Regulus said. “You’ll still feel the effects of your heat, but it won’t be as bad. You might even be able to drag yourself down to dinner. If you can manage to walk on such shaky legs.”

You rolled your eyes, but softened a bit. If it weren’t for him, you would still be in excruciating pain. “Would it be strange to say thank you?”

Regulus shrugged nonchalantly as though you were merely discussing the weather. “Not strange at all. You’re very welcome, princess.”

“You’re…” you took a deep breath, like your body was rejecting whatever compliment was forming in your mind. “You’re really good at that.”

“Yeah? You think so?”

You quirked a brow. “Fishing for compliments, are we?”

“The only compliment I need is the sound of you moaning my name,” he said with a smile as he hooked your bra back in place and pulled your shirt back down. “I assure you that I intend to hear plenty of that in the near future. This is just the start.”

Regulus straightened, trailing his fingers along the sheets before snatching up the red lace underwear you’d thrown at him earlier. He pocketed the lingerie and smirked.

"You said something earlier," you recalled. "Before I..."

"Before I made you come so hard you saw stars?"

Heat flooded your cheeks at his vulgar choice of words. "Yes. Something in French. That's your native tongue, isn't it?"

"Thinking a lot about my tongue, are you love?"

You ignored the salacious comment. "What did you say?"

A devious smirk tugged at his lips. Regulus pierced you with his gaze, those emerald eyes burning with so much lust that you felt choked with desire.

"It's a secret," he whispered, his voice a deep and rough caress. "If you're good, then maybe you'll find out what my tongue and I have to say."

You rolled your eyes. "You're a pain in the arse, Regulus."

"Find me when you want to play again, princess," Regulus said with a dark chuckle. "I'll be waiting for those claws to come out. See you soon, mon chaton.”

#i am climbing up the walls just look at him my god #regulus black #regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #regulus black fic #regulus black smut #the marauders #marauders era

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