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delightfultheoristfox · 17 days

Text

Takes practice

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposting from AO3.

A second part of sorts to Never had a thing.

In my feel-good romance era. Usually more of a slap me pull my hair touch me there, there, there - no more talking. But not today. No SIR.

Word count: 13k

18+

CW: smut!!! dry humping, mutual masturbation, thigh fucking, P in V. Fluff, this is very fluffy. Soft Simon Riley, Simon is absolutely fucking whipped. Self-deprecating thoughts, intrusive thoughts, angst if you squint so don't squint and you'll only get yearning and love making.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon doesn’t remember your eyes.

He’s been clawing at his face, both literally and metaphorically, because each time he closes his eyelids to succumb to exhaustion, he sees your face.

And you’re pretty. So much. He envisions the curve of your smile and how your lips part to give way to your teeth. The lines at the corners that scrunch your nose and how it flushes when it’s too cold out. He has memorized the shape of your brows for every expression. Knows the line of your cheekbones and how they swell under your eyes when you smile.

Your face is lovely, even when he conjures it in his head. But when your form breaks through the mist, he gets startled every time. Because he can’t see your eyes.

It's like a mock picture of you. A mimicry gone bad. You’re there, fresh and real, whispering sweet words to him, tossing a quip, or moaning breathlessly as he remembers the way he’s fucked you, but your eyes are carved out. Blank spots instead of the windows to your soul, like everyone always seems to chatter about.

Sure, he remembers the shape of your eyes, and if he takes deep breaths, cancels out Johnny’s blabber blaring from his cot, and enters a deep meditative state, he might be able to draw their outline.

But it’s the shade he misses. Are they sapphire, dark, and cryptic? Or frostbite blues. Emerald, maybe. He ponders, but he’s not sure. Brown, like his? Chocolate, with swirling hazels like golden speckles. Stormy grey. Charcoal black. Amber. Gold. Fucking crimson.

He doesn’t know.

But it's only been three months since he left.

And it’s been six months since Simon has taken you on his bed and fucked his name into you. Six months since he’s finally tasted your skin and imprinted your flavor on his tongue.

It’s your fault, he thinks, if now everything he eats tastes bland. Nothing sweeter than the salt of you. The dichotomy is not lost on him. He’s a rational man, and figures easily that skin can't be sweet, especially not after he made you sweat by pounding you into the mattress. Yet he might have lost a marble or two after that, because now not even honey can compare.

Which is why he’s moved his things in your room. Just because it’s bigger, he told you. No other reason, really.

Fucking liar.

But again, you’re as saccharine as you taste. And maybe not as naïve as he thinks. Because ever since that night, six months ago, your hands often intertwine with his own when you guide him to bed – your bed.

And that’s how he found a nightstand full of his things on the side closer to the doorway of the room. There’s the book you’ve lent him and a re-filled plastic bottle of water right next to it, one that he should probably throw away like you constantly tell him. Something about microplastics, but fuck if he knows. Because ever since that night, he’s lost a bit of his logic, a lot more of his sanity: you can speak for hours on end and he wouldn’t hear a damn thing if not for how your voice vibrates against his eardrums, sending tingles down his spine.

Surreptitiously, his things have started to appear in your room. He doesn’t have much, a phew photos of his family are shuffled with your trinkets. Plain, white frames stuffed in between your smiles on pictures you’ve taken with friends.

A frame of his medals, the ones you insisted he kept, nailed to the wall next to your PhD certificate.

Tidy, onyx wardrobe polluted with pinks and greens. Breathable cotton and faux furs. Fuzzy fabrics that leave a rainbow of synthetic hairs on his clothes. He doesn’t bother to pluck them off, it’s just another piece of you he’s lucky to carry around.

His old bedroom turns into a storage room. Filled with boxes of forgotten things and broken appliances you can’t be bothered to fix.

And he promises to tinker a little with the vacuum, so you won’t have to spend money on a new one and use your savings for your guilty pleasures. That book you saw when you went out together for groceries? Consider it yours. The cooking classes you wanted to attend at that restaurant you’re always raging about? He’s already bought you a pristine new apron.

And maybe he’ll take you there, too. Ask for a more secluded table where he can still spot the door, so he can also uncoil the muscles of his back and use his eyes only to look at you, instead of having them dart around for dangers.

But fuck, he can’t do any of that now.

It’s his first mission after that night, six months ago, and Simon is already feeling withdrawal symptoms. You’re worse than morphine on a dying man; you leave him aching for something he knows he can have because you're so obviously there, but he’s so stupidly far away.

And he can’t even tell you where he is. Can’t even give you some peace of mind. Can barely call you, because Johnny’s been hogging the satellite phone to talk to Lord-knows-who.

The Scot is not selfish, Simon knows he would only have to ask, and the bulky device would practically materialize in his hand. But Simon also knows that if he dared, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. Because in the years spent in the task force, he’s never needed to call anyone.

Can’t call the dead, now, can you?

And now, popping a question like that would only raise suspicions. It would have his mates up his arse until his head would split in half.

But it’s been six months since that night. Three months since he left.

And that pocket of time he’s managed to spend with you, uninterrupted, almost made him accustomed to civilian life. To the lack of his mask and the AC of the flat breezing against his face. The taste of homecooked meals. The constant presence of another soul (a beautiful one at that) in his same space.

With you, he’s never parched – of anything. You feed him mind, heart and body, showering him with that innocent love you so easily dispense, allowing him to bathe in it.

He’d listen to your never-ending chat for days. His mind has always roared with sounds, yet the more noise you make the more you silence it. Baffling, really, how he’s spent his whole life looking for quiet and found it in the loudest person on earth.

He’s always sated with your kisses, your words, your quick mind and razor-sharp wit, your moans and your mewls, and God, anything you were willing to give. Your lips, your spit, the juices he makes you drip, and the ones he makes you spray. He dreams of cupping your clit with his mouth as he ravages your cunt with two thick fingers until you’re splashing on his tongue. He’d drink you dry, if you’d let him.

And oh, you have.

There’s the wonderful catch. These are not wishes; these are memories. Too real and fresh ones for them to be just another one of his daydreams.

Finally, after three months of pondering – or better, yearning – he realizes that every skin-prickling migraine his mates would induce is worth the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.

He’s disgustingly sweaty. He tugs at the lip of his collar and grimaces when he feels the cotton unstick from the dampness on his chest.

Johnny's sitting idly, enjoying the few days of break from mayhem. Just a handful of hours allowed, really, enough to get them back on their feet – tactical planning, refill of their resources. Boring shite like that. But at least it’s a breather all right.

“Got the phone, Johnny?” He grumbles.

And Johnny would love to act as none the wiser, but his eyes peek from behind the sketchbook he holds in his hand. The smirk that curls at his lips has Simon roll his eyes.

He makes a beckoning gesture with his fingers, giving him a pointed look. “Johnny.”

“L.T.” He responds in kind. “Callin’ the landlord?”

Simon levels him with a deadpan look that could freeze the desert they’re stuck in. “Sergeant.”

Bastard’s too cunning for his own good.

Johnny drops the sketchbook immediately, showing the lieutenant his palms in defense. The cheeky bastard that he is doesn’t manage to conceal the absolute fascination in his eyes. He’s studying his superior as if he’s staring at another species.

And Simon doesn’t blame him. He’s like a sock that’s been turned inside out, the negative image of himself. All that gloomy energy turned blinding light, ever since he’s had a taste of what life could be with you in it.

But alas, no one wants to have the Ghost up their arse, so Johnny looks around the messy area around his cot and plucks the girthy satellite phone out of it.

Simon picks it up by pinching the tiny antenna on its side. It prompts Johnny’s smirk to broaden.

“Haven’t done anythin’ with it.” He quips, letting it hang in the air for a second longer. “Or have I.”

Simon grunts a noise of disgust. “Spare me.”

He finds a secluded spot in the area they're occupying. There's nothing around them but the rubble of a city that has been torn by war and time. The sight is dour, and the silence echoes a dark past he hasn’t witnessed. Even so, the remains of the buildings are tall enough to offer their lot some cover.

He slides with his back against a wall, knees spread wide.

He knows your number by heart, his thumb presses each button with newfound resolve. Only when he brings the phone to his ear, does his determination falter. Because he hasn't contacted you in any way, shape, or form for three months. So, what if you’re livid, now? You’d have every right. He’d understand if you’d rip him a new one through the receiver. He just hopes you didn’t spend these days rethinking your choices.

God, you’ve infected him with this overthinking bullshit.

“Hello?” Your voice breaks through the fog in his brain, like a hand wiping mist from glass, and his own breath threatens to choke him. He’s speechless for a moment, forgetting how to function properly.

Just your voice has sent his mind into overdrive - burnt his synapses to ashes.

He reckons he’s completely fucked.

“Hello?” You repeat, sounding a little more annoyed.

You grumble something about telemarketers having lost the decency to call at a reasonable hour. And when he doesn't answer again, he hears you sigh. Your voice gets all clinical, then, as if you were trained to repeat the same script over and over. “Listen, if you’re trying to sell me somethin’, my husband’s not home – he takes care of that stuff.”

He snorts.

“Your husband?”

Silence.

There’s a sort of shifting sound, he gathers you might have removed the phone from your ear and checked for the number on the screen. He can practically see your eyes squinting at the phone.

He hears you gasp, and he hints at a smile. Fucking hell, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s done that.

“Simon?” You venture.

“Hello, love.”

You squeal, and he pulls the phone away from his ear with a grimace. But he’s tired of lying to himself – his heart is soaring.

"Christ. Made my ears ring," he deadpans.

You chuckle, sighing afterward, as if a weight has been lifted from your chest. God, you’re a dream to listen to. If only he could also look at your face right now, just bask in the way your smile would light up the room.

“Serves you right,” you chide him, as if that could ever be a punishment. “Could’ve called a little earlier than three months in. Was already looking for a new flatmate.”

He’s eternally thankful for the skull mask, even if it’s soddened with his sweat because if anyone were to walk by, they wouldn’t see how his face has softened.

“Yeah?” He sniffs, “Made a new flyer and all tha’?”

“Oh yeah,” You agree flippantly. There’s a shuffling sound that reminds him of bedsheets. “Made sure to add my boyfriend left me as a footnote.”

The corners of his lips twitch minutely.

“Thought it was your husband who wasn’t home.” He retorts. “Got a stash of ‘em, then?”

Your chuckle is a breath of fresh air. He wants to have it imprinted in his eardrums, replacing the aggravating tinnitus.

“Oh, y’know,” you sigh dramatically. “Bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Keeps things interesting.”

“Gotta have a chat with the lad, then.” He taunts, “Set some rules.”

“Good luck with that. He rarely listens.”

He hums fondly. It’s all he can give you, right now.

He’s new to this, relationships have never been his forte. For the first time in his life, he’s having someone else guide him. It’s hard, he won’t deny it, having another set of hands grasp the wheel, instead of his own. But he’s letting you, however slowly. You’re understanding, and you’re allowing him to leave his foot on the brakes. You never push him, you go at his pace – even if it’s blatantly annoying, how sluggish his movements are. Yet you don’t seem to mind, and he’s eternally grateful for it.

“How…” You start. He can tell you’re unsure, whether or not you can ask these things. Whether or not he can answer them. “How are you?”

His eyes soften.

“Good,” he reassures you. “’S hot.”

You hum. “North Africa.”

He clicks his tongue. “No.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Middle East?”

Eh. “No.”

You gasp.

“You’re throwing me off guard, aren’t you? You said it’s hot, but it actually isn’t.” You say cleverly, even if you’re aware it’s most likely untrue. “North America, then. Like - Canada.”

“Drop it, maybe.” He offers gently. “Making a fool o’ yourself.”

“Alaska.”

“Love.” He warns, but his voice is kind. “Wastin’ time.”

“Mh, the script has changed, I see.” You tease him, and he can tell you’re smiling, by the way your voice comes. “Thought you were gonna hit me with the classified.”

“Like to keep you on your toes.”

“Been on my toes for three months.”

His heart clenches a little. He doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want you to live on the line like that. He wonders if you’ve ever felt like this, in the four years he’s lived with you without having anything tethering each other, if not a casual friendship. Were you ever afraid when he left for his deployments? Or is this new to you, like it is for him?

“Fixed the vacuum, by the way.” You tell him lightly, as if sensing the tense air your comment has instilled.

He silently thanks you for breaking the silence when he couldn’t. A gentle huff of relief travels through the receiver.

“What was the problem?” He asks, even if not really fussed about the state of the thing.

“Fuck if I know.” You shrug. “Gave it a few whacks and it started working again.”

He fails to keep in a huff of laughter. “Fucking hell, ‘s tha’ what you’ve been doing, then? Hitting appliances?”

“Fixing appliances.” You correct him. “And stress baking. Lots of it.”

“Work’s botherin’ ya?”

“S’fine.” You sigh sweetly, as though that could give him some peace of mind. “Everything’s fine over here, you don’t have to worry.”

Selfless angel, you are. He would have to be daft not to realize that you’re probably leeching your heart dry at the thought that something might happen to him. He feels like a fool for not having contacted you sooner, even when he had only a minute to spare.

His pride be damned.

“’M sorry I didn’t call earlier.” He apologizes, because the least he can do is hope you forgive him for being like a baby deer on ice about all this.

“You called.” Your voice is soft. “’S what matters.”

He knows what you mean. He’s alive, that’s what matters. He’s faring good enough to chat with you, that’s what matters. He’s missing you as much as you’re longing for him, that’s what matters.

He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His offhand runs across his face and he has to rip his own head out of his arse before the thoughts overwhelm him.

How can he put you through this? He should’ve left three weeks in, four years ago; should’ve let you share your home with someone more reliable, one who didn’t have a blade oscillating above his neck.

And yet at the same time, he can't let go of you.

You’re so good to him, you’re the drop of water in a life that’s always felt arid. You made his barren heart flourish without even trying – he didn’t think anyone could, he thought he was bound to be frozen soil, not a garden. But here you fucking are, with your tiny watering can, nourishing the earth and causing it to sprout.

He’s selfish. He is. There is no karmic balance in his reasons. The scale tips in his favor through and through, because he’s sure you’re not gaining anything from this relationship, if not a spike in anxiety and its hand around your neck.

“How long?” You ask, seemingly unable to bear the silence.

"Few weeks." He croaks and clears his throat when he notices how cracked his voice sounds. “Be back in three. Could be two, if things go to plan.”

The silence on your end is deafening. Unwittingly giving him a taste of his own medicine.

“Countdown starts, then.” You reply with that sunshine in your voice. Sunbeams through ominous clouds. “Gonna tally the days on the wall with one of your can openers.”

He snorts. “Lotta money to fix.”

“We can put ugly wallpaper over it,” you propose. “So the next person to rent the place will remove it and a whole kidnapping slash ghost story will spread around the neighborhood.”

You’re crazy, he thinks, but not unkindly. His heart squeezes in his chest.

“Fucking numpty.”

“Fucking numpty, or fucking numpty, derogative?”

He smirks. “Former.”

“Wonderful.” You say with a pinch of a smile he can’t see, sounding all smug.

However, nothing nice can last forever, not in Simon Riley’s plane of existence. He spots his captain approaching him, fiddling with the boonie hat in his grasp while his other hand lazily dries droplets of sweat on his forehead.

“Gotta go.” He mutters. Waits a bit. Shuffles through his thoughts and decides to swallow his pride, because you deserve at least that much. “Missed you. Still do.”

You're silent for a moment longer before you give him a last glimpse of your voice. The one he'll hold onto like a lifeline for the next three – hopefully two – weeks.

“Miss you too.” You say gently. “Come home soon.”

And he’s back suddenly.

Earlier than expected, at that – one week only. Price was all business, a few days after he caught him sneaking a phone call. Telling him things like “Need you at HQ. Work with Laswell, make sure classified intel stays classified”. And when he questioned why would he send his sniper and lieutenant to do a job an analyst should do, Price answered with a curt “Because I can trust you”.

Honestly, what could he have said to that? Even if it smelled fishy from afar, his reasoning sounded mostly reliable. Because you would send your most trusted to deal with sensitive information, right? And if Simon were a bit more daft and a bit less intuitive, he would've shrugged it off.

But it was plain as day when his boot landed on British soil, duffel bag in hand. When his phone pinged after he turned off airplane mode, and a text popped up:

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off for the jet lag.

That he realized the ploy his teammates had concocted. To be honest, he wasn’t as resentful as he thought he was going to be. There was lingering thankfulness – somewhere, deep below layers and layers of stoicism.

[You]: Time zones aren’t that different.

[Unknown number]: Take a few days off to just rest, then.

[You]: Not that tired.

[Unknown number]: Never took you for one to question orders.

[You]: Never took you for one to put personal life before our job.

Simon waited patiently under the overhanging lip of the hangar. The Kevlar of his glove crinkled as his fingers curled around the hand of his duffle bag. The rain creates a gentle buzz against the metal.

It took a while for the other bubble to appear, as if the other person – most likely Price, judging by the vocabulary used in the texts – was thinking about the right thing to say.

And the right thing it was, when the words fluttered on Simon’s phone screen.

[Unknown number]: About time you put yours first, though.

Simon, for once, agreed.

────────────

The keys slide into the keyhole with familiarity. He turns it three times, content to see you’ve locked the door all the way. When he steps in, the flat is quiet, but he isn’t expecting otherwise. It’s late at night, the hands of the clock that’s hanging above the telly mark somewhere around three in the morning, but it’s too dark to be sure.

He's ever so gentle when he closes the door and gingerly sets the duffle bag at his feet.

The first thought popping in his head it’s you. You’re not expecting him to be back so soon, and he has this trepidation in him that wants to command his feet to the door of your bedroom only to see how you’d react to his unexpected presence.

But he takes a moment to digest this new feeling.

It's hard to realize that, finally, you're not dreading something. For the first time in an excruciatingly long while, Simon isn't afraid. While his brain is rigidly wired in a way that makes him refuse to acknowledge his vulnerabilities, the heart knows best.

And he is scared. He’s always been scared, ever since his mother granted him the possibility of walking this earth. Being excited to live has never been his strong suit, but he’s learning. He’s trying.

Takes practice, to accept you’re worth your happiness.

So, as a novice learner, it’s a little jarring to realize that when his feet land on the hardwood floors of this house, there's no need for fear. He can tuck the dread away, stuff it in a pocket, and close the flap, all the while being sure no harm will come his way. Certainty that with you there’s no need for all that, for vigilance – he can unravel the knots, and simply feel what comes, because it's not going to hurt him.

You could never.

Hooking a finger under the hem of the balaclava, he snatches it off his head and lays it on the shelf next to the doorway. It’s soaked in rain, but he’ll wash it tomorrow. And he’ll use your fabric softener, so it’ll smell like your sheets.

The flat looks awfully dull with the lights off. The bright colors are mere shades of grey, and while he’ll never admit it out loud, he truly thinks the orange of the eastern wall brightens the room as you've told him. The thought itself baffles him – Simon Riley now knows a thing or two about home design. You’ve changed him in ways he never expected.

However, the thing that shocks him even more than his newfound knowledge of home interior embellishments, is when the smell of baked goods bullies its way into his nose. His mouth waters in a Pavlovian response.

Right.

Stress baking.

He kneels to unlace his boots, before toeing them off gently, making sure they won’t thud against the floor and disturb your sleep. Then, he practically floats to the kitchen, still unbelieving at the idea that he gets to come home and find delicacies as such ready to eat. Sometimes, in the span of life he decides to call the “Before you”, he’d snatch a few MREs from the stash in base and eat them once back in his flat.

Easy, quick, and edible. Even if they taste like cardboard.

And now he gets to walk into a kitchen that smells like blueberries and buttercream and black tea. He gets to grab a lumpy muffin from the tray on the kitchen island and sink his teeth in its golden and blue fluff. The flavors erupt on his tongue, from the saccharine spongy cake to the sweet tang of the blueberry juice as the fruit bursts under his teeth.

He selfishly hopes your stress baking will last for a few more days.

Nevertheless, while he’d gladly eat the whole tray if it were up to him, there’s something he craves more than a full stomach. And you're currently waiting in the other room, probably tucked under the duvet because the British weather tonight is rigidly cold.

He shrugs off his wind jacket and drapes it over the backrest of a kitchen chair. He can’t afford to take any steps backward. The coat rack is just a few paces back from the kitchen, nailed to the wall near the entrance, but he really doesn’t care. That handful of seconds is too precious to waste.

The steps he takes through the dark hallway are measured and silent; years of special forces training have taught a man his size how to be what his callsign implies.

Discreetly, he turns the knob, trying to make sure he won’t wake you with a startle because the door has barged open. However, the one caught by surprise it’s him. Because you’re not asleep, even if it’s three in the morning.

Oh, he wants to give you a proper earful – sure, he's not your father, and if you're so keen on staying awake up until this hour on a weekday, then it's your funeral.

Does it help school the unruly necessity of keeping you as healthy as can be? Absolutely fucking not. You’re a heathen and he hates you for it.

But now you’re resting your back against the headboard, cross-legged on the bed. Satin blue navy camisole paired with matching shorts, big headphones on your ears, and your laptop on the mattress. You’re typing away. He’s sure you’ve pushed back an assignment from work and now you’re running out of time.

The room is dark, the only light being the screen of your computer casting your silhouette against the wall behind you. It’s silent aside from the patter of rain on the windowpane – you haven’t closed the blinds because Simon knows you love the moon flooding your room with gentle light. However, tonight the clouds are dominating the night sky, but the lampposts across the street are doing what the moon can’t, and you seem to favor that over complete darkness.

It’s clear you haven’t noticed him yet, music blaring in your ears and eyes focused on the monitor. But he’s seen you all right. And your eyes are cast downward, your lashes like annoying curtains depriving him of what he's been missing for the past three months.

In spite of how muffled his movements have been, you seem to notice a shift in the air. Something that makes your skin prickle, a pair of eyes that shouldn’t be in the same room, nor in the same flat – not now, at least, when he should be mummified in Kevlar and breathable cotton somewhere in the desert. He's secretly proud of how easily you seem to feel fluctuations in the environment. Makes him take a breath of relief, that your reflexes aren't dull even when your senses are already busy.

You lift your head swiftly, and he helps you focus on him by flicking up the light switch. The sudden brightness makes you squint, but you blink it away and finally clock him at the door.

And your eyes are the color of the sun, he thinks. How could he forget, that they’re the color of a bonfire when it's cold out. Of yellows, oranges, and those occasional sparkles of green when the wood is not dry, but still burns to keep him warm.

Realization paints your face with stunning colors: darkening cheeks, eyes shaped like crescent moons under the pressure of rising cheekbones. Mouth curving beautifully, and it seems to catch your teeth. The smile stretches your lips abruptly, morphing your face in spare seconds.

He sees it happen in slow motion. You rip your headphones and carelessly toss them on the bed, your laptop is skewed to the side so quickly that he instinctively reaches out a hand to prevent its fall. Thankfully, the stars are on your side tonight, and the balance tips it on the mattress, instead of the floor.

You’re a little hurricane, scurrying off the bed and kicking off the sheets. Getting on your feet and almost slipping in the attempt to reach him in as little time as possible. A tornado of limbs envelops him in the blink of an eye. He barely has time to react that you’re already coiled around him like ivy– arms, legs, and all.

Luckily, the doorway is right behind him, and he manages to tumble back and lean against it. Your arms are vines around his neck. Your legs are roots encircling his waist. You seem to grow on him, supplying his wretched heart with the sap of life you carry – symbiotic. He feels like he can breathe again and has been doing it wrong all this time.

He helps your balance by keeping a firm hold around your waist with his arms, encapsulating you in his warmth. Lean fingers spread on your back, yearning to touch as much as he can reach.

“Easy,” he rumbles. His voice is hoarse because whatever reaction he'd imagined, all this fussing surely wasn’t it.

Your fingers thread through his hair and tug lightly at his scalp. He’s silently apologetic because it must be wet with both rain and sweat, and he's sure the smell wafting from him isn't exactly cologne-worthy. But you don't seem to care, because after you've thoroughly inspected the crook of his neck, your face comes back into view.

Your eyes are the color of joy.

“Welcome back.” You whisper, as if it’s a secret between you two. And you kiss him because surely you must want it as much as he does. A flutter of lashes brushes his cheekbone when you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. Nails scrape at his scalp in the gentlest of ways.

Simon feels your smile before he sees it. “You taste like blueberries.”

And he exhales against your lips. “Found ‘em waiting for me in the kitchen. Baked for an army, y’ have.”

You peck his lips once more, as if you couldn’t fathom a second longer without having them on yours. “Figured you’d be hungry. MRIs can’t be that tasty.”

"MREs,” he corrects. “And you’re right. They ain’t.”

Simon is not sure he’s ever received such a warm welcome, or such warmth in general. He’s not going to complain, of course, but that doesn't mean it leaves him any less rattled each time.

He gently sets you down at the edge of the mattress, standing between your legs – which you’ve pliantly spread to make room for him.

You gesture with your hand from left to right, "Potato, Po-tah-to."

"One is food, the other is medical equipment," he deadpans.

You glare up at him, as if to ask what the hell he wants now – it's three in the morning. Can’t be arsed to correct vowels at three in the morning.

“Potato.” You enunciate it better now, and it steals a lazy grin from him. “Po-tah-to.”

After having flicked your forehead at your insistence, he reverently lays his hand on your cheek and spreads his fingers into your hair.

“Alright?” You ask him.

“Mhmh,” it’s his only reply.

If only to feel you more, he guides your face to his belly. You seem to appreciate the gesture because you're already nuzzling his shirt, fisting it at his back for good measure. Simon feels your back expand and deflate under his palm when you breathe. Feels the rhythmic thump thump of your heart at his fingertips.

You’re life in its purest form.

Face first into his abdomen, your voice is obviously muffled, but he hears it clearly anyway. "You smell like a sewer, mate."

He snorts, and lightly tugs at your hair, enough to make your head tilt back. He squints his eyes at you. “Cry ‘bout it, mate.”

Simon bends at the waist as you chuckle. Places a kiss on the crown of your head. Your eyes flutter closed and so do his.

For a moment, there’s nothing but you two. The world muffles its noise to favor the sound of your breaths. The rain patters against the windowpane. Your laptop has gone into standby mode so now the screen is dark. The mellow light on the ceiling, a pale yellow, is like your discreet personal spotlight.

Then, he reluctantly pulls away, and you chase him for more, pouting when he doesn’t seem to come back. But when he starts to undress, your scowl is easily replaced by a lazy grin. To increase the dramatics of the moment, you lean back on your elbows and wiggle your brows at him, “Well, well.”

You’re not subtle at all with the way your eyes follow a trail down his back, how the muscles fold when his hand reaches to the collar of his shirt and pulls it off his head. Curves and muscles and the indent of his spine. Skin freckled with scars you never ask a thing about because you're kind and you’re giving him time to open up on his own.

He’s put on some weight ever since your relationship has transitioned into something more meaningful, including feelings he still doesn’t have the guts to acknowledge. His abs are not as defined as before, they’re tucked under a layer of fat he’s not really accepting as of lately. The scar running across his stomach and its other companions only add to his self-deprecating streak.

He eyes you briefly as he unbuckles his belt, searching for what he’s sure is going to be a grimace, but he's met instead with the stupidest look he’s ever witnessed. Slow blinking at his form the more he undresses himself. Lips parted as if you’ve tried and failed to catch your jaw.

And that gives him the right to take those thoughts and shove them into the fear pocket. Sew it shut. No need to fear a thing, if you look at him that way.

You bite the tip of your tongue between your teeth. "Givin' me a show, lieutenant?"

The corner of Simon’s lips tugs upward and the sudden self-hatred sublimates under the warm adoration in your eyes.

“Cheeky little thing,” he rumbles, letting his khakis pool at his ankles. He steps out of them and shrugs them off when they catch his feet.

One last step, and he’s already hooking a finger under the hem of your blue camisole, slowly lifting it up. There's an impish gleam in your eyes that promises trouble and he would love nothing more than to drown in whatever disaster you're planning.

He stands between your legs only in his underwear and after you’ve shut the laptop and placed it on your nightstand, your hands immediately come to rest on his stomach. Simon sighs at the touch.

“You’re a menace,” he says gently when you drum your fingers up to his chest.

Honestly, he hopes you don’t care if he smells like a cocktail of grime and sweat and rain, because, as much as he wishes for a hot shower, the sight of you melts whatever need away.

Your eyes travel downward, taking a generous eyeful of him. However, he knows you’re not just ogling; you're searching him for wounds.

Bandages.

Sutures.

Anything that might tell you whether he's hurt or not.

Obviously, Simon knows you want to ask. But you’re sensible when it comes to his job. In spite of the jabs about all the “Classified” he’s given you as answers, he knows you don’t hold a grudge against him. He also doesn't like to bring work at home, taking pains to leave his safe space untainted by it – instead, he lets you do the detective work yourself.

A sweet sigh leaves your lips when you settle on the fact that he's unscathed, and you lift your arms up to help him take off your top.

"A menace?" You quip, feigning offense. "M’not the one looking naked and yummy."

“You’re about to.”

You don’t look away from his eyes when his fingers pull your top up and off. The camisole is gently removed past your head, the satin leaving your hair a little staticky.

“A menace,” he murmurs once more, his tone softer now as he tosses the garment in a vague direction.

You wrap your arms around his waist, propping your chin on the hollow between his ribs, taking in his face as the sight that it is to your eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to question why, and just basks in the adoring attention and in the well-deserved skin-to-skin contact.

"How was it this time?" You ask gently.

His arm drapes over your shoulders, slowly stroking at your skin. A tender kiss to your hairline has you automatically sighing. You do it every time he kisses your head. He's mentally taken note of how his lips press a button of sorts that makes it all wash away, like suds under the jet of water.

“Same as always,” he murmurs, keeping his tone low and soft for your ears only.

You hum in acknowledgment. "So?"

He smirks, a curve hidden in your hair. “Classified.”

You scoff and playfully slap his butt. He pulls back with a newfound glow in his eyes.

“Not Full Metal Jacket, if you’re wondering.”

You hum, deciding to play along. “Spies involved?”

He snorts and tucks a rogue lock behind your ear. “Sure.”

You poke his chest as you make your definitive guess. “Three days of the condor!”

His eye twitches when, amongst the myriads of films you’ve ever watched in your life, you quote the one with the CIA involved. He has to flatten his face into something more neutral. Surely yours was a clear shot in the dark that somehow hit the right spot – even a broken clock is right, twice a day. Still, your blind guess doesn’t leave him any less distressed.

“Sorta.” He offers through gritted teeth.

And you don’t push any further, sluggishly resting your cheek on his belly.

"Were you more Robert Redford?” You mumble with half-closed eyes, "Or Faye Dunaway?”

Relief washes over him and he can’t help but huff. Plops a hand on top of your head and smooths down to the ends of your locks, rolling them between the pads of his fingers.

“Faye Dunaway, love.” He rumbles. “No question.”

You playfully tighten the hold around his waist, and with a tug, he's pulled down onto the bed. Simon knows he could easily win whichever battle if you’re the opponent, but he’ll always pretend to struggle just to humor you. He’s careful though, so he props himself on his forearms to avoid crushing you with his bulk.

Gently, you kiss his nose but he doesn’t pull away, instead allowing the kiss to be reciprocated on your cheek. He reaches out for the switch next to the headboard and turns off the lights.

Your eyes are the color of a summer’s night.

They’re dark but twinkle with starlight. Pupils blown and the glowing halo of your irises around them like an eclipsed sun. The light coming from outside seems to favor you, creating shapes around your face able to turn you into a dream made reality.

“I’ll call in sick tomorrow.” You tell him, nose to nose.

“Won't bother anyone, will it?” He asks mindfully, although he cares very little if your co-workers might get a little miffed about your last-minute call.

You shake your head softly, causing your noses to brush. “Nope, they’ll understand.”

And so, he unfolds, rolling onto his back and taking you with him. Your head is guided by a big hand to rest on his chest. He fits you perfectly into his side, making sure every piece of you adheres like glue to his skin.

“Y’need a shower?” You murmur in his skin, eyes fluttering closed. Your fingers are tracing mindless patterns on his chest, skimming over hair and the odd scar here and there.

“Tomorrow,” he replies quietly. “Sleep now.”

“Alright,” you whisper. “Wake me up when you do, yeah?”

“Sure.” He says, looking down at the top of your head. He leaves a kiss in its ruffled mess.

“G’night, love.” He breathes.

You murmur it back, and fall into your slumber.

────────────

Simon opens his eyes with his heart thundering in his chest. He doesn’t know why, and likely pegs it to mere habit. Three months stuck in hypervigilance will have your body unconsciously overreact at the most subtle of changes, even if there are none.

There’s too much light in the room for it to be night, and a single look at the window tells him the sun is just shy of rising.

During the night, you must’ve moved around and he must have followed you, because now he has your back to his chest. An arm slung around your waist, the other tucked beneath your neck.

He gently tugs the duvet a little higher, over your shoulder, and spends the next few minutes just looking at how peaceful you look.

Next to a killer.

His stomach churns wildly.

You’re home, his heart says. You’re not a killer here.

A shame, truly, that his brain doesn’t agree in the slightest. Two organs fighting like separate entities, and the whole brawl is happening inside of him, mercilessly tearing his flesh apart.

But it’s already broken, isn’t it? What else is there to shred.

Yet he’s home and you’re comfortable next to him. So how broken can he be, really?

Torn. Shredded. Lookin’ like you went through the grinder and barely came out of it alive.

He forces his eyes shut and buries his face in your hair, nuzzling your nape.

Pretty thing, she is. Who the fuck d’you think you are, mh?

A sharp inhale. Breathing you in. You smell sweet enough for the sounds in his head to buzz out. Not silent yet, but quiet enough for him to have a breather.

You don’t know how long it takes for his body to expel the exorbitant amount of adrenaline produced in three months of deployment. How his back cracks when it hits the comfortable mattress of yours and his bedroom, after having spent way too much time packed like a sardine on sordid cots or much-too-small sleeping bags.

How he fucking hates it, when you feel so soft and untouched, while he has more scars than bloody years on his back.

Not right. Ain’t fucking right to you.

His hand snakes from your waist to follow the curve of your arm. He follows the bulge it makes under the comforter. The rain has turned into a light drizzle, allowing the sound of his skin brushing over yours and the shuffle of the blanket to echo in his ears.

He scoots impossibly closer, pressing your back against his chest hoping your skin would mold with his. Nose buried in the crook of your shoulder; kisses light as breeze following the length of it.

You smell so good you disarm him. He sighs as if he’s been utterly defeated, lost a battle he didn’t even know he was fighting.

His mind hushes, finally. His heart unwinds itself – springs let loose, pulse calm.

There’s you. The way your breaths come. Your limbs stirring at the gooseflesh left by his kisses. The rising sun lapping at your skin. The rise and fall of your back.

It’s calm.

Your head turns slightly, looking over your shoulder. You must only see his eyes, lazily glancing at you through pale lashes.

Yours are a dawning sun.

They’re soft and gentle, pale yellows and blues, peeking above the sheer horizon of sleep you’re trying to overcome. Idle, slow, but most welcome.

“Hey,” you croak, blinking the drowsiness away. “You okay?”

He hums a quiet yeah in your skin. Hasn’t even noticed his hand returning to your stomach and pulling you in, angling you against his lap.

And fuck him, but he’s sporting the hard-on of a lifetime.

He knows you’ll understand that he’s been deprived of such pleasures for three months, but it doesn’t make him any less embarrassed. A hand in his pants, while he hid somewhere more private in the middle of nowhere was a temporary fix that fixed very fucking little. Especially not after having been spoiled by you.

Simon doesn’t necessarily want to fuck you, now. Sure, his dick might have a head of its own, and he wouldn’t complain against it were it to happen, but he still has control of his actions. And now he just wants to feel you, whether inside or out doesn’t matter – as long as it’s you.

Nevertheless, he isn’t expecting you to have much different plans. Naturally, he isn’t going to protest.

Your ass tentatively presses against his length, the satin of your shorts sliding easily along the cotton of his boxers. You’re still so sleepy – he sees you digging a knuckle in your eye, nostrils flaring as you let out a big yawn.

Were you aware of what you were doing, or were you being a goddamn minx?

“Well, good mornin’,” you murmur, a lick of a smile on your lips. “Brought me a souvenir from bumfuck nowhere?”

Minx it is.

He snuffs out a chuckle by harshly pressing his lips against your shoulder, sewing his lips shut. Unfortunately, his chest rumbles against your back and you catch it before he manages to catch himself.

Your hand goes to rest above his own on your stomach, fingers intertwining.

Soft skin on both sides: palm to your belly, knuckles to your hand. He’s sandwiched in bliss. Three months away, barely any contact, and all he apparently needed to alleviate some wounds was just a handful of hours spent asleep in your presence.

His lips part slightly. Kisses turn wetter and teeth bite at your neck, his tongue darting out to subsequently soothe the ache. Your hand has already guided his own to your breast, and your mouth is breathing sounds he’s missed.

And he tells you, because why should he hide a thing from you.

“Missed ya,” he croaks, voice a little shaky for reasons unknown. He could look in his head (or his heart) and find them – surely, they’re there. But he figures the present feels much better than the jumbled mess inside.

Reasons can wait.

“Let me feel you, yeah?”

Your head bending backward to his face is the answer you give him, back pressed flush against his chest. You guide his hand up and squeeze it around the fat of your breast to assert your approval.

But he’s not satisfied with that. Needs your voice to tell him it’s alright, that you’re not under some sleep-induced spell. That you’re fine with having him feel you, and you’re not just offering yourself because he’s been away for so long and you want to give him some sort of reward.

Simply, that you want him as much as he wants you.

His voice is raspy and low, “Words, love.”

"Please," you whisper and vigorously grind your ass against his groin. “Touch me.”

He hisses and presses forward too, meeting your movements.

He’s still a little out of it, senses overrun by the general fatigue clinging to his muscles as the aftermath of deployment, his bones weary and getting accustomed once more to the comfort of a bed instead of a cot.

Mind absolutely quiet.

He flicks his thumb over your nipple. Rolls it between thumb and forefinger. Your shuddering breath prompts him to pull at it, and it causes you to arch your back off of him, pressing further against his painfully hard cock.

He grunts against your shoulder, hand busy teasing your breasts and hips rutting against the plump flesh of your ass. You grind back against him, working in tandem to relieve at least some of that ache.

Each movement is a languid stroke of fabric that gives him enough pleasure to cause his resolve to falter. When he turns your head sideways, leaving your tits to grasp your jaw, he loses it. Your flushed cheeks, lower lip trapped between your teeth, the whites of your eyes still a little red from sleep.

Lips on lips, slotting together like magnets.

Too long.

Too damn long.

Sure, he kissed you when he came back, a bunch of hours before. But this is a whole other thing. The connection behind it, the pinch of your brows conveying the same desperation he has. Hands grabbing at flesh, bodies grinding against each other. Tongues dancing privately. Eyes closed to shut the world out. Moans and pants, dotted with the occasional curse slipping from his lips when the length of his cock catches the cleft of your ass.

His palm slides down and crosses the threshold marked by your shorts. He’s awfully delighted to find out you have nothing underneath them. Feels blessed when his middle finger slides down your cunt to find it impossibly wet.

“Oh - Simon,” He hears you whimper, and he almost comes in his briefs then and there because he has no right to hear you say his sullied name with such devotion behind it.

Seemingly feeling the need to respond in kind, your arm blindly reaches behind, and you slip it between your butt and his groin. Your hand is soft as it palms his cock, the cotton of his boxers an annoying barrier.

The tip is leaking tremendously, and he should be embarrassed about the obvious wet spot he must be sporting on his briefs. However, he can’t even manage to concoct the thought that your fingers are already fumbling with the elastic band of his underwear and finding their way in.

Simon shudders when your warm hand curls around his shaft.

You glide your hand up, collecting precum on your palm, before sliding back down again – velvet skin being pulled over the head to steer clear of overstimulation, and then down once more. Similarly, he crooks his finger to gather your wetness and uses it to roll idle circles around your clit.

And it goes on, and on, and on, and on. It’s slow and drawn out, both of you wanting to reach that high but at the same time don’t – cutting off pleasure doesn’t seem fitting, when both of you have been starved of one another.

He bends the arm beneath your neck to pull your head back, next to his own, cheek to cheek. Simon’s hips jerk to blatantly fuck your fist, yours flow with the movement of his fingers circling your clit, stroking yourself against his hand.

He starts getting antsy, however, when he notices that he can’t properly reach you. Can’t have you unravel on his fingers like he’s done so many times before. Simon wants – needs – to see you unfold and squirm under the pressure of his hand. Needs to have you cream on his fingers – as simple as it’s primal.

He murmurs against the shell of your ear, “Need to stretch you out, love.”

And – goddamn you, you whine. Your hand doesn’t stop its languid movements, but it further slows down, as if you needed all of yourself to cooperate and form a single thought.

“Jus’ do it, I missed you.” You whimper, breathy and high-pitched. “Won’t hurt much, I promise.”

Simon sucks in a sharp breath, closing his eyes because your voice has gone straight to his cock and he needs to disassociate for a second to recollect himself.

You’re a temptress, even in your loving, tender desperation. And how sweet it is to know that he isn’t the only one craving those intimate touches he can only give you. You’ve had your fair share of relationships and lovers, but has he? Some quick ones, enough to get rid of natural aches. Definitely not with a connection so deeply ingrained.

And he tastes, then, the beauty of mutuality. Of giving and receiving.

He retreats his hand and prompts you to do the same. Helps you take off your shorts and pulls his cock out of his underwear. He holds you still with one arm around your waist, palm flat against your lower belly to angle you better.

Gingerly, he guides the tip to your slit, dragging it upward until it catches your clit and you hiss, and then down to your hole. Back and forth, happily realizing that he has, in fact, made you wet enough to make it hurt less. And while he tends to be open to many requests made under the bedsheets, anything that causes you pain is a huge, firm no in his book.

Which is why he’s a bit hesitant now, pressing chaste kisses against your shoulder, trying to soften the ache that will inevitably come. A juxtaposition, really, to his cock dragging a raw, slow dance down your cunt.

It’s then that you turn your head in the pillow to groan against the fabric, and your legs clamp together and essentially choke him between the plush of your thighs.

The sensation is initially a sharp jolt that makes him spout a series of curses under his breath. But then the glisten of your cunt mixed with the precum you’ve diligently smeared all over him, with your folds and your plump thighs wrapped around him in a warm, wet hug – he sees the appeal.

And thrusts. Shamelessly – once, twice, thrice. Snapping harshly, only to draw back slowly. Grunting to your skin. Chest vibrating against your back.

“F – fuck,” he manages to choke out, wringing his eyes closed to regain some control over his actions and failing spectacularly.

Your moans don’t help. They perfectly align with the slap of his hips against your ass, with the wet noises of your sodden cunt against his cock. It’s as filthy as it’s fucking wonderful, and he’s terribly afraid he’ll finish before he can even fit the head inside of you.

The grip he has around your waist only tightens, leaving you breathless by the second. Simon has his mouth next to your ear, giving you the privilege of hearing even the smallest breaths he exhales.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he whispers, panting from the effort.

Curiously, he takes a peek over your shoulder as he fucks your thighs, catching the flushed head of his cock stroking your clit and appearing each time he thrusts in. It’s fucking debauched and he loves it to bits. So much that he groans and rolls his eyes, struggling not to paint your thighs with his spend.

“Need to fuck you,” he hurries, choking on the words. “Now, love.”

Rapidly (and reluctantly), he pulls out of the pillowy, snug space your thighs had inadvertently created for him, almost hissing when the cold air hits the sensitive skin of his cock, coated in yours and his arousal.

“On your back, swee’heart,” he gently guides you down, adding a brisk yet tender “C’mon.”

And you comply, feeling almost like a ragdoll in his hands. Lips parted and slick as they form small Yes’s to convey the same ache he feels. It takes him less than a breath to place his mouth over yours again.

As he hovers above you, thick arms on each side of your head and chapped lips crashing against your own, he slots his hips between your legs. The softer flesh of the inside of your thighs is still wet from when he’s buried his cock between them. He feels the fluids stick to the skin of his hips.

Taking his time, he lets a hand wander down your chest, flowing to your belly until his fingers reach your core – where you’re wet, and warm, and still pressing up against his cock, searching for friction.

He plunges a finger inside, making the movement of your hips stutter and your mouth gasp at the sudden intrusion.

“Gotta stretch you out," he repeats languidly, because he cannot - for the life of him - put words into sentences without thinking about the structure beforehand.

He’s aware he’s big. It used to chub up his ego when he was younger and brash, but now he can’t be arsed about it. Big or small, he’s learned that it’s how you use it – and to be frank, he hasn’t used it much before you.

But he knows it’s going to hurt if he just puts it in with little to no preparation. He hasn’t seen you in three months, and you can trust him when he says he’s as ravenous as you are and can’t bloody wait to be inside you where he’s warm and blessed – but causing you pain? When it can be avoided so easily (and he can make it feel good, too)?

Absolutely not. Categorical.

He wants you to indulge in the blissful touches and the highs he can bring. Needs you to associate him to kindness and soft breaths and how much he hungers for you – he'll gladly eat you up, but only if you say so.

“’S not gonna hurt,” you mumble again, sounding a little drunk in the effort to convince him. “Please.”

Your eyes flutter to him, and they’re this dark pool he can’t seem to navigate. Lust overflowing like fat, miry tears that can’t fit in the space of your sockets, and then something even darker – longing. You’re looking at him as if it's the first time you’re seeing him.

He gets it, then, how good you’ve been at hiding it so he wouldn’t hurt at the thought of hurting you. He must've unconsciously taught you a thing or two, by wearing stoicism, neutrality, and more tangible skull masks.

You’ve missed him body and soul.

You’re there, eyes heavy and full, begging for him to come back to you.

How long have you been waiting for me like this?

“Oh, love,” he breathes and kisses you again.

A long finger inside, pushing against the place he knows makes your eyes water.

“M’sorry,” he whispers, thumb steadfast on your clit, as if he could apologize just by using his fingers because words tend to fail him when he needs them the most.

And so, he slides in his ring finger too, feeling the momentarily tight fit and the subsequent way you relax to welcome him. Your lips part to sharply breathe in, eyes scrunching close at the stretch. He can feel your hands stiffen against his back until they travel up his spine and tangle through shorn blond hair.

You’re keeping him close, with your forehead pressed to his almost to the point of pain. Your noses are in the way of the onslaught you’re causing on his mouth. Strained, heavy pants brush his lips when you part from him to breathe, before lavishing him with attention again.

You’re always good with words. You always know what to say, and yet you’re being extremely quiet – it worries him more than the look you have in your eyes.

“M’sorry.”

For being away.

For not telling you where I was.

For leaving you to wonder whether I’d come back, or not.

For not calling.

I’m sorry.

“M’so sorry.”

My girl.

His hand cradles the back of your head as if he could get you any closer, and he fucks you with his fingers.

“Don’t be,” you reply, your voice so faint and lost in the sounds of your bodies he has to perk his ears for it. “You’re home.”

My sweet, sweet girl.

And he buries his face in your neck, leaving wanton kisses that have very little erotic power to them. He’s just trying to taste you, really. Trying to commit you to memory again, conveying fierce apologies to your skin.

He can feel you clench around him, almost sucking him in, each time his fingers reach deep.

“Fuck, need to see you come.” He murmurs to the skin of your neck.

Thumb aching, he replaces it with the heel of his hand. A continuous and tortuous curl of his fingers inside of you, palm cupping your cunt and rolling against your clit. His cock aches when you whimper and stifle it by biting into his shoulder. A sharp exhale. Skin sweaty and pressed against his chest. Hands tugging at his hair.

“Don’t-” You croak. “Just- just fuck me, Si.”

He groans because stop being stubborn, will ya?

“I’ll cum the moment I get in, swee’heart.” He tries to reason and almost loses it at the raunchy, squelching sounds caused by his fingers between your legs. "Lemme take care of you before tha'."

But it's like talking to a wall.

"'s fine, love. I don't care, yeah?" Your hips move against his hand, but at this point, he gathers it's just a natural body response to pleasure. “You’ll take care of me tomorrow, and the days after that.”

Just when he’s about to rebut, you sandwich an arm between your bodies and curl soft fingers around his cock. The simple act makes him stop his motions, and he feels you pulse and clench around his fingers.

“Please.” You whisper, voice like silk.

He crumbles, then, at the sight of your eyes. Watery and glossy and wide – lust a long-forgotten thing.

He nods briefly when he surrenders. A jerky movement of his jaw as he swallows thickly. Doesn’t dare to avert his gaze from yours when he retrieves his hand and loves to catch how your brows pinch at the sudden emptiness inside. Sloppily, he coats his stiff cock with your wetness with a few weak pumps.

His eyes stay on you, as he goes in blindly, guided by touch only, and drives the tip to your hole. Tries to gauge your thoughts by the expressions on your face, and fails miserably, for once, at keeping his own concealed.

Barely aware and in control of what his face is conveying, he gathers you must appreciate it because you shift your palms to cradle his cheeks. He doesn’t know why you do it because there’s nothing on this godforsaken planet that could make his attention swerve to any thoughts but how beautiful you look when your lips stroke his own with featherlight pressure.

And he slides in, comfortably easy. Feels your puffy lips stretch to welcome him whole, inch by inch. Piece by piece of him, in every way you want to interpret it.

His jaw is locked tight because as soon as your walls envelop the head of his cock, he already feels himself shutting down. His eyes close – he can’t afford to look at how you morph for him. How your pussy swallows the first inches of his cock, puffy clit begging to be touched and lavished. How your mouth parts against his own to yield soft moans and breathy whispers that encourage him to please, please, please go deeper.

He can’t. Stubbornly thinking he must last long enough to give you some pleasure or it will all be worthless. And so, it’s a repetitive dance: an inch in, and a full pull out. Stop. Another inch, and pull out.

It’s driving him fucking mental.

“Let go,” you say, tearing his head out of the gutter. “Look at me, and let go.”

He can’t exactly decide whether you’re being the devil on his shoulder, or an angel sent from heaven – either way, the aim is to ruin him. Yet it doesn’t matter when he opens his eyes, and you look so beautiful his heart cracks, with a thin layer of sweat on your brow and the sheen of his spit on bitten lips.

You don't have to tell him twice at this point, because the way your hands force his face steady so he keeps his eyes on you does most of the trick. His resolve crumbles at breakneck speed.

He bottoms out, pushing his pelvis flush against yours. Your eyes roll back at the same time, legs going stiff and tight around his hips. He does a tentative roll that causes the coarse hair on his groin to press against your bundle of nerves.

"Fuck," you breathe, your voice cracking at the edges. He echoes it right after you, or at the same time – he's not sure, but in his defense, he's not confident about a single thing right now.

If not how absurdly scorching you are, all wrapped around him.

With that, he hooks one arm around your waist and tucks his other hand behind your head. He holds you close like you might slip away, and he’s sure as hell not taking any chances.

He fucks you slowly, deep thrusts that fill you up all the way, and greedy love bites on your neck. Open-mouthed kisses at your throat, sliding up to your jaw and cheeks, all the way to your lips. Truthfully, he’s both trying to get his senses chock full of you, and keep his mouth shut so no words spoken while in ecstasy escape.

The slap of his hips against yours drowns the taps of the morning drizzle against the windowpane. He’s got your face buried in the crook of his neck, and your pants echo in his ears like a fucking promise that threatens to unravel him.

Each thrust has him fully sheathed inside of you. It fills him with primal pride and fuels his pleasure, because you take him so fucking well he can't help but think he's modeled you in his perfect image. He grunts against you and tugs at your hair out of sheer desperation to hold on – just a little longer.

But you’re swearing in his ear. Breathless fuck’s whispered like a curse and a vow at the same time. You shift your hips to change the angle and that makes him hit even deeper and he swears he hears you whimper in that telltale way he knows well.

He lifts your hips up and hooks your legs over his shoulders.

And he absolutely rams into you.

“Christ I missed you.” He rumbles and his voice cracks while your moans rise in pitch and your nails scratch his back. “Fuckin’ thought of you," Thrust. "Every bleedin’ day.”

He’s rambling now, intoxicated on the feeling of you. His words are slurred and strained and, deep down, there’s a more sober version of Simon Riley cursing at himself for speaking his heart out.

Luckily, it’s drowned by the slap of flesh against flesh and the wet sounds of your cunt milking him dry.

Finally, he thinks, he's using his strength not to wield a heavy M4 or to ram against hostiles, but to fuck you on his cock – knee-deep in the mattress for leverage.

He lets go, like you asked.

He murmurs in your ear (Fuckin’ beautiful), words alternated with heavy pants (An’ all mine) and the animalistic grunts of a man cocooned in bliss (All fuckin’ mine).

His hips stutter and he knows he’s close, but you’re not even nearby, in spite of how he can feel you clench around him, sucking him in. And God, the guilt that fills him almost makes him stop even if he has that sweet, sweet release just around the bend.

But you won’t have that, naturally.

Your fingers thread through his hair, clammy and sticking out weirdly because he’s sweaty and hot. He feels his head being shifted to the side, so you can look into his eyes.

And oh, how can you look at him like that? How is he even deserving of it – fuck you and your relentless ways to crawl under his skin and make him feel like he’s worth a damn, with your eyes glossy and hooded. A thick veil of admiration, fondness, and you.

You, you, you.

Where have you been all his life, with this color in your eyes?

And you crush his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. One that marks his demise. He’s falling hard into your embrace, figuratively and literally, too.

“Come inside.” You plead tenderly, breathless and raspy, as he pounds you into your own bed. Your fingers smooth back rogue strands that are sticking to his forehead. “Please come inside.”

He uses whatever shreds of strength he has left to ram into you as if his life depended on it, punching gasp after heaving gasp out of your beautiful lips into his hungry mouth.

It works like a spell because he feels the familiar pressure building at the base of his cock. Syrupy hot warmth runs down his legs to the tips of his toes. Tingling. Tightening. Burning so good he thinks he's melting within you.

Suddenly, his head spins, and he groans in your parted lips as he ruts into you one last time – until he has you filled to the brim. His eyes slam shut as he spills inside of you – cock pulsating and hot.

His high takes its sweet time, canceling out all background noises and only leaving your sweet breaths to fill in his ears, and the pounding of his heart.

Simon unceremoniously drops on you like dead weight, allowing your legs to return around his waist. His lips slide off yours until his head is tucked in the crook of your neck. He’s absolutely spent, but there isn’t enough fatigue in this world that could keep him away from you. You’re sweaty and he’s worse, but he doesn’t see why, in the haze of his orgasm, he shouldn’t have his lips reach every inch of skin he can.

His kisses are lazy – a stark contrast from the desperation he’s displayed until now.

He feels safe. He feels at home, still buried deep inside of you, feeling the come that couldn’t fit inside ooze out and onto the bedsheets. A bummer to clean, he’ll realize when he’ll get his sanity back.

And he wants to tell you so many things when he feels your hands skimming down his back in a soothing dance. Wants to tell you how you’ve flipped his life, with the ease of tossing a coin – heads and tails. Opposites so striking you should be deemed a witch.

He was in deep fucking shit before you offered your smile. Inching closer and closer to dead-ended alleys and dark, murky thoughts that could only lead to dreadful places.

You gave him something to yearn for, something to miss when he's away, and something to cherish when he's here.

There’s nothing he can do to return the favor but love you in equal measure.

It’s not the first time the word love has come up in his head when his mind was lost in memories of you. And while he’d rather not dwell on it now, while you hold him to your chest as he comes back to his senses, he knows the time will eventually come.

Yet he doesn’t dread it. Not one bit.

Fear pocket sewn shut. Finally.

He lifts his head to look up at you and finds you doing the same – he’s sure he’s thoroughly fucked in the best way imaginable.

“I’ll take care of everything later,” you say, reading his thoughts. “You okay?”

It takes him a while to respond. Mental gymnastics to reawaken the parts of his brain that are still tingling in the afterglow.

“Never better, love.”

“Sleep?” You offer, as if he isn’t still buried inside of you and effectively crushing you under his weight.

You don’t seem to mind, and so he trusts you and doesn’t either.

His eyes are half closed as he slides down to rest his head in the valley of your breasts. "Y' didn't cum," he mumbles, leaving an open mouthed kiss on the fat of your tits.

Your fingers brush through his hair to keep him close, and when your nails scrape at his scalp he feels gooseflesh rise along his arms.

"'S fine," you whisper gently, and he's struck by the earnestness in your tone. But then you quip, "I'll have ya on your knees tomorrow."

And he scoffs. "Makin' it sound like a punishment."

You purse your lips and land a kiss on the crown of his head. "Then stop complaining."

He grunts something he himself can't even discern.

“Y’need to piss first.” He grumbles mindlessly, as if the thought of you standing up annoys him but he knows a UTI is even more aggravating.

You snort. “Charming."

And he responds in kind. "Chivalry's dead anyway."

There's a few seconds of silence only broken by your quiet chuckle. "I’ll wait for you to fall asleep, then ‘m off to the loo. Deal?”

He grunts in agreement, liking the compromise you’re offering. “Deal.”

And his head stays quiet. Sleazy hands and raging voices cease, silenced under the thunder of your heartbeat.

“I missed you.” He thinks he hears you whisper, your voice thick and wet. He closes his eyes with his head on your chest. “’M so happy you’re home.”

────────────

Simon wakes up with shy sunbeams peeking through the blinds and brushing his brow. You must’ve closed them when you woke up, to shield him from the sun.

He blinks idly, momentarily lost in that phase between sleep and waking life, still unsure of where he is. His mouth is pasty, and his eyes struggle against sunlight. The duvet is up to his chin, and it smells of grapefruit-scented softener, and of you. The pillow is a little wet, and he embarrassingly notices that it’s because he’s drooled on it – he smacks his lips once, twice, but his tongue might as well be a dried-up cinderblock.

It has been a long time since he’s slept like this. Since his mind has shut down and left him alone. Since his night has gone smoothly, sleep comatose and dreamless – nightmare-less.

And you’re not there, but that’s okay.

Because he hears your music from the kitchen, kept at a low volume so you won’t wake him up. The clanking of utensils frames the beat, pans and pots being moved around as you hum to yourself following the melody. The smell of eggs, sausages, potatoes, and fresh veggies – a full English. Wafts of that disgusting coffee you drink in the morning intertwined with the softer notes of the tea you’re brewing for him.

You were right: he is home.

And he can’t see your eyes, but that’s okay too.

He guesses he’ll never remember their exact shade, Simon’s fine with it. No better thing than to discover you once more, each time he gets to come home.

They change with you, following the flow of whatever you allow to show, and of what he’s learned to read. They’re the color of that life he’s unwittingly always looked for. That life promising a pocket of peace for himself. Chock full of love and nice things he’s always been deprived of.

A balm to both his ancient and newest wounds.

He has never shared a single story about his past, never told you why his body is like a tattered book whose tale is as horrific as it looks. But you don’t mind, and he doesn’t know why because he’s firmly set on the idea that you must know someone inside out to be sure you care.

And it’s then that it hits him, that you do know him – better than anyone. You know the man he is. You want the man he is now, the man he will be one day – as mental as it sounds to him. His present, and his future. And sure, his past might have made this man you know, but he’s not the same Simon under his father's thumb or the one felled by Roba’s tortures.

Although he’s not sure he can reopen certain sutures without the wounds bleeding all over the floor, he'll try. He’ll clean up, if he must, knowing that you’ll help him have each injury scab over again.

What baffles him is that you’re not saying he has to. You’re saying he can. And this choice you’re giving him is a privilege he’s never had the chance to bear.

He can tell you everything, and you’ll listen. He can keep it to himself, and you’ll stay, accepting that there will be places of him you’ll never venture – and to you, that is fine.

As long as he stays, too.

There are no words he can use to express his gratitude. He can only love you – and it might take him a while to acknowledge that he’s capable, but he already does love you.

You appear at the door as he’s lost in his own head, still tucked under the duvet. Strips of sunlight cross your form, curving around the beautiful shape of you.

“Good morning, you.” You say, with a smile that reminds him of the sun.

Lazily, he offers one of his own to you. It’s lopsided and he thinks not quite as beautiful.

He hopes you forgive him for it: takes practice to be happy, and he’s still learning.

And so, he smiles, and looks at you like you're the most tangible form of joy he's ever witnessed.

His voice is raspy from sleep, and soft from you.

“Mornin’, love.”

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #ghost x reader #soft simon riley #cod smut #smut

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mrs-elsie-barnes · 4 months

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The Old Gods and The New - Chapter 16

Cold Compress | Loki x Reader

After fleeing the court of The Golden Palace, Loki follows and reveals a secret of his own in an effort to console you. But his new form is more than just comforting...

Warning: 18+. sexual content and language. I mean it. Jotun Lokiincluding - size difference, oral sex (m & f receiving) frottage, fingering/large insertion. Hyperspermia. Capital S for SMUT

A/N: I used What If...Loki and thought about an average size woman to compare. This really is just self-indulgent smut so can be read standalone if you're not following the series.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and @reveriesources

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

The wrath that had sent your fire reeling banked at the cool touch of Loki’s hands around your waist. In one moment you were a raging inferno, destroying every artefact, every decoration and drape in your path, sending other gods fleeing back into side rooms and up onto the balconies. The next you were cradled so softly in his arms, his touch pushing back your anger like a cool breeze on a summer day.

The burnt cinders of the corridor were gone and you found yourself alone in a similarly vast marble throne room, sealed from floor to ceiling in onyx black marble, seams of gold tracing through the wide blocks into an endless ceiling, twinkling with candlelight.

Loki held you to his chest, petting the back of your head and down your arms, quenching the fire under his touch and, when you finally looked at him, he still held that pale blue hue that had appeared when he created a sedir shield against your explosive anger.

“Asynja,” Loki breathed your name like a prayer, cupping your cheek and drawing you closer.

“Loki,” you sobbed, collapsing back into his chest and allowing your tears to fall freely, “I don’t want to join any of their families.” You finally let the tears flow, now that your anger was subsiding, and your fear rose swiftly to the surface.

“No one can make you go with them, my darling,” Loki soothed, but you still hiccuped around another sob. “I promise, as long as I am beside you, my darling Asynja, no one shall take you from me. Do you understand?” He pulled back to look down at you, his eyes brimming with a potent mixture of anger and possessiveness.

“I understand,” you took a deep breath, but the flames that had surrounded you continued to dance around your feet and temples. “It’s just - it’s an awful lot to deal with so suddenly.”

“I know, I too have experienced a revelation about my parentage, and the powers that come with it.” He kept his eyes steady with yours but you could tell from the twitch in his jaw that he was holding his emotions back.

Confused you allowed your gaze to rove over him for the first time, he didn’t appear to be hurt by the flames but he still looked different somehow.

“You’re blue.”

“Yes,” Loki laughed a little, “I am blue. I thought it might help you to see that you are not alone in discovering new things about yourself and that you are also not alone in being frightened. Although this is only part of my other body.” He admitted.

You took Loki’s hand, colder than usual, and led him into the centre of the ballroom before tugging him to sit on the floor beside you. “What are you frightened of?” Your dress pooled around you, shimmering slightly, and Loki carefully arranged your skirts so that he could press as close to you as possible.

“I imagine the same as you, what I will become, should I let the truth of my nature show.”

“And what is your true nature?” You took his hand and traced the darker blue lines that had appeared along the back, dipping between his fingers.

“Odin was not my father, my father was Laufey, of Jotenheim, King of the Frost Giants. That is why I am Loki Laufeyson. Father, Odin, used to say that both Thor and I were born to sit upon the throne. It was only recently I learnt that he meant separate thrones and not a joint ruling of the kingdom as I’d believed. I had imaged that we would share responsibilities, divided by our personal skills in both warring and intrigue. But father had other plans. My brother, of Asgard, would rule over the people that we love, the home that I knew. Yet I, the son stolen from his homeland, was destined for a throne in a room I did not remember, a people I did not know, a land I have visited but once.” He choked on his words, fighting the emotion he’d tamped down for so long.

“Oh, Loki, I’m so sorry. He should never have kept that from you, or teased you and Thor like that.” You squeezed his hands tighter and Loki turned to give you a sad smile.

“Fear not, darling, I do not wish for a throne, it is no great disappointment to me that it belongs to another.”

“What are you afraid of then?”

“My form, this is a body, a form, that I was given as a child by my mother. Frost Giants are unlike Asgardians, I fear that my Jotun form would be a terrifying prospect for all around me, there is precious little regard for me as it is, I should hate to ruin my reputation further.” Loki smiled again, patting your hand. “We should leave, we can return to Tonsberg as planned, we’ll be safe there and we can put this whole sorry mess to rest. We have no need to fear prophecies, we can write our own futures.” Loki seemed so sure, confident that he could walk away from this threat as he had so many others that you almost believed him.

Perhaps you could, but you would have no secrets between you if you did.

You allowed him to rise, but tugged him back when he offered you his hand, “show me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Show me, let it go, be a Jotun, show me.” You repeated, raising your eyebrows and watching him expectantly. “I already saw your skin go sort of blue, what else happens?”

Loki looked almost bashful, “really, darling, I have no concept of what might happen. Frost Giants can be ten feet tall, I would not wish to risk any harm coming to you.”

“Loki, please, look at the size of this room,” you both looked up at the ceiling, though it was so high you could barely see it, shrouded as it was in the darkness of the marble.

“If you insist,” he conceded, “but only for you, my darling.”

Loki stepped further from you, and as he did he began to change subtly. When Loki used his sedir the change could be tracked by the journey of the magic over his body, but this was different. He grew taller and as you watched you missed his hair lengthening, growing down his back. His skin, an icey blue, was marked with more and more intricate designs and his eyes became red. His growth slowed and you stared up at him. Naked and in his full glory for the first time.

Loki must have been at least ten feet tall, if not more, though the ballroom ceiling was still far away he could reach up and touch the cascading chandeliers, he was certainly towering over you, sprawled as you were on the floor, attempting to take in his full height.

“Wow.” You continued to stare, your hand reaching out for him.

“Is wow a positive expression?” Loki asked, his voice still the same, though louder now. The sound vibrated through you and you clenched your legs together.

“Uh - definitely a good thing.” Loki was always beautiful, but this form, so tall and broad, muscular and strong, so purely alien. He was truly a god and you felt small before him. “I bet you could pick me up with one hand.” You said, touching his calf absently.

Loki laughed in response and you felt hot, you hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but it had taken you by surprise how attractive you found this form.

“Probably,” he quirked an eyebrow. “Shall we find out what else we could do?”

Loki bent down on her haunches and extended a hand towards you. His hands were still decorated with whirls of darker blue, and you traced them with your own fingers. With a grin he scooped you up, knocking you backwards so that you landed in his open palms.

Shocked, you gazed up at him open mouthed and his smile didn’t fade, instead it morphed into the teasing grin that knew you were in for both pleasure and mischief.

In this form you looked different too, although Loki was always taller he had certainly never viewed you like this. So small and vulnerable in his hand. He clenched his fingers gently, folding his thumb over your waist and circling your back with his fingers. You curled your arms around his thumb, hanging on tightly.

When he stood you shook, each of your movements amplified in his palm, as if he was back catching creatures in the forests of his youth, a nymph of his own to play with. He clenched his jaw against the thought - a plaything. His own goddess to play with.

“You look so - delicate.” He cooed, keeping his voice lower now you were closer to him.

“You look enormous.” You choked out, heat spreading over your chest and neck despite the chill of his touch. “Please, Loki, distract me from all this?” You asked, he had been right, this was exactly what you needed to feel less alone, less strange in this alien world. But now you needed more of him, you’d never get enough of anything that Loki could offer you, you’d take every facet of him, every version.

“What do you require of me, my tiny darling.” Loki lifted you higher, holding you to his cheek, your legs dangled in the air but your arms reached forward, touching his cold skin.

You leant towards him, pressing your lips against the expanse of smooth skin that covered his still sharp cheekbones, and pressed tickling kisses there, “make me forget, Loki. Please?”

“How could I deny such a polite request.” He cupped his other hand around you and, in a warm shimmer of magic, you felt your clothes vanish from your body. Still surrounded by his fingers your skin tingled, erupting in goosebumps at the press of his cold palm.

Loki lifted you back towards his face and pursed his lips, blowing warm air into his cupped hands and you giggled. You’d been expecting him to launch into some debauched idea of his, knowing that at least ten crackled around his thoughts at all times, but his playfulness caught you off guard as it always did.

“Loki!” You squirmed in his grasp and he held you all the tighter for it, bringing you back to his lips. This time he opened his hands and held you still, his second thumb covering your arms over your head so you couldn’t move, and then kissed the soft swell of your stomach. His lips were as cold as the rest of him, but as gentle as ever.

You giggled again, heat skittering over your skin and then shooting between your legs. His thumb swiped over your body and he kissed you again and again, turning you this way and that to find a spot on your side, on your hip, that he hadn’t yet worshipped.

“My darling,” he sighed, tipping his hand back so that you fell into his palm again, sprawled before him, “what a delicious little morsel you are.” His smile was vulpine and the only warning you got before he licked you, his tongue dipping between your spread legs and swiping up towards your breasts. You squealed in surprise, trying to close your legs but his fingers tangled over them, holding you open and he licked and licked, pausing only to blow gusts of cold air over the heat of your flesh.

“I could eat you forever and never be satiated.” Loki fit his tongue between your legs, teasing the tip against your entrance until you felt him stretch you gently. He angled his tongue upwards, humming softly and you swore you saw all the stars exploding as the vibrations thrummed through your bones. Loki continued, tilting his face forwards so that he nose pressed on your lower stomach, his tongue still angling upwards and your body sang for him, taut and ready.

“You’re devine,” he cooed, the rush of his words like a breeze, cooling your slick as it ran down your sticky thighs.

“Please, Loki, I can’t - I need - I want to cum - I’m going to - agh!”

Like a sacrificial offering he kept you pinned open until you were begging, pleading for more, the ever tightening coil of your arousal turned and turned in your stomach until you could take no more, gushing onto his tongue with a scream of pained pleasure. The sensations were overwhelming, heat and cold and pressure and pleasure and ecstasy all rolled into one.

Loki gave you a few seconds to recover before he lay you onto the table, sprawled before him.

“You are truly a feast, Asynja. Look at you, covered in us both and still smiling.” He kissed your cheek the best he could, swiping his thumb over your belly and thighs, rubbing in his kisses.

Your chest heaved, sweat cooling between your breasts and you longed for his touch again, even if it was icy, anything but this loneliness now that he had put you down.

“Loki -” you gasped, reaching for him and finding one of his large hands, your hand barely fit around his finger but his touch was soothing and pleasant on your heated skin.

He brushed his thumb over your breasts, around your nipples, down, down until he could lift your leg and cup you again, his thumb covering your folds and applying pressure to your aching clit. Your body no longer belonged to you, given over to the pleasure that touch created, your hips lifted, rolling into the pad of his thumb and he let you, a satisfied smile on his face as your pace increased, riding his hand. With an obscene moan you arched from the table and into his awaiting touch.

“You’re not satisfied, darling?” He smirked as you looked at him with heavily lidded eyes, “I promise I’m going nowhere until you are completely sated,” he bent over the table, looming over you and filling your senses, “we shall only leave when you are panting, crying for me to stop.” Loki kissed the side of your face, close enough that you could twine your hands in his hair in an effort to keep him there, so close you thought you could breathe him in. Despite all of the changes to his body, his hair felt the same, soft and silky and smelt like the expensive shampoo he insisted on using. It blended with his usual deep amber scent and something else, perhaps something Jotun, that reminded you of snowy days and icey nights.

“God - Loki - I - fuck me, please.”

You both looked down at the sizable erection tenting his magically enlarged trousers, his words rumbled through you, his lips still at your cheek, “I do not wish to break you, my Asynja, perhaps something else may sate your lusts.” His cock bobbed under his trousers, twitching in time with his words, and you knew without looking in his eyes that he was using every ounce of his self control not to at least try and push himself deep inside of you.

Suddenly his thumb was gone and you gave a low whine at the loss, dropping a hand between your legs to try and continue the glorious cresting of your impending orgasm, but Loki moved your hand away.

“Patience, darling,” he chided, still cupping the backs of your legs, tugging you to the edge of the long table. Instead of his thumb he stroked his pinky finger down your stomach, one hand keeping you still, the other drawing teasing circles over your belly button, lower and lower with each circle.

Even his smallest finger felt enormous, Loki in his usual size was enough of a stretch and heat flooded through you at the thought of trying to take even his finger.

“Lo’,” you were incoherent now, thrashing on the table with every movement, but he pressed on, the pad of his finger at your entrance, spreading your arousal over your clit and pushing slowly, intently, until you felt yourself stretch around him.

“Norns, Asynja, you are the most delicious woman in the nine kingdoms, in every realm, every universe, every time,” he cooed, pressing further until you keened, your hands rushing back between your legs as if to both stop and continue the onslaught of pleasure.

You had never been so full in your life, so full and so loved, held as you were between Loki’s gigantic hands, his lips kissing away the sweat on your brow, sparkling like diamonds in the low light.

“Loki, I - I -” your fingers struggled to find purchase in his hair - on his hands, slipping over his arousal soaked skin and you were dimly aware that that was the feel of you, hot and slick between you, dripping onto the table, before your orgasm hit you at full force, just from the stretch alone.

“Good girl, Asynja,” Loki growled, moving only slightly as your walls clenched around him, he could feel very flutter and movement on his sensitive fingertips and then you gushed, squirting over his finger and soaking the his chin where he perched between your legs.

Loki’s red eyes went darker, a blood red full of his widened pupil and drinking in every inch of your sweating, heaving body, your velvet skirts pushed up around your waist and bare legs shining with your arousal.

“Fuck, Loki - that was -” you dropped your head back onto the table with a thunk, staring glassy eyed at the lights twinkling above.

“It’s my pleasure, my darling.” He drawled, grin feral, tongue poking out between blue teeth. The first lap was soothing on your heated skin, sending goosebumps up and down your legs.

You peered up, tucking your head into your chest to view the god between your legs, still worshipping you, still thinking only of you. It was overwhelming, his devotion, and you wanted - needed, to make him feel the same.

Carefully you eased yourself to the edge of the table, level with his smiling face, and then you let your feet drop to the floor, a hand on his bare chest, pushing him backwards until he lay on the marble floor. Loki was the only other colour in the room, a bright star in the darkness. The bulge of his trousers was pressing against the zipper and you carefully settled on his hip, pushing your hands against the fabric.

It was Loki’s turn to groan now, the sound a deep rumble that travelled down his body and back between your legs. A fresh wave of arousal made itself known, but you tamped down your feelings. It was Loki’s turn now.

He helped you to tug the zipper down, freeing his impossibly large cock from its prison.

“Fuck.” The word was out before you could stop it and you left your mouth hanging open while you took in his full glory. In his Asgardian form Loki was already generously endowed. But as Jotun - you placed your hand against the firm length and marvelled at how delicate his skin still felt, albeit colder than normal. His cock twitched beneath your palm and a large bead of precum slithered from the tip, tracing the contours of a thick vein that ran up the bottom.

“Please -” Loki whimpered, his hands twitching. One came to wrap around your waist, gently holding you, the other he clenched in the fabric of his trousers.

“Can I taste?”

“Yes - of course, please, Asynja, do not torment me, can you not feel how I ache for you. How my body needs you?”

He squeezed his eyes closed, the sound of fabric ripping slowly accompanying the tightening of his first.

“I’d hate to leave you aching, my Prince.” You teased, leaning forwards and wrapping your hands around as much of his girth as you could. Tugging yourself closer to him you let your tongue dancing over his throbbing vein, arching higher towards the flare around the head. Marvelling at the beautiful shades his Jotun form afford him, you missed a second roll of precum escaping down the side and soaking your arm.

“Norns -” Loki clenched his jaw, “I must apologise for -”

“Please, don’t.” You knelt up and licked him again, eagerly tasting as much of him as you could. “You taste a little different, it’s fascinating.”

“Asynja,” he warned.

“Well -” you licked, “you do.”

Reaching the sensitive head you dipped your face towards his slit, pressing your nose into the soft flesh and pushing your tongue down, swirling it and pulsing as he did to you. You were rewarded with more and more of his cum, weeping past your pressing fingers.

“Asynja, I cannot hold back any longer - my darling -”

His cock pulsed, you could feel it against your body were you had pressed yourself against the entire length of him and it felt devine. Your body responded, clit aching for the feel of it.

“Do that again,” you begged, rubbing yourself against him, pushing on his length until you were lying on his stomach, wrapped around him, legs thrown over his base, toes curling.

The hand at your waist squeezed too and you felt the sensation of him moving you gently, the drag and pull of skin on skin, your pussy wet and wanting against his cock.

“You feel so fucking good, my darling, I can’t help it, your little body is perfection, made for me, made for my cock.”

You mewled, licking and sucking at his rigid length, thrusting your hips into him in seach of your own pleasure.

“I’m going to cum, Asynja and you haven’t even tried to move away.” He growled, his voice wavering as he neared his release.

“Don’t want to, Lo, I want your cum, want you to drench me in it, want you to use me and rub me on your beautiful cock, please - please!” Your sobs of pleasure joined his own, a deep knot tightening in the pit of your stomach.

“My goddess, my princess, my darling I will give you every drop you wish for.” He promised, fingers so tight you knew you’d have an array of bruises to enjoy tomorrow, but now, plunged into the most exquisite pleasure you’d ever felt, you latched onto the spot below his glands and sucked and sucked and -

Loki came with a shout, chasing your own release with each pulse of his cock, and spurted down your arms and hands, your back and legs. He painted his own chest in ropes and ropes of cum until he sighed, releasing your body and sagging into the floor.

Slowly he shrank until you were lying chest to chest on the cold floor and laughing.

“Loki, please tell me we can do that again.” You mumbled into his chest, lazily kissing his now, slightly warmer, skin.

“I’d be disappointed if we didn’t.” He agreed, “although I think we may traumatise my poor brother should he stumble upon us. Perhaps it’s time we find him and return to Tonsberg?”

“Can’t we stay here and have a nap?” You closed your eyes defiantly, hoping he’d give in despite how uncomfortable you both were.

“Sadly, I can not allow a Goddess, such as yourself, to take her rest on a such an appalling hard surface. Only the finest pillows and sheets will do for you.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “luckily, I know just such a place.”

<< Chapter 15

Chapter 17 >>

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literaryvein-reblogs · 3 months

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Writing Notes: On Colour

Describing Colour in your Poetry and Stories

BLACK Shadow Black, Dusk, Midnight, Blackbird, Blackberry, Ebony, Black Honey, Darkness, Jet Black, Ink Black, Soot, Onyx, Licorice, Ivory Black, Pitch, Char, Gloom, Outer Space, Creosote Black, Melanite, Goth Black, Gunpowder

BLUE Blueberry, Sapphire Blue Metallic, Tiffany Blue (Pantone 1837), Cobalt Blue, Denim, Aquamarine, Turquoise, Sky Blue, Topaz, Ultramarine Blue, Azure, Cerulean, Oxford Blue, Periwinkle, Electric Blue, Baby Boy Blue, Pthalo Blue, Robin's Egg Blue, Persian Blue, Marino Blue, Prussian Blue

GREEN Leafy Green, Olive, Moss Green, Jade, Lime, Sour Apple Green, Emerald Green, Mint, Kiwi Green, Phthalo Green, Praying Mantis Green, Viridian, Greenback, Shamrock, Sap Green, Chartreuse, Sea Green, Pistachio, Teal, Bamboo, Sea Salt, Celadon Green, Celery, Asparagus Green, Fern Green, Neon Green, Jungle Green, Pear Green

ORANGE Pumpkin, Burnt Orange, Carrot, Sunset Orange, Tangerine, Persimmon, Salamander, Tennessee Orange (Pantone 151), Jack-o'-lantern Orange, Florida Orange, Summer Squash, Pale Daffodil, Smashed Pumpkin, Saffron, Autumn Orange, Macaroni and Cheese, Cadmium Orange

PINK Pink Flamingo, Neon Pink, Bubblegum Pink, Salmon, Peach, Fuscia, Cotton Candy Pink, Rose, Carnation, Thulian, Apricot, Atomic Pink, Barbie Pink, Hot Pink, Amaranth, Flushed, Glitter Pink

PURPLE Lavender, Purple Haze, Grape, Eggplant Purple, Plum, Violet, Orchid, Psychedelic Purple, Amethyst, Lilac, Boysenberry, Mulberry, Wisteria, Bruised Plum, Indigo, Mauve

RED Blood Red, Copper, Maroon, Strawberry, Watermelon Red, Crimson, Candy Apple Red, Tomato, Brick Red, Scarlet, Cardinal Red, Cherry, Ruby Red, Coral, Sunburn, Hot Lava, Cadmium Red, Auburn, Blush, Alizarin Crimson, Fire Engine Red, Raspberry, Vermillion, Lipstick, Burgundy, Magenta, English Vermilion, Mahogany

WHITE Dirty White, Albino, Chalk, Alabaster, Cotton, Titanium White, Vanilla, Bone White Egg Shell, Marshmallow, Ivory, Pearl White, Almond, Champagne, Blond, Cream, Milky White, Corn Silk, Bleach, Navajo White, Ghost White, Light, Cloud White

YELLOW Canary Yellow, Lemon, Banana, Egg Yolk Yellow, Mellow Yellow, Chanterelle, Mustard Yellow, Corn, Goldenrod, Amber, Pineapple, Metallic Gold, Cadmium Yellow, Wheat, Tuscan Sun, Butter, School Bus Yellow, Yellow Ochre, Citron, Dandelion

BROWN Mud Brown, Beaver, Caramel, Rust, Macaroon, Toasty Brown, Coffee, Sandy Tan, Cocoa, Honey, Chocolate, Burnt Sienna, Mocha, Seashell, Antique Brass, Bronze, Brown Sugar, Chestnut Brown, Taupe, Burnt Umber, Khaki, Dark Sienna, Light Chocolate, Sepia

GRAY Stone Gray, Ash, Metallic Silver, Platinum, Smoke, Concrete Gray, Mercury, Steel Gray, Mist, Titanium, Charcoal, Slate, Sterling Silver, Tungsten, Old Coin Gray, Iron Gray, Chrome, Magnesium, Overcast

MIXED Candy Cane (red and white), Zebra (black and white), Chameleon (many different colours), Ladybug (black and red), Wildfire (yellow, orange and red), Tiger (orange, black and white), Yellow Jacket (black and yellow), Christmas Lights (red, white and green), Rainbow (red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet), Black Pepper (black and gray), Leopard (spotted gold and black), Creamsicle (orange and white), Candy Corn (orange and white), Iceberg (a bluish gray), Marbled

COLOURS: Symbolisms, Associations & Psychological Effects

Black. Especially in Gothic literature from the West, a black colour choice often represents death, evil, grief, and depression. Associated with fear, the unknown and often has a negative connotation. Black clothes can make you look thinner. A black background severely diminishes the readability of most type. Often the go to colour for funerals and grieving. It symbolizes stability and power, which gives a sense of authority. Thus, the black colour often represents professionalism and expertise.

Blue. Has positive and negative connotations in colour psychology. Some writers may use blue to represent serenity and tranquility, instilling a scene with a calming effect. Blue can also signify sadness, melancholy, or isolation. People who find someone very loyal and faithful are often called "true blue". Blue is often considered to be more masculine which is why it is often the colour of choice when choosing a suit. Lighter blues are associated with tranquility, softness and healing. Darker blues are associated with power, knowledge and seriousness. Blue is actually shown to suppress appetites a bit. The colour blue symbolizes wisdom and hope. It’s the colour of peace and confidence. Blue has been shown to reduce blood pressure and pulse rate. It fosters serenity and a sense of belonging.

Green. The colour green often symbolizes rebirth, growth, peace, jealousy, and greed. Green colours may also represent spring and renewal. It is a colour that is very easy on the eyes. Dark green is often associated with ambition. Green suggests stability, safety and hope. At the same time, it may denote a lack of experience in a particular field. Green symbolizes peace, growth, and nature. It is the colour of success, promoting healing and tranquility.

Orange. The colour orange often represents energy, excitement, joy, and creativity. Since orange is the colour of fire, it may also symbolize heat. Since orange is not as aggressive as red, it can actually stimulate brain activity. It is very useful to catch someone's attention, which is why it's used a lot to advertise food and toys.

Pink. The colour pink symbolizes love, kindness, femininity, innocence, and playfulness. Certain shades of pink can limit aggression. Pink may be associated with unconditional love and caring.

Purple. Often associated with royalty, the colour purple symbolizes bravery, spirituality, and luxury. Light purple usually brings up romantic or nostalgic feelings; while a darker shade can make you feel gloomy or sad.

Red. The colour red symbolizes some of the most powerful human emotions, like passionate love or lust. On the other side of the spectrum, this warm colour is also the colour of blood, often symbolizing anger, danger, and violence. It stimulates the appetite. Red is an emotionally intense colour associated with energy, danger, anger, passion and determination. The symbolic meaning associated with the colour red is passion, excitement, and love. It’s the colour of urgency, power, and desire. Red is said to boost hunger and is believed to inspire confidence and excitement. This colour has also been found to increase blood pressure and heart rate.

White. This primary colour traditionally symbolizes innocence, peace, and cleanliness. In Western cultures, the colour white also represents purity and virginity, while it symbolizes mourning in some East Asian cultures. Usually has positive connotations when used and thought of as safe. Associated a lot with healing, simplicity and sterility, which is why it's used in hospitals and healing centers as much as it is. The symbolic meaning of the colour white is truth and sometimes even indifference. It encourages feelings of safety and cleanliness. Clean, white clothes and linens show sterility since stains are easily visible. That’s why doctors and nurses frequently wear white lab coats and scrubs.

Yellow. Writers may use the colour yellow to symbolize creativity, happiness, optimism, and warmth—think of a yellow ray of sunlight poking out from a dark cloud. A common negative connotation of the color yellow is cowardice, popularized by the phrase “yellow-bellied.” Warming effect which stimulates body and mind. Gold is associated with the highest of luxury. When bright yellow is used with black it's one of the easiest colour combinations to see from long distances; when uses with lighter colours it's not so easy to see. Yellow ribbons are worn as a symbol of hope and used quite often to welcome home loved ones. Yellow is the colour of warmth, kindness, and happiness. It’s often associated with optimism and well-being and promotes energy.

Brown. This warm, earthy brown colour may symbolize dependability, comfort, and a sense of being grounded. Brown is also a neutral colour, and writers may use it to represent dullness and predictability. Brown is a colour that is related to very grounded traits such as simplicity, practicality, common sense and hard work. Can also be associated with those that are frugal and not too flashy.

Gray. Lighter grays are often thought of as more feminine while darker grays more masculine. Gray is considered by many to be a neutral colour; the perfect balance between light and dark / good and evil. Pop up the lighter grays and add a little shine to it, and thought immediately turns to silver, which correlates to wealth.

Sources & other related articles: 1 2 3 4 5

If these writing notes helped with your poem/story, please tag me. Or leave a link in the replies. I'd love to read them!

#writing #writing tips #writeblr #writers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #creative writing #poetry #literature #writing prompt #words #lit #color #colour #spilled ink #writing reference #langblr #studyblr

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sevenop · 2 months

Text

Billie Eilish x Fem!reader: Little dreams

A/n: Billie hadn't had time to carve pumpkin jack-o-lanterns last Halloween, making this unclosed gestalt her little dream. So you buy her a pumpkin out of the blue. You don't know how to play any musical instrument, but a ukulele is your humble dream. So Billie teaches you.

Just one comfortable July evening spent together.

The onyx-black Dodge, dear to her heart, native and irreplaceable, sways slightly from the trunk side, like a Venetian gondola on a small canal wave, and Eilish turned back as she was supposed to, not out of concern but out of interest. In the trunk now, in addition to the paper grocery bags, there is a pumpkin, jutting out its bright orange sides. Eilish's eyes widen in surprise, almost reflecting the real size of the fruit.

"Pumpkin?" - she stares at you, her hand simultaneously fumbling for the silver door handle to open it for you with a slight nudge. She looks as if you've stuffed an Irish goblin in her trunk.

"Pumpkin." - You innocently reply with a smile, taking your passenger seat to her left.The buckle of your belt snaps. - "I remember you saying a week ago that you really regretted not having time to carve a jack-o-lantern last Halloween."

"But it's July, girl!" - Eilish laughs ringingly, eyes shooting out sheaves of merry sparks. - "July!"

"So what? I don't need this stupid calendar to please my girlfriend."

The blue seas in front of you are warm and gentle, and no beach in California can compete. Eilish unbuckles her belt, and a soft palm, calloused only at the very tips of her fingers from the strings, lands on your knee. She uses it as a kind of thrust to pull herself practically flush to your lips. The pink petals of her lips fold into a budding smirk.

"Paparazzi, Bils," - you whisper, though inside you're already trembling with anticipation, as if you're both doing this for the first time. The self-assured curve of her lips is a can of gasoline spilling around you, your desire a burning match that you cover with the palm of your hand for save, gripping the wooden stick tightly with the fingers of your other hand.

"So what? I don't need someone else's stupid opinion to please my girlfriend." - she teasingly reworks your own phrase, dropping the words, the word expensive pearls across the marble floor. Defiantly and with a slight clatter. - "Relax and don't think about them, they're my responsibility."

"I know, it's just...," her palm touches your cheek, stroking, and you feel that slight roughness of her fingertips, contrasting interestingly with the overall softness of her alabaster skin, much more vividly than before. She seems about to play you, as if you were a musical instrument. - "I just don't want to let you down, or do anything wrong, or give you a problem-"

Hot lips interrupt you brazenly, and her hand slides from your cheek to your chin, touching with dominant pressure. You obediently open your mouth, and she immediately and treacherously seizes the opportunity. Her nimble tongue leaves a few strokes on your palate, hungrily pulling a few excited gasps out of you before she contentedly pulls away. The belt clicks back into position on her body and the engine rumbles with the turn of the key, as if to echo O'Connell's mood. You stare at her and swallow your words, mutely opening your mouth to close it again. You look like a cute fish.

"I appreciate that, I really do," Eilish touches the gear knob as if it were her royal scepter - honed and easy. - "But your disturbing idea that you're doing something wrong, I don't like it. It's a pure lie, and I'm willing to prove it with words and kisses like that for as long as it takes until you realize it."

"Thank you." - Your lips tremble in a grateful smile, and you place your hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. Only for a couple seconds, but so eloquent. She has time to touch your hand in return before she puts her palm back on the steering wheel and begins to pull out of the huge, accumulated parking lot by the afternoon sun. And even though all her attention is now focused on the road, you see her glow. You slowly but surely come to a realization.

"What are we going to do with the pumpkin pulp?" - Eilish touches the white playback triangle on the screen in a familiar gesture, and another indie song's musical rhythm spreads through the cabin.

"A pumpkin pie," - you playfully cover your ears, because Eilish is screaming childishly loud and overwhelmingly happy, as if she's five again instead of twenty-two. That's why you love her.

×××

"You never told me about your little dream," Billie wiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a generous white smear of flour underneath. After all, as befits cooking, her nose always itches in a bad way especially when she has to roll out the dough. - "I think it's a little unfair."

You smile wistfully, rubbing the uniform puree through a sieve: Maggie had once shared her secret that it made the pumpkin pie filling incredibly tender. The image of the little black ukulele that stands in your bedroom near the nightstand (a slight negligence of Eilish, which only adds to the charm) comes to mind: many little people, showing beige outlines on the dark sapele surface, stand in rows, leaning one shoulder to the side, all of them connected by chains of even smaller squares to each other. On the smooth head of the fretboard proudly stand four metal pegs that gleam so seductively, reflecting both the morning and evening sun. The rolling pin behind you stops clattering, meeting the surface of the wooden board over and over again, rolling out the dough, and her arms close around your waist, entangling you like mythical vines. The ephemeral world of your thoughts immediately flutters into the air, soaked in the warm scent of pumpkin and cinnamon, and you twitch slightly, but immediately move closer to Eilish, keeping the sieve in your hands. A playful chuckle touches your ear.

"My little coward," - her lips touch your cheek before she happily prefers to snuggle her nose into your shoulder, inhaling the scent she loves and at the same time leaving imprints of flour on you as well. - "And yet what is your dream?"

"To be frank," - you tilt the strainer back into the sink to place your palms on top of hers. - "I've always wanted to learn to play a musical instrument."

"Piano? Guitar?" - Eilish purrs, feeling the warmth of your arms. Swaying moderately from side to side with you, it's as if she's lulling you into that feeling of comfort and security.

"Nah, you didn't guess, it's a ukulele." - you softly reply, and she immediately stops your impromptu "pendulum" by freezing in place. A moment, and you find yourself pressed against the counter when Eilish turns you around to face her and places her hands on either side of you.

"And you were silent for so long?!" - The childishly sincere surprise frozen in her eyes reminds you of the beautiful shells at the bottom of the blue waters, enchanting you. - "I can teach you!"

"Nonsense, I didn't want to distract you with such empty requests." - you giggle, as soon as her lips form an insult, pouting a little, and her palms invocatory located on your cheeks, moving you closer to her. Her eyebrows slid down the bridge of her nose in their seriousness.

"You are very important to me аnd music is not an empty request."

You see the pale remnants of flour under her nose, then you look again at her serious blue oceans and suddenly, even for yourself, you burst into laughter, appreciating this homely contrast. Eilish puffs loudly like a kettle, but seeing your satisfied look - immediately changes his mind to take offense, and only kisses, deliberately rubbing nose at you as often as possible. The leftover flour remains completely on you.

"I'll teach you after dinner, klutz. Deal?"

"Deal." - you throw your arms around her neck, so treacherously unwilling to pull away from her, and she gallantly wipes the remnants of flour from your face. Incredible royal mercy.

The timer on the stove dings, announcing the end of the warm-up. It seems you should continue making the pie after all.

×××

And though the pie was deliciously delicate, and the cooking together was marvelously seductive, what was happening to you now opened up some new horizons in the definition of such words as "captivating" and "matchless". Eilish hardly glares at you, waiting for you to finish with the last piece, and you deliberately mockingly bite the flour crust slowly, throwing glances at her in response. O'connell, because of the enthusiasm bubbling in her blood, ate her portion almost chewing, which makes watching her impatience even more fun. It seems that if you had put your hand under her T-shirt, you would have easily found the wick, because Eilish, from his own impatience, almost resembles a cartoon stick of dynamite. Finally, when the empty plate finds its place on the glass coffee table next to the wide white sofa, Eilish already flies up to the second floor with the speed of a bullet, stumbling on the steps in the semi-darkness, illuminated only by the cheerful face of a pumpkin carved by her. The harbingers of her return are the faint tinkling of strings and cursing.

And here you are, sitting in her arms on the floor, moving closer to the silly pumpkin face so that the picture before your eyes doesn't fade into the oblivion of darkness. Four strings catch the sparkling, warm glow of the candle, and you stare at your girlfriend's fingers as openly as you ever have before. It's getting kind of hot, and yes, you're ready to blame it on the poor pumpkin, in no case is your feeling of embarrassment from the obscenity of your own thoughts, no.

"We'll start with the easiest, I think you'll like it." - It's impossible to hold back a chuckle at her conspiratorial whisper in your ear. You can literally feel her satisfied smirk, you don't even need to turn around. Her sly intonation says it all.

"Won't you even tell me what song we're going to learn?" - you raise your eyebrows with interest, which flick upward like an askance birds.

"I want you to guess, my girl," Eilish touches your right palm gently to place it on the strings just above the resonating hole. The close bodily contact makes you shiver for some reason, as if this is new to you. Perhaps it's all the influence of the intimate semi-darkness and evening silence. "Do you know the fretboard mean yet?"

You nod confidently, recalling Finneas's long-ago explanation. Eilish smiles contentedly.

"I have a very capable apprentice. So, let's start with a rhythm, with me for now."

Eilish muffles the strings with her left hand, pressing them slightly against the fingerboard with her four fingers, her thumb resting lightly on the back of the fingerboard. And then she moves along the strings with you, leaving her palm on top of yours: twice down, twice up, once down, then up. You watch each movement mesmerized, and Billie only murmurs softly in your ear the desired rhythm, helping you memorize it. After a while, she removes her palm (which is somewhat saddening), honoring you and giving you autonomy. After a few successful attempts, she opens her fingers on the fingerboard, and a sound that is not quite slender, but definitely pleasant, spills into the room. You gasp in surprise.

"You're doing great," - you can feel her leaning closer against your, giving you a strong and support hug. Embarrassed heat spills over your entire body, growing especially hot in your heart. It feels insanely good. - "Now you and I need to learn proper finger placement and memorize a few simple chords."

And Billie shows you: she puts not the whole pad of her finger on the strings, but only the very tip, slightly bending the phalanges and gently pressing the nylon musical "threads". Having tried it, you now really understand why her fingertips are so different from the softness of her palm. It hurts a little, but it's not critical.

"Over time you'll develop a kind of 'calluses', or rather your skin will just ogoubet from rubbing against the strings and it'll be much more pleasant to play." - Billie explains softly, and you nod silently again. It's like you're a first-grader seeing a beautiful and good-natured teacher for the first time, listening with your mouth almost open. - "Now put your beautiful middle finger on the first string, third fretboard. That will be a C chord."

And you obediently put it down. Eilish runs her hand over the strings in rhythm, and the pleasant dissonance of the past sounds merges into one - slender and precise, soft. You repeat after her, with your left hand not letting go of the string, and you feel like a magician, still with your mouth ajar in surprise, like a child. Eilish notices and laughs loudly.

Next, you learn the next chords - cmaj7, F, G. Billie instructs so gently and tactfully, and you feel like a cube of sugar in warm berry tea. You don't want it to end. And even though your fingertips ache under the unfamiliar hardness of the strings, even though combining rhythm and chords transposition is hard at first, you're slowly but surely getting the hang of it. After an hour, the awkward movements of your fingers when changing chords become more confident and faster, and the melody is almost uninterrupted. You smile warmly at the realization of exactly what you are performing.

When you completely play the tune without mistakes, Eilish unlocks such cozy embrace and almost drops you on the floor, kissing you to the absolute. The pumpkin from such a trick jiggles gently, flickering with flames. A toothy grin, a triangular nose, and eyes, one of which resembles a pirate's patch - a little pumpkin pirate.

"I'm so proud of you!"

"I want to learn more from you, Eilish." - You whisper softly and a smile immediately spreads across your face. She's so close to you now, so beautiful...

"And I want to teach you more, Y/n." - blue eyes catch the glare from the candlelight for just a moment before she squints slyly, playfully mocking you. The solemn little vow between you is sealed with a leisurely kiss.

Then you play again and again until the wick sinks into the hot wax and the little candle goes out. Billie just purrs lovingly against your shoulder, rest assured, she is bursting with a disproportionate pride in you and you can literally feel it in the air. As the living room sinks into darkness, she lightly touches her lips to your fingertips - exactly where it hurts so much so far. Her blue eyes are so attentive, glistening in the July darkness, and her lips glide over your skin so slowly and smoothly, like a little boat.

She hums "8" to your playing, and you're only more convinced that playing the ukulele is truly your little dream.

#billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish

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somecallmekay · 4 months

Text

A Date at the Ball

@wonderwyrm and I prepare for the ball, 700 words, Blue Moon Ball

Evenings in spring usually tended to be on the warmer side, and tonight was no exception. The gentle heat of the setting sun slowly withdrew as the cool air kept everyone at a comfortable temperature, which was certainly aided to some extent by the magics enchanted.

The sky was awash with colours of the setting sun, painting a diorama of hues accented by champagne pink clouds, carefully guiding the observers gaze towards the marble pillars which served as the main entrance to the hall, which was bustling with life.

Wizards, witches, dragons, angels, wolfkin, everyone showed up dressed in their best. The Blue Moon Ball was certainly an event not to miss, and everything has been going smoothly, much thanks to the host.

Most people showed up slightly ahead of time, and we're socialising outside, save for one figure.

Wyrm was dressed in a brilliant white dress, sparkling in the evening sun, reflecting the setting sun, yet underlit with a menagerie of colours, matching his wizard's hat and shoes. Bright and shiny, yet far from gauche, they razzled and dazzled in the crowd like fresh snow.

Suddenly, the floor beneath them darkened, darkened, and darkened until it became a pool of pitch black. The shade, while still attached to their feet, moved slightly to the side, then something started rising out of it. Dark tendrils of darkness reached up into the sky, then coalesced into a singular form, stitching themselves into a humanoid body.

She chuckled,and extended her hand towards the shape. “You're so dramatic, Kay.”

The body accepted his hand, the shadows fracturing to reveal their date for the ball, who turned the hand over and kissed the back, far too dramatically. “What can I say, it is the day to go all out. What'd you think?” they said, and slowly turned around, showing their outfit.

A black suit, black shirt, they wore no tie, their neck adorned with a silver necklace in the shape of a small hammer, and an onyx pendant. They wore several black and silver bracelets, and a silver ring on their right middle finger. Their head was completely black and only reflecting some light, as if made out of ink. The outfits were completely different, yet instead of clashing, they accentuated each other beautifully.

“Sharp,”came the answer, “but a little too black, don't you think?” The question was, of course, a joke, and immediately met with a response from his date. “I mean, I'm a living shadow, might as well lean into it. Anyways, damn, is this place nice or what?”

And like that, hands in pockets, all the theatricalities gone, just two friends hanging out dressed pretty.

“Yeah, Lurien really went all out for this.” Wyrm responded cheerfully. “You can really see how much work he put in.”

“Same could be said for yourself, you look beautiful.”

“Aww, thank you! Took me a moment to get the enchantment exactly right, but it really paid off I think. Check this out!” he exclaimed and did a quick twirl.

The lights of the dress went wild. Lights enchanted their glow, temporarily capturing the gaze of everyone around, and a round of polite applause followed.

Kay was clapping the loudest, which wasn't saying much since golf claps aren't for noise, but regardless.

“Bravo, beautiful. If they ever make a card game out of this ball, you're getting a holographic card just for that.”

“That might be the weirdest compliment I've gotten.”

“Gotten so far, the night is still young. Besides, the ball hasn't even sta-”

The massive doors into the building rumbled, and slowly opened, and a chime echoed through the grounds, signalling the ball had officially started.

The shadow wytch paused. “huh. Colour me wrong I guess.”

Wyrm laughed, then offered his hand for their date to wrap their arm around. “Shall we then? My date?”

The teasing in her words was lightheaded, and instantly, she found a dark arm locked with hers. “After the Shadow Lillies and chocolates? Absolutely, darling.”

“Well, I did get a visit from someone who knew you'd like them. Tall, shadowy, black clothing.”

“I couldn't possibly imagine someone like that. Seriously, does their wardrobe have like, only one colour?”

They shared a laugh, just as they stepped into the halls. Oh yes, tonight was definitely a good night to go all out.

#blue moon ball #wytchposting #wytchposting rp #wonderwyrm #wizardblr

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hazelkjt · 7 months

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Hazel- Five Character Associations

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Was tagged by the wonderful @iron-sparrow for this interesting writing exercise, really made me think! Thank you for the tag and for all the incredible content you make about Yein.

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Emotions/Feelings

Prideful Adventurous Inquisitive Headstrong Competitive

Colors

Crimson Red Sky Blue Marble White Onyx Black Sterling Silver

Scents

Old Books Campfire Smoke Worn Leather Sea Breeze Dried Blood

Objects

Hunting Sword Carving Knife Whetstone Reading Glasses Karakul Feed

Body Language

One hand resting on blade, other hand on hip Curious glances at surroundings and others Head and shoulders held high in confidence Self-assured grin and gaze Restless movement while standing still

Aesthetics

Warm campfire on a chilly cloudless night Scattered books around a reading light Blade being sharpened against a grindstone Self-made path through the forest Ocean waves crashing against a rocky cliffside

#ffxiv #ffxiv oc #au ra #xaela #hazel kha #tag game

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jesicamerry98 · 2 years

Photo

Buy different shades of Onyx Marble from RK Marble with premium quality. Blue Onyx marble stone is used for flooring of home and commercial spaces. Visit us : https://www.rkmarble.com/collections/onyx/

#marble stone price #marble supplier #white onyx marble #blue onyx marble #onyx marble price #onyx marble

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en8y · 3 months

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[IMAGE ID: fourteen rectangular banners, all of which have blinking outlines. the seven on the left have flashing names and wiggling icons, while the seven on the right don’t. the first and second have a light purple background and a black border; they both have the word “witchberry” in the middle, in light blue and medium purple. the third and fourth have a warm green background and a dark green border; they both have the word “rosemary” in the middle, in dark brown and light green. the fifth and sixth have a bright red background and a dark green border; they both have the words “radish cookie” in the middle, in light green and white. the seventh and eighth have a dull red background and a black border; they both have the word “sachertorte” in the middle, in bright red and dark brown. the ninth and tenth have a golden yellow background and a dark brown border; they both have the words “marble danish” in the middle, in dull brown and off-white. the eleventh and twelfth have an off-white background and a light grey border; they both have the words “onyx cream” in the middle, in pastel yellow and dark grey. the thirteenth and fourteenth have a white background and a dull yellow border; they both have the words “second cream” in the middle, in warm orange and warm yellow. END ID.]

free to use; please link back/credit if you can!

#witchberry cookie #rosemary cookie #radish cookie #sachertorte cookie #marble danish cookie #onyx cream cookie #first cream cookie #cookie run #cookie run witch's castle #custom blinkies #blinkies #flashing #flashing gif #flashing cw #cw flashing #tech.png

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ragingbookdragon · 1 year

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Beauty and The Beast Walker

Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Word Count: 4.5K Warnings: None

Author's Note: Yeah...I'm gonna make a new story :)

**********************************************************************

Up above the great hills of Evendim, Emyn Uial as the elves called it in Sindarin, farther northeast of the Blue Mountains, was a decent sized city filled with humans. Given its name from the harsh winter and the considerable number of tombstones, Wintergrave had made a mark on the map after surviving through the centuries on pure spite and resilience of the men and women forged by the frigid cold that came down from the mountains above. The people of Wintergrave were tough, hardy, driven to survive in a land set out to kill all life below. Yet, they managed, and from the first settlement, a city had built itself.

It wasn’t exactly a holiday destination, only those wishing to test their strength in hunting or trade with the elves of Grey Haven or the humans of Bree, as their trade routes had extended that far north, but it was a location filled with timber, ore, and quarries. Elves, men, and hobbits alike sent word to Wintergrave when it came to wanting supplies. The marble quarries surrounding the city were desired by elves to make floors, walls, and statues with. The timber and ore built houses and hobbit holes for the men and halflings. Wintergrave had become a wellspring of richness. And visitors, especially those who had particular talents that helped the citizens of Wintergrave, were paid handsomely.

Which is why when word of the arrival of a blacksmith into Wintergrave had spread, a dwarven blacksmith at that, the entire town was readying every blade, every axe, every kitchen knife they had to be sharpened, others readying orders to be made. Word spread like wildfire about the onyx haired dwarf who struck a hammer with the fury of a dragon and took all the orders given, charging a rather expensive price, but given the results from the blades and armor he’d shown, it was worth it.

He'd taken up residence in one of the cabins farthest from the town, away from prying eyes, and only came into town to deliver orders or buy food. Hardly ever did he step foot where many of the city were, even to the bar. He never came to the tavern, and that’s what most people who weren’t coming for building materials came for. Only The Snow Veiled Barrow had a wine made from Bleakberries, a fruit only grown in the harsh ground of the frozen wasteland. Though dwarves were fonder of ale, alcohol was alcohol, and it bothered her quite a lot that the blacksmith had not once set foot in her tavern whether it to be eat a hot meal or enjoy a drink in solace.

She had, of course, taken it upon herself to at least make it known to the dwarf that he was welcome to come inside whenever he wished. That being said, going outside the city gates into the wilderness where the wolves and much worse beasts ran wild wasn’t exactly her favorite pastime—not that she couldn’t handle herself, she just preferred to have others hunt for the meat she used for meals.

It was well past sundown when she finally made it to the cabin he resided in, a small place, quaint even for a human but perfect for a man his size. The windows and door frame had been replaced as well as the glass panes, no doubt he’d secured his place of residence before getting to work.

Careful not to drop the bundle of fresh bread and cured meats in her hands, she kicked the door a couple times, calling out, “Blacksmith! If you are home, I wish to speak. I mean no ill will.” to ease him of grabbing a sword or axe.

Heavy footfalls echoed from inside and the locks flicked from behind before the door swung open to reveal the less than pleased dwarf; he merely glared at her, evidently not wishing to be bothered. “I do not take requests at this hour. Come back tomorrow.”

As he started to close the door, she stuck the toe of her boot in between the frame and halted it. “I’m not here for a request. Believe me, if I wanted a weapon, you’d have made it by now.”

“What do you want?”

“Well for starters, it’s freezing out here. Perhaps invite a lady inside for a moment?”

“You? A human woman enter a dwarf’s home? I can hear the hysteria and accusations rolling in now.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’ve an awfully cynical mindset, Blacksmith. I’m only here to deliver something to eat.”

At that, he opened the door and cocked a brow. “Why?” it was suspicious, and then his voice turned almost accusatory. “Do you not think I’m capable of feeding myself?”

“Distrustful as well,” she muttered, and held out the bundle. “You’ve not once stepped foot into the tavern in town. While I find it understandable that you do not wish to engage with Men, I do find it rather odd you’ve never come in for a drink.”

“So, you think dwarves are drunks?”

“Have you ever perhaps tried not reading so deeply into things that aren’t there? We live in the ass of Middle Earth. The nights are long and freezing. Liquor warms.” She waited until he took the bundle. “All I’ve come to do is deliver this and offer a seat whenever you wish. If you decide not to, I won’t be upset. But know I am someone you can trust.”

As she parted from the door, he called out, “Why should I trust you?”

“I own the tavern, Blacksmith,” she replied, putting up her hood. “I know everyone and everything that happens in this city. My knowledge, and friendship, is unassailable.”

He watched with narrowed eyes as she disappeared into the whipping snow back along the road.

***

He felt eyes on his back, knew someone was waiting to talk to him, but they were going to wait an awful long time. Steel had to be tempered in order to be forged into something great. It was only after the hair had risen along the back of his neck that he finally put the hammer down and looked behind him. A scowl came over his face as he saw her sitting in the chair beside the door.

“Blacksmith,” she greeted. “So glad you finally decided to notice me.”

“Apologies for the wait,” he practically sneered, and she merely waved him off.

“Oh, I’m not upset. Patience is a flower that grows in few gardens and believe me, the garden I have sowed is quite prosperous.” She crossed a leg over the other. “You’ve still yet to come into the tavern. Are you avoiding me, Blacksmith? That hurts. Most men wouldn’t dare avoid someone as beautiful as me.”

Her tone dripped with flirtation, but he was in no mood to play, even if what she said was true—she was absolutely beautiful, a goddess in flesh. “I’ve work to do. Unless it’s to request an order, I suggest you leave.” He pushed a lock of hair back, wiping the sweat from his brow, and looked at her, taking in the smirk, narrowed gaze, and— “You’re joking?”

She rose from her seat, tutting, “Blacksmith, please, I would never joke about money.” Pulling a hefty sack of gold from behind, she held it up. “I want you to make me a dagger. A very pretty, and useful dagger.” Pulling another, much smaller bag from behind, she handed it to him. “With these inlaid in the hilt.”

He opened the sack, wide-eying the sapphires, rubies, and emeralds in the velvet bag. “How…?”

“As I said, it pays to be my friend.”

“So, you’re buying me off?”

“In easier ways. Dwarves are honor bound, are they not? Also, it’s a rather heavy bag of gold. Enough to give leave of a few jobs if you wished.”

He glared at her, obviously weighing it on his mind before he sighed through his nose. “Fine. I’ll make your dagger.”

Her smile irritated him to no end, and she handed over the sack. “Wonderful. When can I expect my weapon?”

“Depends on the intricates of the hilt. A week. Two weeks. The month’s end.”

“Ah, so expect the unexpected?” she nodded knowingly. “Such a game I despise playing. As much as I’d love to stand around and chat, I’m afraid I must return to work.” As she walked off, she paused and turned, pointing around. “And do open a window. It’s stuffy in here. Like I’m underground.”

***

It was actually a month and a half before the dagger was finally done, and it was too much of a surprise when he stepped inside the crowded tavern. She didn’t even realize until she’d turned, put a tankard down, and jumped a foot in the air at seeing him at the bar.

She put a hand to her chest. “Give a woman a heart attack why don’t you, Blacksmith?”

He ignored her, putting the cloth on the bar. “It is done.” Undoing the ties, he flipped open the cloth and there lay a shining steel dagger, golden hilt with gemstones arranged in a delicate pattern.

Picking it up, she smoothed her hand along the blade, flipping it over as she felt the weight in her hand. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, eyes glimmering with something more than desire.

“Sharp too,” he bit out, already tired of the stares.

“Enough to kill a man?” she asked, eyes dropping to his gaze, and he stared back at her.

“As many as you wished.”

Her smile was bewitching, and she tipped her head to the end of the bar. “Sit. I have something in return.”

“You’ve alrea—”

“I said sit,” she commanded in a tone that had indignation rising on his face, yet he huffed and took a seat.

She disappeared behind the wall and came back minutes later with a bottle. A very aged bottle. “This,” she said, placing a goblet before him. “Is something I think you will enjoy quite a lot. I picked it up from a trader a few years ago.”

He watched as she uncorked the bottle and poured a dark, amber liquid into the goblet. “What is it?” he asked, picking it up to smell it. Notes of buttery caramel, oak, and pepper wafted up his nose and he closed his eyes, enjoying it.

“Whiskey. From the halls of the ancient dwarven kingdom Erebor.” His eyes opened and he stared at her, disbelief in them as he looked down at it. “Go ahead. Try it.”

Seeing his reflection in the goblet staring back at him, he lifted it to his mouth, taking a small sip. Something flickered in his gaze as he pulled the cup away and muttered, “It’s not of Erebor.”

She scowled. “It better be, I paid quite a sum for that.”

“It’s not.”

“I don’t get stiffed on deals. It’s real.”

“No, it is not. I am telling you it is not.” His tone had grown from calm to anger.

“I doubt you would know of what liquor comes from Erebor.”

The scratching of a chair on hardwood garnered the attention of all the tavern folk as they watched the scene unravel before them, the dwarf, standing, hands on the bar as he growled darkly at her, “I know what comes from the halls of Erebor, human. Do not speak of things you know nothing about. You have no right.”

She was silent as he disappeared from the tavern, slamming the door shut behind him. Humming, she picked up the split goblet and began cleaning it, turning to the others still staring with, “What are you lot staring at? Mind your own.” They went back to their drinks and food whilst she silently made note to visit the old historian.

***

“Master Bjolling?” she called out as she stepped inside the old man’s home. “Master Bjolling where are you?” she walked around the counter, down the steps and into the grand library the bookkeeper had. “Master Bjolling,” she sighed fondly, catching sight of the old man huddled over a desk.

He popped up, turning around to see her, blinking behind the large lenses he wore. “My word, is that you, my lady?”

She smiled. “Good evening, Master Bjolling. How well you fare?”

His smile was covered by his bushy mustache, but he greeted her with kindness and joy. “Wonderful! It’s quite a joy to see you! Shall I put on some tea this evening? Maybe some sweets and pudding?”

“As much as I would love to, I need you to look up something for me. Would you mind?”

“For my lady? I would charge into the flames of Utumno for her.”

“You flatter me,” she smiled.

“Now,” he said, cracking his fingers, pulling at the long tunic he wore. “What knowledge do you seek?”

She took a seat in the cushioned armchair, crossing a leg over the other as she laced her fingers on her stomach. “Knowledge on the dwarves.”

“There are many clans across the land. Which do you wish knowledge of?”

“The dwarves residing in the Blue Mountains southwest of us, what kingdom do they originally hail from?”

Bjolling frowned as he fiddled around a shelf pulling out a leather-bound booklet. “If I do recall,” he started, reading through the journal. “My predecessors wrote their arrival down. Ah, here we are. Erebor,” he said.

“Tell me of Erebor.”

Bjolling hummed curiously as he started walking around, going from section to section, staring up and down at the numbers. “This doesn’t have to do with that dwarven blacksmith fellow shouting at you in the bar last weekend, does it not?”

“It might,” she answered. The old man deserved at least half the truth. “I’m simply curious about the land is all.”

He seemed satisfied with her answer as he stopped in front of a particular shelf and looked up. “What information on Erebor do you seek?”

“Do you have anything on the royal family of Erebor?”

“Hmmm…perhaps? Dwarves aren’t exactly notorious for being open on history.” He dragged a large, ceiling length ladder down the line and climbed it, pulling books from the shelves, flipping through them before he found one that seemed to call to him. A large book, bound with blue leather. Bjolling pulled it out and climbed down, setting it on the table.

As she rounded the end, he flipped it open and started reading to her. She listened to him tell of the tale of how Erebor came to be, blessed by the Sons of Durin, a prosperous city under a mountain rich and powerful.

“—all changed, of course, with the arrival of Smaug, a fire drake from the North. He ransa—”

“Stop,” she interrupted, and he looked up over the rim of his glasses.

“My lady?”

“Who was the king during this time?”

Bjolling eyed her curiously before flipping back quite a few pages. “Let us see, I do believe it was Thrór.”

“Did he have any children?”

“His only son was Thráin.”

She frowned. “No, too old.”

“My lady, what are you looking for?”

She sat down on the seat beside him. “I’ve reason to believe our resident blacksmith is from Erebor.” Propping her hand against the side of her head, she asked, “Who were his children?”

“Thráin’s?” he flipped another few pages. “Records state he had three, Thorin, Frerin, Dís.” Bjolling looked at her. “My lady, might I ask what you intend to do with this information?” his expression turned solemn. “Please don’t tell me your idea is to extort this man? If he is of Erebor, he has nothing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please, the hills of the Blue Mountains are filled with riches.” To ease his mind, she added, “But to give you peace, my intentions are not to extort him for a thing.” She rose from the seat. “Thank you, Master Bjolling. Your help is always appreciated.”

He smiled as she bent down and kissed his head. “For my lady, I happily assist.”

***

By the time he made it back to his cabin, he was practically dead on his feet, only wishing to fall into his bed and sleep until the sun rose the next day. As he unlocked the door, he took note of the fire blazing in the hearth, filling him with caution and warning as he pulled out his blade and entered carefully. He saw nothing at first, looking all around the room for any signs of thievery or attack, yet none showed. He began to put his blade away when—

“Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. The rightful King Under the Mountain.”

He jumped, spinning around to point the blade at the woman in the corner of the room, watching him with a hidden gaze; he glowered at her. “How did you get in here?”

“I have many skills, your majesty. Picking a lock is just one of many,” she replied. “I have questions for you.”

“I’m in no mood to answer a single one. Get out.” When she didn’t move, he leveled the sword on her and threatened again, “Get. Out.”

She merely looked at the point of the blade then to him. “Put your sword away dwarf before you start a fight you will never walk away from. No matter your age and experience, I will finish what you start.”

He twirled the sword in his grip and retorted, “I would like to see you try, woman.”

She stood up before him and for once in his life besides the terror of Erebor’s fall, Thorin Oakenshield was terrified as she bared her teeth, canines growing into inch-long fangs, and the walls shook with force equal to a hurricane as a guttural growl escaped her throat. He took a step back, sword faltering, and she closed her mouth, head tipping up.

“My family has long protected this land, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. Do not assume that my strength is limited to that of my body. Challenge me again and it will be your last.”

He stared at her. “What…are you?”

“The correct term far east would be skin-changers. Here we are called beast-walkers.” She sat back down. “My family line was infected with a disease that turned us into great beasts, giant two-legged wolves. Over the centuries, my family’s blood has changed and instead of our turnings being random, we can control it.” Her eyes turned to the moon outside. “There is, of course, still a desire to run wild under the moonlight.”

“Why reveal this to me?” he asked.

“Well, before you intended to get your throat ripped out, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. I came to apologize to you.”

He cocked a brow. “You can stop calling me that. Thorin, is acceptable.”

“Thorin,” she corrected.

Dropping the sword on the table, he looked at her. “Why do you wish to apologize to me?”

“I insulted you the other week. Of course, part of the blame arises from you refusing to disclose who you are, but I let arrogance get the better of me.” She met his gaze. “I apologize. You, in fact, know better than any what comes of Erebor.”

Thorin made a noise in his throat, and he sat down on a chair across from her. “The less who know of my name, the safer it is to work and travel.”

“Understandable,” she agreed. “There’d be quite a ransom note sent to Ered Luin for the return of the rightful King Under the Mountain.” Her eyes found the snow again outside. “I don’t envy you, Thorin. It must be a heavy mantle to wear.”

“I wear it with pride,” he retorted, and she snorted.

“Spoken like a true dwarf.” They fell silent, watching the snow fall in peacefulness.

Uncharacteristically, Thorin admitted quietly, “I’m leaving here soon. At the end of the month.” He bother to look over at her, even when he felt the weight of her surprised gaze on him. “I’m starting a company. To retake Erebor from that damned serpent. To restore my home.”

Her lips pursed in a look of hidden surprise. “Truly? Even the dwarven kingdom at its height couldn’t even stop him. What makes you think you can?”

He looked over at her. “I feel it.”

“You feel it?” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “Gods help your company, feeling isn’t reliable.”

“You wouldn’t understand, human.”

“Perhaps not. I’ve never left Wintergrave to fight a dragon that could eat me in one bite.” She hummed. “I have done crazier things though.” Her eyes found his. “This company, I assume it will be comprised of warriors?”

“Indeed.”

“Would you like help?” she offered, and he cocked a suspicious brow.

“What are you after?”

“I assume unless I tell you, I’ll never be able to join?” his silence was her answer and she sighed. “Wintergrave is ancient. Its people are old. The young ones venture out east to the warmer lands for a better life. This city will never die, but at some point, you have to know when to let go and move on. It is time for me to move on.”

“I thought your family has protected this land? Are you going to ignore your duty?” he practically accused her of derelict duty.

“You assume I am the only beast-walker here. Others will keep the fire going. I wish to move on. If I’m to die, it won’t be pouring drinks to drunkards. I’ll die for something.” She held out her hand, waiting until he cautiously held his out the same; she took it, and he was surprised how warm she was, almost burning like fire. “Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, if you would will it, I will join you on this quest for Erebor. My strength and expertise are yours.”

He gazed at her. “You would do this for someone you don’t know? Without wanting reward?”

“Well, if we do manage to retake Erebor, I’d certainly enjoy being able to run a tavern somewhere in there. I am quite good at it, if you recall.”

Thorin chuckled, shaking her hand. “I will see what I can do once we reestablish Erebor.”

She smiled at him, pulling her hand away to rise from her seat. “I shall make preparations for my leave. I doubt I will ever make a journey back to Wintergrave in the future. It will be imperative to find a suitable family to take over my tavern. And to gather my belongings needed to take.”

“Have a lot?”

She shrugged. “Not so much material that is important. I have quite a mass of gold built up over the generations. I’ll have to prepare it for travel to the Blue Mountains.”

“Why?”

“What good is a mountain of gold if it’s not used for the better of something? You live in a cabin with little. It’s not difficult to understand that you send the majority of your sums back to your people.”

“You would give my people your gold?”

“Not all of it. A woman has to have something to live off of.”

Thorin rose. “You honor me and my people in the Blue Mountains.”

She tipped her head. “I will take my leave for the evening.” As she walked off, she turned, meeting his eyes. “Thorin…”

As she trailed off, he cocked a brow. “Yes?”

“Never mind,” she said, shaking her head. “Good eve.”

The door closed behind her and Thorin listened as an otherworldly sound echoed from behind the door, then a blood-chilling howl shook the walls; he turned to the desk, pulling a piece of parchment out to begin writing out the call for his company.

***

The city had practically sent the two off with more food, supplies, and gold than the two could do with. Still though, Thorin couldn’t say he was displeased with it. His companion hadn’t said much since they’d left, and he couldn’t help but watch her when he had the chance to. She looked ready, willing, for anything. What was so different was her garb. No longer dressed in the floor length dresses she typically wore, but a set of darkened leather armor, silver designs sewn into the side as well as silver buckles. Her back was held set with a wooden bow and at her side, the dagger that Thorin had forged for her along with a silver long sword—that, he recognized as elvish, and he fought the urge to sneer and scowl at it. Her face was covered with a mask, cut off just above her mouth, silver faceplate in the make of a wolf—he found she had quite a fondness for silver.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable as they travelled, and he felt comfort growing in him at having her at his side. Which was odd because Thorin didn’t trust anyone he’d never fought with. If he couldn’t trust them to cover his back in battle, how would he know they wouldn’t stab him in the back.

“You’re thinking awfully loud, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór.”

He rolled his eyes, griping, “I thought I’d said to stop that.”

“You did, but I find it annoys you and amuses me, so I shall continue.” She looked down at him. “What are you thinking about?” he opened his mouth and she added quickly, “And no need to hide it. We’re going to be together for a while. If we can’t be honest, we won’t work together.”

He ignored the urge to roll his eyes again but conceded. “I find it difficult to trust you since we’ve not seen battle together.”

“We will,” she replied, staring straight out to the road. “Your worst trust should be that I won’t eat you.” She accentuated her point by flashing her teeth with a grin. “I already gave you my word, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór. Find it in yourself to trust me already.”

“Why should I take your word seriously?”

She pulled the reins and halted her steed, Thorin following in suit; she stared him down and said, “Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, at the end of the day, all a man has is his word. His word is his hope, his truth, his livelihood, his honor. I do not have a title to hold my honor to, but I have generations of protecting my home and doing what is right no matter how difficult to hold it.” She took the reins again. “My word is my honor, just as your word is yours. If you keep your word that you will protect me, then I shall keep mine and protect you. Nothing less.”

Thorin grunted, falling back in to suit beside her. “Apologies.”

“Save those for something serious,” she replied. “We’ve a long road ahead of us.” Looking at him, she asked, “Where is our first stop?”

“The Blue Mountains.” He gazed into the distance. “To collect some old friends.”

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