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bokettochild · 10 days ago

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Little Soldier Boy, Come Marching Home

I apparently had some Uncle Aflon brainrot (could y'all tell?) and it spawned this monster!

Not sure if I'm actually going to make a story about this, I mean a proper one, but this refused to let my brain rest until I wrote at least this much, so I figured I'd share it for the folks who kept sending me Aflon asks :)

(Yes I am very aware that the title is from a song, I'd recommend listening to the Reinaeiry cover on YouTube, because it's also rotted my brain since I listened to it and I think it suits Aflon and Legend quite well T-T)

The first time he held Link, it was standing on the edge of the wood, away from the eyes of all the kingdom and under a veil of darkness. The forest chattered and whispered behind him, bringing to mind whispers of thieving Kolkiri and fae, and it had made him hold the babe in his arms all the tighter.

His sister-in-law was watching him closely, hands hovering, wary, like she didn’t trust him to hold the child quite right, ready every second to take the positively tiny bundle back from him and tuck that red and fitful face back against her own breast, hushing and cooing softly herself as she’d been when he’d arrived there. She didn’t though, although whether that was due to his own skill or some sort of restraint from the woman, he wasn’t certain.

“What’s the little ‘us name then?” He’d asked, pushing down the swaddling of rough fabric, far too rough for so small a thing, but lined carefully with far finer where no eyes could see. The child within trembled, cold air drawing a wavering wail from a tiny mouth. There wasn’t much to see anyways, he was a baby, same as anyone had ever had. Far smaller than Aflon had ever seen before though; so small he almost could hold him in one hand alone, but by all other means the tiny creature wasn’t much to look at.

Despite that though, Loretta’s dark gaze hadn’t lifted once from the infant, usually stern features awash with pure adoration as one trailing hand lifted the blanket back up to shield the babe once more. “Link.”

“Like the hero?” The dead one?

“Like the star,” her hands lingered so close to the face of her child, and in answer, the tiny one stilled, quieting as though some spell was laid over him. “Like the boy who brought hope to dark countries when Hyrule was at her worst.”

“Sir Raven’s squire.”

She’d nodded. “The same.”

And the child was just, well, a child; a tiny wee thing that felt so fragile to hands accustomed to the sword, and Aflon had shaken his head with a sigh, turning to Loretta with the question that had plagued him since he’d been given his riding orders this morning with the command to meet her here. “Why me?”

Those had been the words to make her draw back, pain welling up behind dark violet eyes that avoided his own. “There’s no one else I can ask.”

“He’s your son.”

“Which is the same as a sentence of death,” she’d hissed, tone harsh as her blade, “you know as well as I how Hyrule sees its crown. You took a vow the same as any other knight.”

He had.

“That child,” her child, “stands no chance, no matter what I do, if I keep him with me.”

Aflon had shifted, sparing the bundle in his arms a glance one more before murmuring, “his chances are pretty slim regardless, ‘Etta. Babes this small-”

“I know,” She’d run a finger along a tiny cheek, face pinching into something bordering on gentle, on sweet, something no one would describe the woman as save with her steads, “But it’s the best I can give him.”

He’d felt the weight of those words, the weight of their expectation, and all the more so when the Queen of all Hyrule had lifted violet eyes to hold his own and given him her final command. “Protect him, Aflon. He’s not just your prince, he’s your nephew, and I swear on hell’s ashes if you fail him, I will flay you.” Typically, he’d have assumed her words to be in jest, but the fire behind her eyes, a furious and dangerous love the likes of which he’s only heard tell of a mother for her babe, had made him take the words to heart.

“I won’t fail you, your grace.”

“No,” she’d stepped closer, pulled his arms down just a bit further so she could duck her head and press a kiss to a tiny cheek, “don’t fail him. All else doesn’t matter-”

“The princess-”

“I will mind the princess,” Loretta’s eyes had darkened, “and failing that, the Impa sent is a good one. Your priority is him,” and both of them had turned to the child, a child so tiny he almost weighed nothing, but yet lay so heavy in his arms with duty set beside him. “He needs you.”

And he did. He hadn’t seen it then, hadn’t felt it, but even a man made in blood and battle knows the worth of life. And so, somehow, he’d managed.

He’d carried his little charge back to the closest village and taken a room, managing to ignore the curious and lingering gazes of the locals at a young knight in full armor with a tiny baby in his arms.

In truth, he hadn’t been sure where to go from there. Loretta had entrusted him with her child, which meant all other missions, whatever they might be, were out of the question. His duty as a knight, as a soldier, was now changed, which, all considered, wasn’t the worst fate in the world. Still, he’d mused, staring at the tiny creature that slept more than he stirred, it’s not exactly the life he’d imagined for himself.

They’d always been knights, or so his own father had taught himself and his brother. The men in their family take up the sword and the women the plow and reigns of a rancher. Their older sister already is married with her own farm, and goodness knows Banzetta himself, though king consort, still carries his blade as the second in command to their warrior queen. For himself, Aflon has never imagined anything else than to serve as his forefathers, perhaps to marry, although there’s no woman who’s caught his eye as of yet, or at least none he’d be keen to stay beside for all his life. He can’t continue traveling Hyrule though, not with a tiny child in his care, not when the world out there is still so dangerous and dark.

For days, he’d stayed at the inn. He’d had no direction or clue, but he’d done his best to mind the tiny princeling in his care, although his attempts must have been very poorly indeed because it wasn’t long at all before two of the local village women had been knocking down his door and scolding him left right and sideways.

Without the women of Kakariko, Aflon could say for a certainty that neither he nor Link would have made it through that winter. They had though. The ladies of Kakariko nursed his precious nephew alongside their own children, taught himself how to change and clean a child, how to swaddle them up tight against the cold, how to burp and soothe them. He’d listened with care, listened like they were marching orders from a commanding officer, and he’d taken them all to heart, employing every bit of skill imparted to best fulfill his duty to the child in his care.

Thankful as he was for those women, the many mothers of Kakariko, young and old both, there was still, despite their care, a fear that gripped him each time one of them took up Link in their arms. The babe was a prince of Hyrule, and were that known it would be easy to stage some incident to see that the bad omen that was a royal son was no more. The women of the village would laugh, saying that anxiety for a child was normal, but they had no conception how deeply his fear ran each time one of them held the boy, each time he had to turn his back on his helpless charge for even the smallest of moments.

Come spring, he’d settled, bought a piece of land with the money he’d saved over the years and made a home for himself. As it happened, an old orchard had been up for sale, just close enough to the village to keep in touch with those who’d shown them kindness, but with enough distance that he no longer felt the need to be on the defense at all times against neighbors who might seek to harm the boy in his care.

They’d asked, some of the village folk, if the baby was his. For lack of a better response, he’d said Link was his brother’s. No one questioned it. Why would they? He was a stranger to them, and though chatter would sound on street corners wondering what had happened to lead him, ‘a clueless young man who hasn’t the faintest on how to mind a babe’ to have care of Link, but they’d never asked him anything more, just gone on offering advice.

That was fine though. That was better than them all assuming he was the father, because it felt wrong to allow such a misconception. He couldn’t say why, but when a parent still lives and wants their child, there’s no right for another to claim them as their own. Besides, he couldn’t be a father.

As it was, some days he felt he was doing a terrible job of being an uncle.

And he hadn’t thought of himself as such at first, but somewhere amid long nights sitting up, just watching labored breaths from a body almost too frail to take them, somewhere amid whispered words with doctors who’d told him to let go already, with midwives who’d urged him to keep fighting as long as his little one did, somewhere along the line of spending every day forever in the presence of the child, there’d come a day when he’d stopped worrying about his charge, and where he’d started fretting about his nephew.

Maybe it was those moments of clarity and wakefulness when big bright eyes would stay up at him, so curious. When floppy little ears would follow the sounds of his voice, or tiny hands would cling fast to an offered finger, toothless jaws working at its tip with little coos and warbles. He couldn’t say. But somewhere in that first winter he’d gone from a knight with a charge to an uncle with a nephew, and he’d never wanted to go back.

Sure, it was hard some days. Link was a sickly baby from the start, and he grew slowly. He was bright though, so very bright, like a star as his mother had said, and with every passing day those eyes so like the queen’s own had filled up with their own constellations of joy and smiles, tiny hands clapping, little feet stumbling.

Despite all concerns and doubts, his little Link beat the odds.

The child was his sunshine. He’d never been a very social man, so the company of a single boy wasn’t bad at all in his opinion. Granted, with just the two of them it had raised concerns when Link hadn’t learned to speak when he should, and for a time he’d wondered if perhaps it was for a lack of him having used words enough for the little one to know them, but in time he’d accepted that words weren’t to be had, and while some village folk would murmur that a changeling might have been traded for his precious bundle, stolen by jealous kolkiri in vengeance for their own lost little one, he’d never minded too much. He’d learned to speak with his hands from the village elder, and so Link had as well, and by that means they’d gotten along quite well until the wee one had made up his mind to try for actual sounds.

His old friends from the army were company at times, stopping in between missions and runs, catching a drink or a place to stay. He used to worry about exposing Link to the life he’d known among them, but in front of the child they’d all minded well, many even offering help and kindness he’d never dare to ask for. Some had children of their own, they said, others younger siblings. Regardless of the reason though, not a man would enter his home as didn’t have a kind word for his nephew, and while worry still brewed up within to see Loretta’s child among men sworn to prevent his existence, not a one had ever guessed at the truth.

And then everything had changed when Link turned eight.

He’d been talking by then. Belated though it was, words would come to him at times, although he’d prefer his hands over his tongue. Despite the murmurs of locals though, the boy was bright, sitting up more often than not with whatever book Aflon could find for him and positively devouring anything inside of them, big violet eyes near glittering in delight at the world painted for his eager mind, at the discoveries and worlds and words and stories- heavens did his little star love the stories! He had ever so much to say about what he read, and a smile brighter than the sun itself, and small though he still was, weak though he’d likely always be, Aflon adored the boy that ran to his arms at every day’s end and shared home and heart with him.

He’d had doubts, in the beginning, that he could settle to a quiet life, but it never felt quiet with Link so eagerly learning about it beside him, indeed, it felt like he’d only just learned what it was to be alive for himself!

And every day was a new adventure, teaching his nephew something new or finding himself taught some lesson or fact. Every night was settling down before the fire and holding firm against the plea of “one more page!” before smothering his precious Link in mustachioed kisses and tucking him in tight against the chill of the night. Sometimes they were disturbed with guests and his efforts would be in vain, but nine times out of ten when that did happen, Captain Bertram or Major Wilkins would take the lad back to bed and recount enough stories to finally have him dozing off against them, ready to be tucked back in again upon their departure.

He wouldn’t have changed that life for the world though.

Yet, the world seemed to have other plans.

Link had startled awake in the middle of a storm one night, tearfully insisting that something was wrong, that there was danger, that Zelda, the sister he didn’t know was his even then, was in danger and that she’d told him so herself.

To another man, it might have been nothing, just a bad dream, but Aflon had himself woken before to the sound of startled cries sounding through an army camp. He could remember when the queen would awake from a vision while traveling with himself and his brother, and many a time, Banzetta had recounted to him when it happened that he hadn’t seen. It was in their blood, the people of Hyrule would say, that those of the royal line would sometimes be given visions, often of future events and or trouble brewing beyond even the eyes of the Sheikah. That was how all the prophecies surrounding his own family had come about, how the reappearance of a hero had been foretold.

So, upon hearing such strange words from the mouth of his nephew, rather than beg him return to bed or otherwise ignore it, Aflon had taken it to heart. After all, he’d been reminded, looking down at the tear-stained face at his bedside, Link may be his nephew, but he was also still Loretta’s son; still born with the blood of the crown, a prince of Hyrule.

So, although Loretta had told him to leave Zelda’s care to herself long ago, back when she and Banzetta were still alive and before some mission had gone awry and the both were lost forever- despite the fact that the Impa chosen by the sheikah had, indeed, never once failed in her duties, he’d still chosen to attend to the fears of his nephew and brave the storm, just in case. He’d chosen to risk it, even if it did mean he’d strayed from his orders.

He wishes every day that he hadn’t.

If only he’d done as Loretta said and minded Link first and foremost, maybe nothing would have changed. If only he’d promised that in the morning they would go together- although, looking back, he knows the princess would have been dead by that time if he had.

He’s long come to grips with the fact that whatever he had done, there would have been no happy ending, but even so, he still hates himself that he had allowed what happened next.

Rather than tell him to go home, rather than protect him, shield him from the world his mother never wanted him to know, Aflon had looked into the terrified eyes of his nephew, down in the depths of the castle sewers where the boy had followed him against his orders, he’d used his final breaths to push a sword and shield into hands too small to hold them, bidding the child go to save Zelda. He’d known he was dying, he’d known Link was scared, but at that little obedient nod, he’d also known something more:

His death would leave Link the last of their bloodline, and a prophecy given to a queen long ago had once said that it would be the last of them that would face Ganon when next he emerged. Looking at eyes the same as Loretta’s own, albeit far kinder, he’d found himself reminded of those words, and sickeningly certain that he was witnessing the birth of that hero. His little Link who wanted to be a farmer, who didn’t know how to fight and who was still so tiny, so young, was going to become the Hero of Hyrule.

Though he’d been bleeding out as they spoke, he’s rather certain it was heartbreak that had been his undoing, not the wound in his side, and he’d drawn his final breath to the sound of sniffled tears.

Yet, it seemed his eyes had only just closed before they were opening again, pain gone and so too his young charge. At first, he’d thought perhaps he’d struck his head somehow and dreamed the whole thing, but both sword and shield were gone as well, although when he reached the end of the sewer system the prison was quiet, empty of any princess, and when he’d turned back and returned to the outside world, not only was it daylight, but it was spring.

It had been a late autumn storm that he’d traveled through to reach the castle.

He’d thought, hoped, that it was some trick, but when he’d hurried along back towards town, to the house, everyone he passed seemed to think nothing at all of the fact that they were plowing fields and making ready for a planting. They were preparing for a new year of work, as though the winter itself wasn’t supposed to be coming, as though it had already happened! And there were still bits of snow lying about. There was a dampness to the ground of a fresh fallen rain. The world itself seemed insistent it tell him that he was wrong. But if he was, then where had the time gone, and what had happened? Where was Link and why was his side unmarred as though never an ax had plowed through it?

His feet had all but flown down the paths, paying little or no mind to those he passed or the startled shouts they sent his way. His goal had been set; his destination desperately darted towards.

The house looked entirely normal when he’d finally reached it. The orchard was beginning to brighten, not yet blooming, still expecting another snap of cold before the season truly sprung, but they were well along to blossoming. The path was clear, nothing and no one on it, and when he’d come to the door, he’d found it locked up tight. As it should be, as he’d left it, as he’d taught Link to leave it. He still had his key with him even though his sword was missing, and though his hands trembled he’d still managed to fish it out and, with some struggle, had gotten it into the lock.

The house looked the same as it had when he left. Clean as a whistle because a soldier’s training still lingered with him even after eight years and that expectation was one that he’d taught Link to hold himself to as well. Their beds were made sloppily, as though the boy had tried to do it for him after he’d left and maybe given up after, or else simply been unable to see, from his height, how crookedly the blankets had been lain. Most notably though, Aflon had noted, there wasn’t much in the way of dust. There wasn’t much in the way of dirt. The only difference that he found was that the pot, which he kept by the door for spare rupees, was empty.

His breath had evened some at that. A clean house meant someone had minded it, and missing rupees were nothing if it meant Link hadn’t been left to starve in the unidentified period of time where Aflon had been absent.

Or so he had thought.

It was two days later, two days he’d spent searching the whole neighborhood, quite at the end of his rope in fear as Link hadn’t been seen at all in that time, when at last he’d laid eyes on his nephew.

Or rather, when he’d met the hero.

Because the wary creature that entered the cottage door and froze, hand on a sword and dark eyes so large in a thin face, was not his nephew. Because his nephew would have run to him with maybe a few tears or a cheer, jumping into his arms with a hug rather than start and draw a blade the moment Aflon made a motion towards him.

Link didn’t fear him.

The boy who came to him in Link’s stead did.

When he voiced his worries to the women who’d helped to mind the lad over the years, some would say perhaps he’d been taken, changed for a changeling by the forest children, at last getting their hands on a hero to replace their own. Others just shook their heads and sighed, unwilling to explain why.

He’d known though that the child in his home wasn’t a changeling though. No, because that child had eyes every bit as much like the late queen. Eyes that knew war, and battle, that bore the burden of a kingdom which dragged on too small shoulders, eyes that Knew, that Looked, and eyes that Saw people for what they were, not simply what they’d claim to be. There was no doubt, looking at that boy, that he was Loretta’s son.

But he wasn’t Aflon’s nephew.

Link was bright and bubbly, quieter by nature but prone to prattling when the mood took him. The silent little thing that lived in his house, wary like a rabbit hunted and hidden, was a stark contrast. Link liked to travel with him, going to town for any errands and skip-tripping along the path at his side, getting distracted by small creatures and ever full of questions.

Not only did the hero avoid going out of the house when he could, preferring instead to stay inside behind a locked-up door and shuttered windows, but when he did go out, the lad was ever scanning the world, ever watching the sky and the path as though expecting an attack from one or the other. He didn’t stray off towards sudden changes, curious ears cocked, he put a hand to his shoulder and looked for a blade.

The child that came back to him held the manner and look of an old knight, not a child too young to even be a page, and it disturbed him. He tried though. This was Loretta’s son, the prince of Hyrule, and as he’d later learned, the boy had indeed become the country’s hero. Not that the boy had told him that himself. No, the child in his home didn’t speak, tongue faltering and sounds stuttering before hands would lift to answer questions in as few words as possible.

Two of his fingers were crooked, Aflon realized, watching him, heart aching. Two fingers and, in those first days, he’d favor one leg over the other.

He wanted to help, but the boy was wary of touch, starting and panicking as a first reaction if he didn’t see it coming and wincing even when he could. He kept a wide space between himself and anyone, a swords-distance, Aflon realized after a spell, although as for the blade he carried, well, that had disappeared after the first few weeks. It wasn’t the sword he’d handed to his nephew though. The sword that the hero held was unfamiliar to him; radiant, beautiful, masterfully forged so that his own blade paled in comparison. His was absent, and the one time he had asked what happened to it, he’d just watched violet eyes fall and shoulders hunch, and immediately changed the subject.

It was hard. His nephew looked the same as Loretta’s child, same face, same form, same stature, although time had made her changes too. The boy was scrawny, and though he had hoped his lost rupees meant his charge was still fed even with him gone, he’d come to doubt that.

He wasn’t sure what to make of it when, at learning of his own return, one of the neighbors down the road had invited them both for dinner, and the hero child had only stared at his own plate, stirring the food around but not eating. He’d dismissed it at first, but soon it became abundantly clear that the hero would not eat food he couldn’t watch being prepared, not unless it was a meal offered by Aflon himself, and, to his own surprise, Dolly, the village elder’s wife.

Somehow, both she, Dolly, and Sahasralah, the elder, were the only ones who seemed unaffected by how his charge had changed. In fact, more than once, Aflon would find himself watching, wistful, as the two would speak with or even handle the hero with not a thing done to show fear in response. Simple acceptance met their motions, their words, and at times he’d almost been tempted to ask if maybe the boy that wore Link’s face wanted to stay with them instead, as he seemed so much more at peace in their home.

He didn’t though. He’d sworn a vow, a vow to do his duty to his prince, to his queen, and though he wasn’t certain if Loretta’s spirit would haunt him if he failed that, he wasn’t exactly keen to find out.

He couldn’t leave her son with strangers, with people she didn’t know or trust. Still, as the days passed, house silent as a crypt and the boy inside nearly the corpse it housed, he’d found the temptation growing daily.

At night as he’d blow out the lamps, now knowing full well not to approach his charge in the dark and sometimes fearing to even look at him (because what looked back was a slip of a shade with eyes glinting red like a rabbit’s in the low light of the hearth and by all means hardly human) he’d fight his own mind on the matter. Stay or leave, linger with what wasn’t any longer what he’d sword to protect, the child that wasn’t his nephew but was a hero.

Loretta said to protect him, he’d remind himself as he lay beneath the blankets. Yet, small hands knew the touch of blood, and the boy who’d wandered in at his door knew a blade like knights four times his age still hadn’t learned. Lying there at night, he’d wonder to himself, what was there left to protect the boy from? Loretta’s child already had seen everything she wanted to shield him from, so what was even the point, when there was no more innocence to shield?

It was that thinking, after weeks, months, that had led to him gathering up clothing and books, toys left behind because the person who would leave with him wasn’t a child but a young soldier, so what did they matter? He’d packed things up, watched the hero slip to his side to help, dutifully but silently gathering Link’s clothes and folding them up with the same careful effort Link always did, ending with the same misshapen result, and tucking them away like they would do every summer for the trip back to his own childhood home.

He’d locked the door tight that summer. Shut up the shutters and minded that nothing was left untended, no mess within or without. Long ears had cocked sideways, big eyes watching, curious, but nothing was said with scarred hands holding their bags while he prepared the house for their departure.

Most summers, he’d take Link down to Lon-Lon so the boy could stay with his grandparents and Aflon could attend to the heavier tasks of their orchard without worrying over minding the lad or leaving him feeling alone. This year though, after Mother had ushered the boy within the ranch house, shooting him a startled stare over his shoulder, he’d not gone back to the cottage.

Aflon Lon had, instead, taken to the road.

Guilt ate at him, but he’d known there was no going back.

He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he couldn’t return to the house. It wasn’t home without the laughter of his nephew, without bright eyes and brighter smiles. It wasn’t home without a presence at his side working away at the trees, muttering and talking at times to the birds who’d stop to watch them in their labor. It wasn’t home without Link, and Link- or at least the boy he knew, was gone.

So, he’d wandered Hyrule. He hadn’t traveled in a long while, but it was easy to take up again, to wander the roads by day and make camp at night. He stopped in old haunts he used to visit as a knight to see how they had changed, and he’d thought nothing of his wanderings. After all, it was summer; the summers were always free for him to do what he wanted. It was when autumn had begun to show her colors that guilt had well and truly began to build up inside of him.

Link would be waiting at the gates of Lon-Lon, watching the road for his uncle to come and bring him home. He knew it wouldn’t be the same eager stare, ears crooked and head rested on folded arms as the boy would perch on the rungs of the fence, leaning his whole weight against it and keeping eyes and ears on the road. The hero child would likely sit with more wariness, but despite all changes there was no doubt in Aflon’s mind that he’d wait all the same.

The difference though, the real one, was that this time, Aflon couldn’t come back. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t go back to that house, that child, he couldn’t live like that forever, with the shade of what should have been.

Mother and Father though, they could handle a soldier boy. They’d handled Banzetta after his first battles, they’d know how to work with Loretta, and if they could manage the parents of his own charge, he was sure theft were the best suited to handling a young hero. Not only that, but they were safe, they were good, and they’d never hurt Link for the circumstances of his birth. They would be better to him than Aflon could be, and given time, he was sure the hero would settle there again, into a life with a knight, a lady, a history of heroes all around him on the walls and swords ready for his hands; the life he’d taken on, but one Aflon couldn’t watch lived.

As for himself, he’d wander. He’d travel, he’d embrace the world he’d had to forsake for a small bundle. By winter, he’d gone further south than he’d ever strayed, gone where word of the hero didn’t reach, where peace and simplicity beckoned. He’d meant to resist, but an evening in a bar with a pretty woman at his side had changed that.

“Here alone, stranger?” She’d asked, voice thick with a drawl and gaze bold as she’d settled beside him.

He’d never been a bold man, quiet by nature, so he’d nodded.

She hadn’t been dissuaded, motioning to the barkeep for a round for them both before striking up chatter, asking where he was from? What brought him here? Where was he going? And his answer of course had been that he was from central Hyrule, seeking his fate and unsure where he’d find it.

“D’ya have a family?” She’d asked, honest and friendly. “Can’t be easy for them not knowing where you are.”

And he’d hesitated, just a moment, before offering a stilted smile and answering “just my parents and a sister.”

A sister who’d left, he told her, to marry a man from across the border, who visited at times but was busy with a farm and a family of her own, much like his own parents were even in their older age. He’d said nothing of a nephew, just the same as he’d left out the dead older brother and sister-in-law.

He’d lingered in that town for a few more days, and she’d been at the pub each night, coming to join him when he entered and striking up chatter until they were both looking forwards to the evening when they’d happen upon each other. Somehow though, that had turned to arranged meetings, to wandering, to talking, to a kiss that left him speechless and a courtship that left him stumbling and eager like he hadn’t been since he was just a boy.

He’d wondered how she hadn’t had a fella before he’d come, but he’d thanked the heavens for it too, especially when he’d proposed, when they’d taken a home together, when they’d made the choice to live life together.

It was easy to forget, for a while, in that early bliss, in the whirlwind of emotions, what he’d left behind to find it. He was reminded though when their own little one was born, when a little boy had been laid in his arms and he’d started when blue shone back at him rather than violet.

Liza would laugh and tease him, calling him a worrywart when he fussed. She’d say it was like he’d never held a child before; he was so cautious. She’d remind him to relax, when she found him sitting up and watching the wee one slumber, because he was healthy, he was fine, they needn’t worry so much because while babies need care, they won’t break if you breathed wrong.

Aflon couldn’t help himself though.

He was used to looking for signs of trouble, for any hint of illness. He’d started when their boy had started babbling, started talking, at only two years old. Liza had said that was normal, that they wouldn’t stay babies forever, that it was part of growing up. Still, he’d found himself signing more than speaking with the boy, and more times than he could count, the wrong name had slipped to his lips.

Their son had dark hair like his mother, blue eyes like Aflon himself, but it always startled him to see them. It was supposed to be strawberry blonde, with starlit skies veiled beneath. He expected a slip of a child who was quiet but eager, not a loud little thing that ran and darted and climbed and made him panic because Link was fragile! …except this wasn’t Link, and his son was strong, like him, like Liza. His son was bold, loud, like a little boy was supposed to be, not timid and wary like the boy he’d left behind.

It never stopped catching him off guard though. Their little Rusl didn’t care anything for books, or reading, or sitting still. He was always off with other children of the village; he was always climbing trees and ‘sword fighting’ other young ones with twigs they’d find on the roadside.

He was a normal boy, all told, but somehow that was more jarring, in so many ways, than if he hadn’t been. Because Aflon had never dealt with a normal boy, he realized. Even Before, his Link hadn’t been normal, he just hadn’t known to see it.

It was strange, how often Rusl would stare, watching people without those hesitant little falters that Link always had when someone met his eyes. He didn’t pay attention to the little details, didn’t care to watch the sky or the sun. He didn’t care about stars or tiny creatures or pouring over books the same size as himself for hours.

The one thing that the two boys did have in common though, was a love for stories of heroes.

Link used to bury his little button nose in the volumes of history that told of the Hero of the Four Sword, the Hero of the Skies: the chosen hero. Rusl didn’t read much, but one day he’d come back to their home with Liza after errands, and he’d had nothing on his mind except some story he’d heard about the Hero of Legends.

Aflon had paused in making dinner, frowning because he’d never heard of that hero before, because Link never spoke of that title.

“Who is the Hero of Legend?” He’d asked, turning to the dirt streaked four-year-old at the door.

“He’s who killed Ganon and saved Princess Zelda!” Had been his answer. “He’s so cool, I wish he’d come to our village so I could meet him!”

He hadn’t realized, until Liza had darted across the kitchen and scooped up the pot, that their meal had boiled over, or that it’d burned his hand when it did.

Rusl and his friends would talk about Link, pretend to be Link, say they wanted to be heroes like him, be knights, be brave. He’d be in the village and stories would sound, gossip between neighbors recounting the latest exploits of the Hero of Legend. He’d killed Ganon twice, he’d traveled the world, he’d saved Labrynna from a witch, he’d fought some tyrant down in Holodrum. Everyone had a different rumor that they’d heard, everyone a different thought on what the hero might be like. Despite all they’d chatter about though, all he could see in his own mind was a boy with heavy eyes and crooked fingers that trembled when he used them to talk.

Aflon had gone home that day, after hearing all the chatter, all the stories, all the news that had come down to them from some merchant who’d strayed to town, and he’d told Liza he was taking a trip.

“Just for a few days,” he’d said, wrapping arms around her and trying to smile, even though he’d known she’d see past it. “Just to see how my parents are doing.” He’d left out the part about his old house, about the child he’d raised inside it. He knew it was wrong, felt guilt eat away each time his mind turned there, but he’d never let slip about the boy he’d raised before meeting her, the child he’d left behind.

Link, as he’d known him, was gone, why speak of what wasn’t there any longer? Why drag everything he’d tried to leave behind into the perfection he’d stumbled himself into?

Still, he needed to know, needed to see, and maybe, just maybe, he’d wanted to see Loretta’s boy again, just to assure himself that he was alright, because try as he might, much as he wished, worry still plagued his heart for the little soldier boy he’d left at Lon-Lon.

He’d stopped by the house first, if only out of curiosity for what had become of it. It had been years, had the village elders sold it? Left it be? He didn’t know, so he’d taken the road around Kakariko, hood up as he passed old neighbors, boots stumbling some on a path he knew better than that back to his own wife and child.

The cottage hadn’t changed a bit. Standing on the path, apple trees shivering in a slight breeze, he’d almost felt a decade younger, almost tricked himself into thinking he’d need only open the old wood door, the door whose key still sat heavy in his pocket, and a bright little face would whip around to meet him, gap-toothed grin his welcome home as feet would pit-patter across the worn-out floors. Maybe it was that image that tricked his feet into walking, following a path altered only by shade of trees grown taller in his absence, their fruit hanging heavy but not yet ready to be plucked.

It’d be cider making season soon, he’d mused to himself, hand digging through his pocket for a key he couldn’t name why he still carried. Absently, he wondered if the old press was still down in the basement, if Link- because it must be Link- had minded to keep it oiled and tended, or if he’d left off using it. After all, the former knight chuckled, the boy couldn’t even turn the handle fully on his own, now could he?

His mind had been so caught in his thoughts he hadn’t been minding his surroundings, pushing the door open after a moment’s struggle (the key stuck more than it once used to) and moving to enter his old home. He hadn’t expected to be immediately whacked over the head, nor, when he’d picked himself up again, to find himself face to… face(?) with a masked figure.

“We aren’t open!” The purple clad individual had declared, mallet in hand, and a small creature with wings- which could in no ways be considered a bird- fluttering about at his shoulders, squawking and hissing something terrible. “And if you thought you could break in, you’re dead wrong!”

Aflon had blinked, slowly, and then started, gaze flying about the house briefly.

It wasn’t changed, not really. Pictures were all taken down and boxes were tucked against the walls, but the couch, the rocking chair, the china-cabinet, it was all still there, still in the same places, now with new stains and scuffs, but he could recognize them all the same. Really, the only major difference was the desk near the door scattered over with glittering items and objects, little price tags set before them in poor mimicry of a shop.

He wasn’t sure if the purple clad figure was meant to be here or not, but given that the house still technically belonged to him, he’d been more than slightly caught off guard.

“I’m not here for a shop, I- who are you?”

“Who are you?” The apparent merchant had demanded in answer, face shielded behind a hood that looked like it was meant to resemble a very, very odd face. “And why are you here?” Their voice was trembling slightly, but they stood firm despite.

“I live- or, well…” he’d paused, picking himself up and dusting himself off, “I used to live here. This was my house- still is actually, I’ve just been away.”

Despite not being able to see the merchant’s eyes, he could feel the apprehension in their gaze, weighty as it was as they looked up at him, one hand on their hip and the other holding fast to their oversized mallet. “You must have the wrong house; this one belongs to Mister Hero.”

Oh.

“You mean Link?”

“You know him?” Their head cocked on one side, hood following with a flap of long ear-like attachments.

Aflon had nodded briefly. “Do you?”

“Of course!” And suddenly the mallet was gone, the figure gesturing about with a cheery chirp now entering their tone. “He’s my housemate! Lets me stay here, keep up the shop while he’s gone and all that lovely sort of thing. Didn’t realize he had a landlord himself though! So terribly sorry if he’s been stiffing you on rent, he’s been out of town for forever now, you see.”

He’d nodded. He hadn’t known what better to do.

The stranger had introduced themselves as Ravio, offered to show him their wares, but when asked about Link had firmly insisted that he knew nothing more than that the hero was off on some mission for the crown or something and that he was just keeping the house in order for him.

It had been all Aflon needed to hear though. Link was still alive, apparently having embraced his role as the hero, and it seemed he wasn’t alone. He must have left the farm at some time, but seeing as he was approaching fifteen it made sense. He’d been rather eager for his freedom at that age too.

The kid would be fine, he’d told himself, walking back to Liza and Rusl. Link didn’t need him; he was getting along fine.

Somehow, even with the whole trip home to convince himself of that, it hadn’t worked. In fact, now he couldn’t stop thinking about it, slipping more with Rusl, drifting off at home. Liza wouldn’t let him in the kitchen anymore, insisting that he was too prone to forgetting what he’d been doing, too likely to hurt himself because he wasn’t paying attention. She’d begged him to see a doctor, or talk to her, but he’d waved it off, saying he was just tired, just thinking, he was fine; he just needed to rest. He knew she didn’t believe him, but she’d stopped asking at least.

If only he could stop himself thinking as easily.

But as the months and seasons passed, more worry had grown, more thoughts.

Link is turning sixteen this winter. Sixteen years since he’d stood on the edge of the wood with the queen of Hyrule and taken her child in his arms, promising to guard him. Only eight of those years were spent keeping that promise, only half, and he’d startled when he’d realized it. Even now, he’s left wondering, as he braves a storm so like that night that robbed him of his precious nephew, has Link changed? What is he like now? Did he ever grow into those too-big ears of his? Did he learn to look men in the eyes when he spoke to them, to steady his voice and hold himself with surety and not simply just skill?

His boy will be becoming a man, and he doesn’t know what that man looks like.

Or rather, he didn’t.

Because when he comes home, drenched to the bone but with a fresh kill in hand, ready for dinner, ready for him to show Rusl how to skin and prepare it, he finds his house full of strangers, his wide smiling and telling him that they’re travelers, more boys than men, and they need a place to stay but the inn is so far. Of course he greets them, of course he looks at men in armor and offers a smile like he would to his old brothers in arms, welcomes them to his home.

He didn’t realize, until just now, how much he missed hosting people fresh off the path he once used to follow, how much he missed their stories or sharing a smoke or a drink with men like himself once in a while, not just farming folk (nice as they are).

He’s midway to offering the a warm welcome when his eyes stray to the fire and he finds himself freezing.

Great violet eyes, shaded heavy under strawberry blonde, plastered down by dampness and the storm that howls just outside the door, stare up at him.

His breath catches.

It’s Loretta’s face, freckled and fine, fae-like features and faint traces of scars, upturned nose and steady jaw, but the galaxies that gaze out from violet pools aren’t the queen, even if everything else about the figure at his fire is. No, those stars are all Link, all his nephew, and the weight of that stare, not sure and stern like his sister-in-law but yet also not startled and wide like that day eight years back when he’d first met the hero.

In the same breath, it’s the dead queen and the young hero that sits before him. It’s Loretta with accusing eyes, fire burning in their depths as his own words ring in his head, sounding a promise, a vow to do as she’d said, to guard and guide her son, to protect him, no matter what. Yet it’s Link, it’s that little boy with eyes that know a demon’s smile and remember him bathed in his own blood.

If his heart had failed him when he’d first put a sword in the hands of his nephew, it’s ache is a thousand times worse as he stares at the result of that action, even as it refuses to cease in an endless flutter inside him as shock touches the face of the little soldier boy he’d left behind eight years ago, but who’s somehow, some way, found his way back before Aflon’s fire, staring up at him with the same startled gaze that shook and broke his world so long ago.

His knees hit the floor even as Liza cries out in concern, hands fluttering about him, but he can’t lift his eyes to look at her. Instead, he’s trapped in an endless expanse of dying stars.

“Link.”

Long ears, still too big for his nephew, turn his way at the sound of his voice, the answer coming out breathless and disbelieving. “Uncle?”

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu legend #uncle aflon #Ketto writes #don't come for me I just had a bunch of headcannons #and brainrot #blame the asks #I needed to get it out of my system

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17caratssi · 8 months ago

Text

My darling, honey pt 2 ; Jeon Wonwoo

part 1 is here!

You had been married to your teenage crush for three years and it was a wondrous journey added to the fact you just learned that you'd swallowed a watermelon seed.

Wonwoo was still working his ass off during the weekend and after he returned, you began preparing some light breakfast for him.

While he waited at the suffice dining table and stared at your back, he repeatedly expressed his regret as he was unable to spend the weekend together.

"It's fine. We have a lot of time together, don't dwell on it," you reassured albeit knowing he won't feel any better. Wonwoo became one with the silence and you were already used to it. He never spoke unless it was about you or something you asked for his opinion.

You finished with the cooking and he did the plating. Last night, he worked for only four hours but since he was called in the dawn, he felt sleepy quite a bit and you were the opposite.

As you both were eating, he looked at you oddly. You ceased to stop and raised an eyebrow, indicating your curiosity. "Are you done? Just leave the plate and go resume your sleep,"

Wonwoo shook his head and held your hand. Perhaps his palm was radiating so much warmth, you leaned forward in the coziness. "Hun, do you have something to tell me?" you asked.

Presented with ambivalence, Wonwoo took a minute to reply. He thought deeply before saying, "Don't you think I've been resting a lot these days?"

You could tell he was dourly asking. You have read it somewhere that if the husband loves his wife so dearly, he will experience early pregnancy fatigue rather than the wife. Thinking about how it related to his situation, you grinned.

Wonwoo smiled as if he was entranced by your reaction. He gave a gentle rub on your cheek and patted the back of your hand. He then told you to go upstairs and rest as he helped with the dishes.

You didn't refuse and went as he directed. There was nothing in your brain than the thought of how you should tell Wonwoo about your pregnancy.

While you pondered, he already completed the chore and got himself ready for the shower. Wonwoo looked bushed and you pitied him. After he came out from the wet, you beckoned him to the bed. Since he had changed his clothes inside, he didn't waste any time and ambled to you.

"I have something to tell you,"

Wonwoo hauled your whole body and answered. "Yes?" he was feeling cold and decreased the gap between your bodies. Seeing how comfy he appeared, on impulse, you straddled him and laid on top.

He took a different hint and whispered. "You want it?" Wonwoo asked with apparent lust. You let his hands explore your back but when he was getting dangerously near to your sensitive area, you grabbed his wrist and put a halt to it.

"We can't. Someone will see," you said. Attentively, Wonwoo kissed your neck and mumbled. "The outside? I'll draw the curtain," he sounded titillated and you honestly underestimated your own self-control. It was such a turn-on to see him inflamed but your conscience rushed in.

"No. Not outside but here," you brought his hand to your belly and reposed. Wonwoo didn't quite catch the periphrastic way you were telling but once he realized, the sparkling bright eyes shone even more brilliantly.

"Is it what I think it is?" he asked softly, almost audible. His palm smoothed around your belly and he looked at it. Wonwoo didn't need to ask twice as you clarified his question in a single nod.

You and Wonwoo had waited for 3 years and were confronted with many thrown doubts regarding your fertility. It wasn't something anyone can forget and take it lightly and so you began seeing specialists every few months to check on your body.

At first, Wonwoo did argue with you about it and at one point, you gave him a cold shoulder for a week. He wasn't easy to be persuaded but one day, he followed you for your regular check-up. On the way back, you requested to ride the bus instead. You two came by taxi and Wonwoo has no problem granting your wish.

After you picked your seat, Wonwoo got to his and sat quietly. You were having mixed feelings about today and leaned against your husband. "Are you alright?"

Wonwoo's response was fast but did not answer the question. He kissed your temple and said. "Let me know if you're going to your appointment next time. We'll go together," his mellow voice sang sorrow. You looked up to see his face and there hidden a hint of sadness in his beautiful eyes.

The journey home was blue that day, he knew his love for you was deep but not as much as the worries within.

Wonwoo was used to your prank and all but this news would never be one of them. After many attempts and tears, you two were gifted with a sunny revelation. He let out a light-hearted laugh and announced. "You're pregnant,"

"Y/N, you're pregnant!"

Wonwoo continued to have couvade episodes until the second trimester came by. Your belly swelled later than most women you knew. They told you it was normal for your bump to be small and even your husband assured you there was nothing to fret about.

Once it got bigger, you felt shy to stand bare naked in front of Wonwoo. You even made a fuss when he wanted to shower with you. "No, it's ugly. You will hate it,"

You only earned his grimace and a company for the bath. Wonwoo hissed as he smeared the shower gel over your body. His dissatisfaction was then voiced out, "How can you say this hideous? I'm the hideous one,"

You glared at him and covered his mouth. "Don't say that. It'll make it sound like I don't have a taste for marrying an ugly man," and that had Wonwoo cracked, you followed suit.

Out of blue, you felt something poking behind you. You flicked his head and pinched his waist. Flustered, you sheepishly exposed him. "Why are you getting hard?"

"Ignore that. You're just too sexy and I'm a pervert,"

"Yeah, a pervert," you chuckled with your hands fondling him already.

You and Wonwoo didn't have extensive exercise the whole pregnancy, fear if you'll get hurt. However, one night, you woke him up wanting to do it. He did it so gently that you squirmed around and begged him.

"Go harder.."

"No, honey. You're near due,"

Wonwoo had a hard time practicing abstinence in your later weeks. He hadn't done it for almost a month and he thank God for not testing him too much. Seeing how seductive you acted that night, he went out of his principle and pleased you.

He was feeling bliss all over but you were his priority. He felt the familiar sensation inside you and he smiled. "Come for me," he knew it won't take him long to bring you an orgasm. He kissed your neck and thrust a few times more before he had you ended.

Panting, you loosened your arms around his torso and asked. "Did you come? Don't lie to me,"

Wonwoo was about to tell a lie when you added. He didn't dare to ejaculate inside after he learned that semen can cause contractions. He then flashed an apologetic smile at you. "I can use my hand,"

Wonwoo never used his hands and you've long known. That hurt your heart even more. You pushed him off and got up to wash.

Whether you were pregnant or not, Wonwoo wasn't close to tranquil if you were in the bathroom for a long period. He knocked on the door for the third time and asked if you needed any help but you chose to not answer.

After a while, you finished and silently left the bathroom. The sky was still dark and your husband wasn't in the bed. "Wonwoo?" you called him, slow-voiced.

Where did he go? Is he mad when I threw tantrum just now? You felt conflicted. He rarely let you sleep alone when he's home and now he did. Rather than furious, you wanted to see him.

But even after the nth time of calling him from the room, he still didn't reply. The after-sex effect kicked in and you began to yawn. No sign of Wonwoo getting into bed and you retired soon.

As soon as you hit the pillow, you couldn't open your eyes anymore. Having no desire to resist the sleepiness, you fell asleep and Wonwoo returned home to a sleeping wife.

He put the bag of condoms in the cabinet and properly snuggled against you on the bed. He had taken a shower downstairs before going out but he was afraid you'd wake up to his smell. It happened before and you had him slept on the floor the entire week.

Wonwoo stared at you as you fell deeper into slumber and fixed your position. Your round belly looked adorable and he recalled the moments when you cried because your swollen feet hurt.

He had hurried home that evening and massaged your legs with his uniform on. "Hubby," you sniffed, wanting his attention.

"Yes?"

Your face poker and you stayed silent for a good five minutes until you broke out of character. "I love you," you confessed out of nowhere.

With your nose running with a snort, Wonwoo laughed and hugged you. "Honey, if you keep being like this, I don't know how to survive,"

Wonwoo had lost count of how many times had he rushed home because you called him crying. He was always worried even though he may have an idea of what was happening.

Little things that you do to gain his attention basked him in elation. His love for you has grown impassioned and somehow anticipates the baby to come into this world of his and yours.

Before it reached dawn, Wonwoo was first to feel the wet bed and woke up. In a daze, he didn't quickly stir you but rather checked the ceiling.

However, it was your moaning had his head turned to you, full attention. "The baby- I think the baby's coming," you winced as you spoke. He can tell from your labored breathing that it must hurt.

Fortunately, you had been reminding him to get the maternity bag ready in his car. You were around his arms as he carried your weight to the car and placed you gently in the backseat.

As he drove to the emergency department, you told him you can bear the pain but he wasn't buying. Wonwoo got out and called for a team to attend to you. They instantly brought all the necessary equipment to the vehicle and performed the procedure.

Wonwoo was guided to the registration counter and while you were pushed into the waiting hall, the only thing that kept you conscious at the moment was his arrival.

You wanted him to be by your side so badly and if you suddenly had an emergency labor without him, you honestly would cry.

Perhaps, the baby wished to see his parents immediately, you were out into labor just several hours after that, and Wonwoo was permitted into the room.

The entire process was both scary and exciting for you. On one hand, you fret if you are drained out of energy while pushing the baby out but on the other, your husband was very collected about the whole situation.

"Honey, we can see the head already. Just a little push and we're going to meet our child,"

"I know you can. Grip my hand tighter as you push,"

You didn't know what was along his sentence that moved you but tears ran down your face and you made your last exertion in his presence.

The loud wailing was an end to your suffering. Wonwoo stayed with you and only when the midwives called to cut the umbilical cord he came about.

Days after you had the little one downright changed but Wonwoo never stopped giving his unreserved attention to both of you. He would promptly take care of the child in the middle of the night since you'd had it in the morning when he was out to work.

It was a challenging period as it was Wonwoo's first experience as a father. He took a lot of advice from his parents and other people and in the blink of an eye, the child is now two years old.

At first, many said that the baby took your features but he seemed to be the carbon copy of his father. His first word was 'mummy' but all he called now was 'daddy'.

"Daddy, pick me,"

"Daddy, toys,"

Daddy here, daddy there. You couldn't help but feel bitter inside. You and Wonwoo did spend equal time with your son but his blatant preference made you green. But maybe part of him inherited from how clingy you were to your husband. “He’s just like you, Y/N,”

He gifted a peck on your jaw and smiled softly. Suddenly, a voice from the little one chimed in. “Mummy, no!” and cause a rupture of laughter from the adults. You teased him by giving his favorite person more kisses. “Daddy’s mine,”

Wonwoo will never have this memory faded. He’s glad that you confessed to him that day.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

If you like this story, you might as well check out the others here !

#wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo seventeen #wonwoo scenario #wonwoo smut #wonwoo imagine #wonwoo oneshot #seventeen #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagine #seventeen oneshot #seventeen smut #wonwoo husband au #wonwoo first love #kpop #kpop fluff #kpop imagine

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tuiccim · 8 months ago

Text

Lost in the Dark (Part 2)

Pairing: Dark!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 673

Warnings: Dark content! Non/DubCon, and other dark elements. This fic contains dark themes and may include potentially triggering topics. You are solely responsible for your media consumption.

Summary: Bucky has been home for a few days, and you don't think you can take anymore.

A/N: Special thanks to my beta reader @whisperlullaby ! I'm not sure why Dark Bucky keeps rattling around in my brain, but while he's there I may do a few more snippets like this.

Part 1

Four days he'd been back and he hadn't left you alone for more than a few minutes at a time. It was as if he feared that you would disappear if he took his eyes off of you.

He had fucked you every way he could think of. The serum in his veins made his stamina entirely unmatched. You were exhausted and broken down. It had been almost four months since he had kidnapped you. For the last month, you hadn't spoken a word to him. The occasional sound slipped out but you refused to engage him in hopes he would grow frustrated and let you go. Instead, he was infinitely loving and patient.

Night had fallen and you laid on the bed waiting for him. He had fed you well but your entire body hurt, especially between your legs. You were more sore than you'd ever been. When you felt the bed dip, you braced yourself.

“Come here, baby,” Bucky pulled you against him.

You broke, you couldn't help yourself. It was all too much for you.

“Please,” you sobbed, “please, I can't. Not again.”

“What are you talking about, doll?” Bucky asks solicitously.

“It hurts. I'm so sore. Please don't make me do this,” your body began to wrack with sobs as he held you.

“Aw, baby, why didn't you tell me sooner? It's okay. If you're too sore we don't have to. Here, I'm going to draw you a bath so you can relax,” he kisses your head before swinging out of the bed.

You started shaking and you didn't know why. He was always so calm, it was terrifying. That he had been so understanding made it worse rather than better. He should be angry. He should be holding you down and fucking you without a care for your feelings, but not this man. He was kind and patient. He always made sure you came during sex which annoyed you immensely that your body betrayed you each time. He brought you little gifts and made your favorite foods.

You had smashed his first gift and expected him to go into a rage. He had simply picked up the pieces and said not to worry, he'd glue it back together. He was unwavering. His eternal calm was unsettling.

“Here we go, doll,” Bucky appeared and scooped you up. He carried you to the bathroom and gently laid you in the tub. Your favorite candles burned, all of your products were next to the bath and the water was perfectly hot. You let out a relieved sigh when the warm water enveloped your sore muscles.

“I put some Epsom salt in to help with the muscle aches. This is why you have to talk to me, baby. I can't take care of you well if you won't communicate,” he gently admonishes.

You simply nod. He hands you a glass of wine and then takes up the soap and a washcloth.

You should have known it would be too much to ask for a bath alone. He was always too keen on being with you. He rarely left your side when he was home and when he wasn't the security system still allowed him to keep close tabs.

You decided to just give in. You allowed him to wash you while you drank the glass of wine. He massaged as he cleaned and you found yourself relaxing more than you thought possible. By the time the water had cooled and you stepped out, you felt lightheaded. Bucky dried every inch of you down to your toes and then guided you back to the bed.

As you sat, you felt unusually out of it. The glass of wine had apparently gone straight to your head. You felt like you were in a dream. Bucky gently laid you down and your eyes began to flutter but before you lost consciousness, you heard him whisper, “You know I can't sleep until I've had you. But don't worry, doll, you won't feel a thing. Good night.”

Part 3

Updates and taglist: Due to the unreliable nature of tags, I no longer keep a taglist. Updates for series will be made on Sundays Central Time Zone. Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction and turn on notifications for updates. All series and new stories will be reblogged to it. You will only receive notifications when a new part or story is out! Nothing else will be blogged to the page. I can’t thank you enough for your support!

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princessbrunette · 10 months ago

Note

since you wanted dealer JJ!!

what about dealer JJ who always lowers the price of the weed or pre rolled joints, sometimes not even letting you pay and you're all confused and wide eyed because "I can't just get this for free jayj,that would be mean of me". But he lets her pay in another way....

yk,a way that gets her on with her legs over his shoulder. Even better if they're in the car!! 😼😼

-🥞

˗ˏ�� ★ ˎˊ˗

“if you don’t mind me asking, do you sleep with all of your clients that don’t have the cash?” you blink, sat on the pull out bed inside jj’s odd little shack that he dealt from. the bed was more comfortable than it looked, his room moderately messy as you observe it— sticking out like a sore thumb in your little mini skirt and shoulder bag tucked beneath your arm.

“all my other customers are dudes so no— thank you.” he rifles around in his drawers, searching for the particular pink grinder he’d purchased to impress you, releasing a quiet ‘aha’ when he finds it, bringing it to his little work station. “look, i don’t mind if you shoot me down n’call me a perv or whatever. it kinda just slipped out, not gonna lie — cos you’re like the finest girl that’s ever wanted to buy from me and i figured we could cut ourselves a little deal you know? make eachother feel good.” he rambles as he quickly packs the blunt, expert fingers stuffing the herb into the rolling paper and folding everything over with ease, clearly doing this multiple times a day. the way he moved with such ease stirred something within you and you run your tongue lightly along your bottom lip as you watch.

you figured he’d be kind of slutty, just from his general demeanour and from the fact he’s a cute guy selling weed— surely a hit for drunk girls at house parties. also the fact that he’d opened the door to you wearing brown dickie overalls with no shirt on beneath them and a backwards cap— the whole outfit just screaming that he knew what he was doing from the start.

“i don’t know, i feel dirty.” you smile. not uncomfortable or awkward, just pensive. he licks the rolling paper, sealing everything by rolling it between his fingers before turning around to face you, presenting the joint.

“then you can totally forget i said anything, fine by me. just uh— take this one, on the house. yeah?”

“i’ll get you the money.” you refuse with a bashful smile, rolling your eyes as you stand, taking the joint from his coarse fingers and letting him walk you towards his rickety front door.

“aaaand i’ll tell you that you can keep it.” he retorts, making you turn around and face him on his porch with a hand on your hip.

“you’re a dealer. this is your job.”

he shrugs, pressing his lips together in a determined smile and you soften, swaying on the spot for a moment as you stare at him. god, he was really cute.

“did you really mean what you said about letting me have anything for free if i let you ‘take a peek’”you quote his boyish words. it didn’t creep you out, the two of you having gained a real trust and friendship over the course of your visits, and plus he’d been around when you were growing up. he gets visibly embarrassed, sliding his cap off his head with a tight, dimpled smile and looking away from your big doe eyes that seemed to be glued to him.

“honestly, it was just a dumb ass joke i let slip and i thought you’d just tell me to shut up or something but instead you started considering it so i figured i’d just… see where it goes cos… you’re— well, it’s not like i’d turn you down i mean damn… a-anyway the point is— just ignore me. i’m a guy and i say stupid shit all the time. i’m sorry.” he’s off like a motor, barely stopping to draw in breath or lick his rubied lips, for someone who was apparently a stoner he really did speak fast.

you blink, taking in all of his words for a moment — letting your brain catch up. the sun was going down beside you, casting a beautiful warmth to your face that made this conversation all the more harder for him. he cringes during the silence, squinting into the sunset because he’d rather look at that than face your judgement.

“what if i wanna?” its barely a whisper, but it sucks his gaze right back in.

“you— like you wanna—”

“i’ll still get you the money… but… it’s not like i haven’t thought about it before.”

he’s dumbfounded, but once he’s gotten over the initial shock, it’s not long before the suns gone down and you’re back in his bedroom, pull out bed creaking and mattress springs popping whilst he rocks into you— already surprisingly and skilfully having made you cum around his fingers first.

“theeere you go. there you go now, you— you feelin’ good? wanna make you feel so fucking good.” he pants, rolling his hips as you mewl, a fistful of his blonde knotted locks.

“mm— mhm, never wanna see anyone else jj, feels so good.”

“you better not, oh this pussies mine now.”

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

#🥞 anon #jj maybank prompt #dealer!jj

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argisthebulwark · 3 months ago

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TES Summer Fest Day Seven: Companion/Fallen

summary: Tired of being held to unattainable expectations, the Dragonborn turns their back on everyone to be with Miraak. gn reader/Miraak, no gendered pronouns or y/n used. warnings: none! a/n: bit of a continuation from day one :) @tes-summer-fest TES Summerfest Masterlist

"Humanity's greatest warrior has abandoned us!" A sharp voice tinged with fear rings through the marketplace, much to the dismay of its shoppers and merchants. "Mankind will fall to the threat of dragons once more if we do not turn our eyes to the true power of Tamriel - the gods!"

"Mankind should turn their eyes to us, not those useless old men on their mountain." Miraak snorts in your ear, earning a sharp elbow in the ribs. He huffs out a laugh at the rushed way you tug the cowl tighter around your face.

"Don't draw attention." You hiss, shoving likely too many coins into the woman's outstretched hand. Too many alarms are sounding in your mind - there isn't time to worry about counting change. Your singular focus remains on escaping the large city without encountering any trouble.

"The Last Dragonborn has turned against humanity - fallen from grace!" The man's shrieks grate against your last nerve.

Miraak's cavalier attitude does little to help. Adventurous fingers clamber under your cloak and hook into your trousers, dragging you closer until his lips find your ear.

"What worries you, my dragon?" He murmurs, the silky voice doing little to calm your nerves. "I will level this city if anyone upsets you - we could do it together. You shouldn't concern yourself with mankind's useless opinions."

"We've discussed this." You grumble and grasp his wrist, intent on dragging him out of the city's claustrophobic walls. Miraak hurries after you, apparently content to let you boss him around.

"I know, I know - humanity is worth saving, you've said that." He recounts with an especially dramatic sigh. "I'm not allowed to destroy cities or you'll leave me."

"Correct." Even as you voice it, you doubt your conviction; you've already turned your back on the Greybeards, the Blades, and every Jarl across the continent to be with him - is there anything he could do to sever your connection?

"What exactly is your plan, my love? I have no doubt in you, of course - but you must know that I will not be welcomed into Sovngarde."

"If those spirits want Alduin to fall they will make an exception." You grumble, praying that your words will convince the countless heroes waiting in the afterlife - brute force isn't a viable option against the legions that surely await you there.

They must. There is no other option. Regardless of the waves of useless propaganda spreading across Skyrim you refuse to let Alduin lay waste to your home. While the Jarls bicker among themselves and the Greybeards waste time fretting over your lack of mindless obedience you intend to solve the problem, even if they disagree with your methods.

"You will be there with me." You assure Miraak, breath coming a bit easier with each step you take away from the crowded city. His hand slips into yours, calloused fingers a comfort when they squeeze yours.

"That is not what the prophecies have foretold, Mal Dov." He reminds you, voice shakier than expected. When you whip toward him you find those harsh eyes staring straight back at you. "Perhaps I do not deserve the redemption you offer me."

Afternoon slips into an uneasy night, your brain clouded with worry about what the next morning will hold. Your stomach churns as shaky fingers comb over the perfectly arranged weapons and stash of potions - will it be enough? Would an entire calvary be enough to take down the World Eater?

"It is not redemption." You finally utter the words that have rattled around your mind all day. Miraak pauses at your side without speaking but you feel the unmistakable weight of his eyes on you. "I do not intend to bring you to Sovngarde and back to redeem your soul."

"Oh, is it a punishment you seek?" He chuckles but you catch the uneasiness in his voice.

"It is selfish." You whirl to him, suddenly so desperate for him to see how utterly awful you are. Tears claw at your throat when Miraak pauses his actions.

"My love, what do you mean?"

"I cannot do this without you." You swallow back the fucking lump in your throat but tears still sting. "I - I'm not who they wanted me to be, none of them. I'm evil, fallen from grace as that fucking preacher said."

"You are not evil." Leather gloves are cool when Miraak cups your cheeks. "I am evil, yet you chose to let me live - you've let me into your heart, given me a reason to keep breathing." His honeyed words soothe the erratic beating of your heart, face warming when his nose brushes yours. "If you have fallen from grace, I cannot imagine the things they would say of me."

#tesfest24 #skyrim #skyrim x reader #x reader fanfic #miraak/ldb #writing

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h-didanart · 6 months ago

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Me: oh boy, finally some free time! I can finally work on the stuff I have to work in! I could add more ideas to Family Weekend Camping 4 or maybe work more on Empty Gaze, I know people would appreciate it, ooh, I know! I could fully write that really important chapter for Moon and Sun Show! What’s more, I have two major Bloodmoon drawings to do, a gift for a mutual, a yearly redraw for pride month, and the Virus!Jack story. So much to work through, I’m sure I can pick one of these to complete!

Brain: Bloodmoon Chaos House

Me: …

Me: >:/

Bloodmoon chaos house, a place where I store my AU Bloodmoons at apparently. There’s the three pairs I usually draw, the two canon interpretations, and a handful of the ones I talked about in that ‘how many bloodmoons do you have’ ask.

Important designs:

To the left, Ruby and Vermillion (previously Scarlet but I changed their name), the amnesiac Bloodmoon without bloodlust. To the right, The Sturgeon Moon and The Harvest Moon— they probably have other names but they refuse to be called anything else— the magical Bloodmoon.

Left and middle, currently unnamed, the fantasy world Bloodmoon version 1 and 2. To the right, Bloody, Scythe, Harvest, and Rabies, the Bloodmoon from the ocean au.

Now you get doodles (and included are the actor//youtuber au twins who I didn’t make a reference for)

I blame @achickennamedcheese for this

You made me think about them

How dare you

(I’m being silly, you’re fine, I had a lot of fun with these)

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katyawriteswhump · 1 month ago

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omega found, omega lost 5.1

Title: Omega found, Omega lost; Chapter: 5.1/6; WC: 2356; Rating: E; Tags: Steddie, Omega Steve, Alpha Eddie, angst, hurt/comfort.

Chapter 1 on tumblr Chapter 2 on tumblr Chapter 3 on tumblr Chapter 4 on tumblr On AO3

For whumptober prompts day 23, I'm doing this for you; day 21, let the bedsheets soak up my tears, no. 25, it's for your own good; no. 29, fatigue, no. 30, hospital bed/holding back tear, no. 31 asking for help, and alt prompt, motion sickness.

Chapter 5.1: I'm doing this for you

A few hours earlier

“Don’t tell mom, okay?”

Steve’s dad pulsed his hand, and Steve was too weak to return it. His brain was fogged, and the weight of his bones pinned him to the mattress. After his father scuttled off, his news gradually seeped beneath Steve’s clammy skin and into his aching head.

It was all right.

For starters, he’d learned that Eddie hadn’t ditched him. He’d allowed Hopper to take Steve to ER, because he’d had no choice. Now his dad was going to find Eddie, which was pretty much the first time his dad had gone behind the back of his Alpha wife. As far as Steve knew, that is. Hopper was in on it, too.

Somewhere, deep beneath layers of grinding misery, hope kindled.

In less than an hour, he was sitting up in bed IV-drip free—chewing on a granola bar, then bouncing the wrapper off the ceiling. Dustin dropped by in visiting hour, apologising profusely for going off grid. Apparently, it was because Wheeler had kept on yelling hoax ‘code reds’ whenever he got fangs deep into a coding marathon with Suzie. And yeah, they made a half-joking pact to kick Wheelers’ butt, ASAP.

When Dustin left, Steve considered the epic task of getting out of bed. He wanted to call around to see if his dad had any news, or if any of their friends had heard from Eddie. Dustin had promised to get the whole gang on the case. Annoyingly, though, the pup’s visit had drained Steve, and his eyelids grew heavy as his bones.

He sensed his mom draw close a few minutes later. He had already hunkered down beneath the blankets and now he pretended to sleep.

He listened to her latest conversation with the doctors, hardly daring to breathe. Maybe she knew he was awake and didn’t care? It’s not like his opinion had ever been worth shit to her, even before he presented as Omega.

As they left, he swore he heard her softly growl: “Steven. I’m doing this for you.”

He remained motionless save breaths reduced to shallow quivers in the back of his dry throat. When her stinky perfume had retreated far enough, he sat up, leaning heavily on his palms, and tried to quell his trembling. Then he pushed the side bars down, swung his legs over and slid out of the bed.

The room swayed and swerved like he was on a ship, and his knees felt like water. He grabbed the bars to steady himself, while the pain in his heavily bandaged ankle gathered pace. Hot tears pressed in the back of his eyes, his throat. Shit, he wouldn’t cry now.

He fucking refused it.

He had to get better. He had to tough this out like… like a goddamn Omega. If he didn’t haul ass out of here today, his mother was going to send him back to that clinic. Oh yeah, she’d be all, “It’s for your own good, darling,” like last time.

He’d be treated as a piece of meat.

If her path crossed with Eddie, then Eddie would be dead meat.

Okay, his dad said he’d be back soon, but waiting was now unbearable. Besides, Eddie had smelled him from over a mile off. Steve was sure he’d pick up his Alpha’s scent trail, no sweat. He should be leading the search, not languishing here. On top of everything else, he was desperate to pee, and equally desperate to find a mirror and sort out his hair, so…

Okay, baby steps.

Or, rather, heavily limping steps. If he could make it to the washrooms and back, maybe there was hope of getting out of this dump.

He plucked a comb from his bedstand. Slowly, he made for the door, dragging his bad foot, then hopping unsteadily. The smallest pressure on his injury set his ankle screeching, as if his stitches had split. He struggled on, little keening noises escaping him. A nurse intercepted him at the door and offered his assistance—which Steve refused—and then a crutch.

Steve begrudgingly accepted that, and it helped. He made it to the washroom, cringed at himself in the mirror, then sorted himself out best he could.

On exiting, he allowed himself a small fist-pump. As he stared down the corridor, though, his shoulders collapsed, and his chin drooped. The few yards back to his room stretched out like miles. He took a moment, wedged between the crutch and the wall, his panted breaths so thick they drowned out the ceaseless buzz of the lights.

You can do this. Do it for Eddie. Do it for the Alpha you’ve been brushing off for months, who you couldn’t stop thinking about… and now who you literally can’t live without.

After all, according to his Dad, one of the doctors literally prescribed Eddie.

“Hello, Omega.”

Steve yelped. His crutch toppled sideways, even as a pair of arms slithered around him from behind.

“Oh yeah, you’re ripe and juicy!” drawled a familiar voice. “My pups will eat his pups outta you from the inside, and then…”

Snap!

Steve whirled around on reflex and nipped Tommy Hagen, who staggered back, rubbing the flesh between his shoulder and neck.

“I was kidding, okay? God, since when did you bite, dude…Hey, you look like shit.”

“Back at ya!” Also, rude! He’d managed to salvage his hair quite well, in the circumstances. Steve slithered down the wall toward his haunches. Tommy grabbed Steve’s elbow, then grabbed his crutch, slid it back under Steve’s arm and helped him stand. Tommy had paled beneath his freckles, and actually looked mildly guilty. “What are you even doing here?” demanded Steve.

“Came to visit you. Retard move, clearly.”

“Yeah, right. I know what you came for. Gloat away then.” Tommy shrugged, still faintly cowed. Steve rode his tide of fury and went in for the kill: “Listen, Tommy. You are gonna go grab me some clothes from somewhere, and I’m gonna get discharged. Then we are gonna drive all night, if that’s what it takes, till I pick up Eddie’s scent.”

“Munson? Jesus, Harrington—you really are out of your pretty little head. Word is, he kidnapped you and filled you up with his trailer-park pups. It’s just so you to fall for a criminal.”

“Don’t be dumb. Eddie’s a hero—he saved my life.” Plus, this Beta had no idea about an Alpha-Omega bond, let alone a soulmate one. “Listen. I’m absolutely not pregnant, but my mom’s gonna drag me off to some specialist Omega clinic where they’ll lock me away and run tests, and…” Steve paused, fretting his lip ragged.

He didn’t have the time or the mental strength to handle the juggernaut of emotions barrelling through him. But he knew that threat wasn’t why he’d dragged himself from his bed, to Hell with the pain and the stupidity of it all.

It was Eddie. Eddie was in danger, and Steve needed to protect his Alpha. How screwball was that?

“Look, I can’t wait around while my dad messes this up. I need to find Eddie myself. Now.”

“You really do suck at being a good little Omega. Shouldn’t you be all—” Tommy flung the back of one hand to his brow “—woe is me! Let the bedsheet’s soak up my tears!”

“Screw you, Hagen. My secondary gender doesn’t define me, okay?”

“Says the pampered Omega pining for the dime-store Alpha who fucked his tiny peabrain out his ears.” Tommy looked smug again. So, default Tommy. Then his eyes slitted and he turned all sly: “What if I want to claim your mom’s reward for the freakshow’s head?”

“I’d rip your throat out myself.” Steve’s upper lip twitched, displaying his little canine teeth—a weary token gesture. His latest shot of adrenaline was basically spent.

Tommy ‘pfffd,’ though deep in those rolling eyes, something softened. Or maybe it was Steve’s wishful thinking. His exhaustion getting the better of him, Steve’s knees sagged. Tommy whacked out a hand to steady him, and Steve glared with everything he’d got left:

“Look, if you’ve ever actually been my friend, now is the time to make good on it.” Okay, he wasn’t sure that would wash. “I’ll pay you. Fuck, you can have my damn car.”

Jesus, did he mean that?

Whatever.

Steve would scratch Tommy’s eyes out later, once he’d gotten what he needed.

Half an hour later, Steve huddled in the passenger seat of Tommy’s car, ratcheting his stiff, cold limbs into a foetal position. His stomach lurched at the smallest bumps in the roadway, sending bile burning up his windpipe and into his throat. When Tommy breaked or sped up, the g-force drag through his guts set him whimpering.

He’d not felt this crappy on a journey since he was a kid.

On top of all that shit, Tommy’s endless whining drilled right into his aching head: “I’m running out of empty houses here. Christ, I don’t get how you know he’s in a basement. Let alone the point of pulling up outside and not even searching the joint.”

“If he was in there, I’d know it,” husked Steve, his throat wrecked by the acid. “Keep going.”

“Jesus, all right. I’ll try the old Hess farmhouse. But if you puke, I am dumping you out in the nearest ditch.”

Everything after that had been a fevered blur. By the time they reached the farmhouse, Steve was flopped on his back in the seat, arms and legs splayed, breathing so hard of Eddie’s scent he was pretty much hyperventilating.

Tommy wrinkled his nose at him. “Are you seriously leaking slick all over my car? Man, I know I’m getting yours but—”

“Your car can eat shit,” moaned Steve, his insides an unbearably empty ache. “You can eat shit! He isn’t here, Tommy. He isn’t here.”

“How do you know, shit for brains? I mean, this place is pretty much sending you into heat, and I’d bet on Carol’s Alpha dick that it’s got a creepy-ass basement. Just like you saw in your seriously fucked up wet dream.”

“He was here. I’m sure of it… but he’s gone. He’s gone.” Steve sobbed openly, too far gone to even care. “God, what if my mom…. What if she found him? Oh God, Tommy… it hurts. I can’t… I… it hurts so much. I can’t face the future… Any future without him.”

“Woah, woah, woah.” Tommy slammed his palms up: “I didn’t sign up for this shit. I’m taking you back the hospital.”

A flash of wild grief ripped through Steve, igniting a fresh round of cramps in his guts. He eked tight words from his clenched teeth: “I swear to God, I’ll d-die on you before you reach the hospital, then m-my mom will hunt you down and swing you from a tree by your intestines.” He’d heard of it done, long ago in Viking packs or something.

“Where the fuck else can I get rid of you?”

“D-drive to Wayne Munson’s trailer. Do it. Now.”

It was the last coherent idea Steve had. He’d cranked himself back into a ball, wishing for anything, even death, to bring this horror show to an end. At length, he’d gleaned a fresh whiff of Eddie’s scent.

The car door opened. A kind face emerged out of the gloom. Tommy and Wayne helped him out of the car and hauled him up the steps into the trailer.

“I’d sling him straight in Eddie’s bed,” Tommy grumbled. “Unless you wanna be scrubbing slick off your couch for the rest of the year.”

To be fair, Steve felt too wretched to be as slick as Tommy made out. On sinking into Eddie’s shallow mattress, though, he no longer felt so sick, though butterflies rustled in his stomach. Wayne brought in extra blankets and cushions to form a little nest around him, muttering, “There ya go, son. You’re gonna be okay now.”

Wayne got him to sip some water from a plastic bottle and gave off slightly stressy vibes that defied his soothing words. Still, Steve’s butterflies settled, and after he’d drank enough to satisfy Wayne, he settled too. Wayne tucked Steve in with a comforter so infused with Eddie’s scent that a faint chirrup escaped him.

The little room around him, floor and walls, was cluttered with stuff. Cassette-tapes, LPs, clothes, stickers, guitars and bones, and skulls—pictures of those, at any rate. Eddie’s stuff. Steve loved it.

Even without him, this nest proved more healing than any hospital bed. Steve cuddled a pillow to him, pressing it to his aching loins, and drifted away.

...

Chapter 5.2 on tumblr

(it's gonna be fine, okay!?!) Second half of this chapter will be up soon!

Please like and reblog if you’re feeling kind 🥰 it’s so very much appreciated ❤️

tags: @wheneverfeasible @mugloversonly @ellietheasexylibrarian

@strawberryyyenthusiast @stripey82

If anybody else fancies reading more, I would be happy to tag :) Or follow #katya's omega whump

My endless outpourings of Steve whump can be found on AO3 here :)

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vykio · 3 months ago

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The game is flash fic Saturday and @merceyca and @billdenbrough and I spun a wheel with these reverse trope prompts. I got dating my enemy's sibling and jane pitched jeremy and neil and I have many thoughts on their potential dynamic HAHA but here's a little AU type thing about it—which I added to LOOL it is now 800 words and some change

“I don’t hate Neil,” Jeremy says, which must be as unconvincing as it sounds if the flat look Cat gives him is any indication. The thing is, he doesn’t, really, because Jeremy thinks hate is an emotion that takes far too much energy, and Neil hasn’t technically done anything to him that would warrant hating him. “I don’t. He and I just…”

“Do whatever the opposite of getting along like a house on fire is?” Cat says casually. She rolls her shoulder back then lifts the sleeveless cup of her dress again with a sigh. It’s been making her uncomfortable all night and it’s the only thing she can do to bear it. She hadn’t chosen to wear the dress tonight but her mother hadn’t given her a choice. Jeremy gives her a sheepish look, wishing he could do something for her, and she waves it off.

Next to her, Laila shakes her head. She puts one of every buffet option she wants on her own plate, and everything she thinks she’ll like on Cat and Jeremy’s plates, for them to taste first. “More like Jeremy is the house and Nathaniel is the looming forest fire that lights him up,” Laila suggests. Her side-eye is extremely judgemental, which Jeremy thinks is unfair and untrue. Jeremy is always polite first when they’re forced into interaction, and Neil is often aloof or not secretive about the contempt he holds for Jeremy—and Jeremy can’t pinpoint when in the last year Neil became this way.

("Is Neil mad at me?" Jeremy asks Jean once, after an awkward greeting with Neil in their living room. It had been stilted, but Neil's gaze on him had been intense, as if he'd been waiting for Jeremy to mess up—something. Jeremy wracks his brain to see where he might've misstepped with Neil, but then Jean turns towards him abruptly, bumping chest to chest and knocking him out of his thoughts.

"Hey," Jeremy says, surprised, then "Hey," more suave, with a flirtatious grin. "You don't have to bump into me to get my attention anymore."

Jean rolls his eyes and mumbles, "I've never done that." He exhales, his eyes doing a slow scan of Jeremy's face before he speaks again. "He is not mad at you. He's just weird. I will tell him to be—" Jean waves his hand, searching for words. He settles on, "—less weird."

Jeremy lets out a nervous laugh because he doesn’t know what else to say to that. Though Jean apparently followed through on his promise because now Neil is more careful about being openly wary of Jeremy where Jean can see him.)

“Neil,” Jeremy says to Laila automatically, as Neil has spent much time telling them he prefers the shorter name.

“And you know what?” Cat spins the spoon in the air once, as if it might draw her thoughts up more clearly. She points at him with the spoon when she lands on what she wants to say. “I don’t even know the full extent of the beef you have with him.”

Before Jeremy can tell her he doesn’t either, there’s commotion at the door that steals their attention. They turn to find a swarm of bodies greeting the Moreau business moguls as they arrive at the charity event with their two children in tow. Jeremy smiles and waves at Jean when he spots him, and Jeremy can see from here how he lights up. Jean is halfway to him when he gets accosted by another guest. That leaves Neil clear in his line of sight. Neil stares so Jeremy stares back, and Jeremy refuses to look away first. Jeremy lifts his hand to wave stiffly at Neil, who rolls his eyes at him, and Jeremy doesn’t hold on to emotions like irritation but they do flare up when someone is being rude. Neil turns away before Jeremy’s fake smile could falter, but he lets it slip when Neil slinks into the crowd.

“We don’t have beef,” Jeremy says lightly, picking up a spoon and gently moving the food around it so it doesn't spill over the edges of his plate. Jeremy considers adding that he’s a vegetarian and he’s not freaking scared of his boyfriend’s brother, but if 3OH!3 makes their way into the conversation, Laila might scream, which would set Cat off screeching with delight, and then they’d have a real scene on their hands and maybe more ammunition for Neil to hate him. “I have a feeling he just hates anyone who talks to Jean.”

“No, it’s just you,” Cat insists, leaning into him. “He has nice, long-winded conversations with me about Animal Crossing and how much he hates this bitch-ass falcon on his island.”

“He talks to me like a normal person,” Laila adds.

Jeremy gasps, “Traitors,” just to be dramatic, and when Cat grins at him wickedly, he grins back.

#jerejean #jeremy knox #neil josten #catalina alvarez #laila dermott #aftg #tae drabbles #flash fic game #jean moreau #i added to this #it's the girls plus jeremy haha <3 #this originally ended with jeremy saying “what what do you mean it's just me”#but that would have left the scene less like able to stand on its own so i removed it pensive sue #but know jeremy is !!

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bobafetts-princess · 1 year ago

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Suprise!

Have a Ghost drabble 😊

Pairings: Ghost x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1600 words

Warnings: masturbation, fantasizing about someone (is that a warning?) NO PiV, reader is a shit who gets under Ghost’s skin. Soap helps

Summary: Ghost can’t stop thinking about you, in every way

He watches you stretch up on your tiptoes to reach something off the top shelf and he has to inhale deeply to keep himself calm. He desperately wants to go help you but he knows you’ll refuse it. He’s never felt this way about a woman before, this deep, possessive need for you. There’s something about you, something that makes you different. Women rarely get this far in the military, mostly due to misogyny, especially this deep into spec-ops and he respects you for it. You hold your own, you don’t take the boys shit, and you’re beyond capable. Ghost isn’t sure what it is that draws him in the most, your beauty, your brain, or your capabilities, but he knows that watching you constantly doesn’t help.

But still, he can’t look away. Especially as you reach up higher, stretching further, and grab the box of cereal someone placed up there. He groans internally, thinking about how you’d look with your tac pants around your ankles, shoved up on your tiptoes with his cock buried in your pussy. He thinks about the breathy sounds you’d make as he thrusts into you again and again. He’s got to stop thinking about it or he’s not going to be able to stand up for the next half hour. Then he hears you laugh and his eyes focus back on you, now hopped up on the counter as you reach for bowls that are…..for some reason also on the top shelf. You’re on your knees and Simon’s staring straight as your perky ass, bubbly and round in your pants and he’s gotta shake thoughts of what it would look like reddened by his handprints out of his head.

“Guys. Did you put everything on the top shelf?” You ask but Simon can tell you’re amused by the silly little prank. You’re sitting on the counter now, bowl in one hand and cereal in the other, the army green of the tank top you’re wearing complimenting your skin tone. He can’t stop the thought about fisting the material and pulling it over your head as he’s got two fingers buried inside you.

“Aye lass,” Soap chuckles and Simon’s hand tightens on his water bottle. Gaz and Roach are hanging out in the kitchen too, but it’s pretty clear who’s joke this was. He’s pretty sure the two of you aren’t fucking, but the way Soap’s hands fall on your waist to help you down is very familiar. He murmurs something to you, something that makes you laugh, and Simon has to tamp down the rage building in his bones at it. You pour your bowl of cereal, Soap’s chest pressed against your shoulder as he whispers nonsense in your ear. For the briefest flash of a moment Simon wonders what you’d look like pressed between the two of them, but he gets rid of the thought with a shake of his head.

“Y’alright Ghosty?” The Scotsman asks, eyes flipping to the grip Simon has on his water bottle.

“Fine,” Simon snaps, the bite in his tone more apparent than he intended.

“A’right, well, Blue Jay here asked ya a question,” he drawls, speaking a little slower to make sure Simon’s paying attention. Your call sign draws his attention, usually Soap uses your government name. You’d been gifted the call sign after you’d gotten separated from the others on a mission and managed to take down 4 fully armed guards with just a hunting knife. Price had given you the name, laughing when the others asked him why.

“Ya ever seen a Blue Jay? Pretty birds but mean as fuck. They’ll peck ya with their beaks the same way Blue took down those guards with only a knife. I think it’s fitting,” he’d explained.

“My apologies, what did you ask?” Simon says, his eyes making contact with your own. He tries to soften his tone, make it seem like he’s not riled up and frustrated.

“I asked if you’d get up there and get me a spoon, since Soap here put all the utensils up there too and won’t get me one. And I don’t feel like climbing on the counters again,” Soap chuckles, clearly pleased with his own joke. Ghost stands, stalking towards the two of you. Soap clears out but you don’t, standing your ground even as he encroaches on your space.

“Which cabinet are they?” He snips, annoyed at being this close to you without being allowed to put his hands on you.

“This one,” you say as you point straight up at the cabinet above your head. You’re leaning back against the counter, chin tipped up slightly as you take in Simon’s form. He’s not wearing the tac-vest, but he’s still huge towering over you.

“You gonna move, Blue?” Ghost drawls.

“Nope,” you respond. Ghost calls your bluff, stepping further into your space, one of his thick arms brushing against you. The cabinet is still open and he leans forwards to reach for a spoon. His chest brushes against yours and his nostrils flare as he feels the heat of you. Dirty little minx, he thinks to himself as he presses further against you and feels your breasts against him. His hands grope around for a spoon and he’s not having any luck finding one. Reaching further, his hips press against yours and he has to fight for control when he hears your sharp inhale. He’s so distracted looking for the spoon and trying his damndest not to get hard that he doesn’t hear the rattle of a drawer.

“Where in the bloody-“ he starts, glancing down at you, now wearing a Cheshire Cat grin as you hold the spoon you pulled out of the open drawer on your right. Soap busts out laughing but stops when Ghost turns that deadly stare onto him.

“Think that’s funny, do ya?” He snaps at you, leaning down and placing hands on either side of your torso. He revels in the flash of fear he sees in your eyes, he’s a scary man and you should be afraid of him. But it morphs into something else, something Simon is afraid to pinpoint in case he’s wrong about it. But you swallow hard, setting the bowl down and speaking.

“Actually, I do, Lieutenant,” you mouth curls around the term in a way that gets Simon’s blood hot and he has to get out of here, has to get away from you before he makes you say it that way over and over again, preceded by a thank you as he fills you to the brim. Before he watches you wince because his cock is just a touch too big for your sweet pussy.

But he can’t do any of those things because he’s your Lieutenant, your superior, most certainly not your lover. But when his eyes flick back to yours, there’s no mistaking the lust in your eyes as you look at him. There’s no mistaking the way your chest heaves as his eyes glide across it. No mistaking the way you squirm when he growls in his throat. He wants you, wants you so bad, and you want him too.

But Price walks in and the electricity of the moment snaps and he shoves away from the counter, his mind filled with images of you begging for it harder from him. Begging for his hand around your throat. On your knees, eyes watering as he shoves his cock down your pretty little throat. He’s half mast as he shoves past Price, who isn’t even phased by Ghost’s temper.

“What happened to you, Blue?” He asks you and Simon can only imagine how you look. Eyes wide, mouth slack, skin flushed. He’s sure you look flustered and pride flares in his chest that he’s the reason you are. His heavy boots stomp down the hall to the showers and if the floor wasn’t concrete he’s pretty sure he’d be leaving footprints with how hard he’s stepping.

He makes it to the showers, undressing in a rush as he flips the water on. His mask stays on as he slips under the hot water, it only reaches chest height anyways, images of you flitting through his mind. He thinks about you, bent over and back arched, taking him so deep you can’t put words together. He thinks about sending you out into the wilderness and tracking you down, taking you hard over a broken log when he finally catches you. He thinks about your face and what it would feel like to press his mouth against yours, to shove his tongue down your throat.

Ghost thinks about the way you’d feel when you come all over his cock, the soft little moan you’d give him and the way your nails would bite into his skin. He thinks about the way he wouldn’t pull out, not for all the money in the world and how he’d make you go back to work with his spend dripping down your thighs and soaking your panties. It’s that final image that gets him to release, the image of him putting your soaked panties back on so you can soak them through for an entirely different reason, then watching you shift all day as he leaks out of you.

He comes, spurting hard against the shower door, groaning your name as he does. The blood roars in his ears and he can’t hear a damn thing for a solid thirty seconds. He doesn’t hear the door open. Doesn’t hear the sound of your feet as you enter the bathroom. He does hear your voice though, echoing through the bathroom.

“Ghost?”

Want another part? Find it here!

Want my Masterlist? Find it here!

#ghost #cod mw2 #simon ghost x reader #simon riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost x you

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longing-for-rain · 10 months ago

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This is unacceptable behavior

So this morning, I found this blog who has apparently taken it upon themselves to “call out” anyone they suspect of using AI in either fan art or fanfics. No proof needed; just send them an anon ask and they’ll start throwing people under the bus.

This person is harassing artists, writers, and anyone who questions them. They’re even demanding that artists upload videos of themselves drawing by hand to “prove” they’re real.

Reading their blog gets even more disturbing. Apparently “suspicious activity” for artists can be something as simple as experimenting with a different style, having trouble drawing hands, improving too quickly, uploading too quickly, or even using digital watercolor. So essentially, artists deserve harassment for being too good, not good enough, or if they don’t use 100% traditional techniques. Do you really think that’s helping artists? All you’re doing is intimidating people away from their hobbies and encouraging toxicity. Cut it out.

For context, yesterday @azula-brain messaged me in my DMs to accuse me of AI usage. I explained that a) I don’t consider my images “AI art” in the sense of “push a button and it makes a picture” because I only use it as a filter over my existing work, b) that I’ve posted detailed explanations of my artistic process before and that still didn’t stop people from harassing me over anon. She also accused me of charging people for art, which I very clear state in my pinned post that I do not accept commissions.

I’m committing a crime by not using fully traditional art, and by having a tip jar (keep in mind, many blogs simply use the built in tumblr feature which is easily understood to be for tipping bloggers they like, not art commission payments). I told her I suggest she simply block and move on if she was unhappy, but apparently that wasn’t good enough, so she called me out by name instead along with the above noted misinformation after I refused to bow to her threats over DMs.

But anyways, I’m done caving to threats, and so should the rest of you. Nothing you do will ever appease the mob, and I’m sick of these literal children making blogs like this thinking they’re saving the world, when literally they’re just stirring up drama and harassing random artists who were doing nothing wrong.

#ai discourse #fandom toxicity #avatar: the last airbender #atla #zutara #azula #katara #zuko #tyzula

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jolalibrary · 2 years ago

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it happened (iii)

johnny ‘soap’ mactavish x f!reader

summary: for weeks, one single thought has been creeping up on him—sneaking its way out into the daylight, prickling his skin and threading through his mind: he doesn’t know how to live without you. word count: 5.7k warnings: injured reader, but happy ending, promise. spice + smut. lovers to relationship.

part three of it happens | soap masterlist

He wishes the day ended differently.

For weeks, one single thought has been creeping up on him—sneaking its way out into the daylight, prickling his skin and threading through his mind:

He doesn’t know how to live without you.

For a while, he envisions it’s been tucked away, festering in the back of his brain. Growing over time, slowly.

Likely somewhere between kissing you and stuffing your throat with his cock. Becoming more apparent in the small window when things turned from a quick fuck to something more gentle, something he wanted to prolong.

There's a high chance it was when you stopped calling him Soap and called him Johnny. Not just when the two of you were alone, but out with others—shoulder close to his.

But, truthfully, he’s been finding the thought more incessant when he’s lying next to you, sweat still clinging to his skin. The words sliding around his head, bouncing from one side to the other. Not wanting to move, to jolt it away, because your fingers are drawing a pattern on his stomach—something he’s come to like. Something he craves—just your touch. How it’s direct, purposeful, and wrapped in a personal touch.

“I like you being around, even if I don’t show it." “I know you only keep m’around ‘cause ov’ my cock.” “I’d still keep you around even if your cock got chopped off by Ghost, Johnny. You’re a nice pillow.” “Cheers, hen.”

Now his cards are on the table—his feelings. All unwrapped in front of you, having thrown them at you like an angry present. The bow coming straight off, the paper disintegrating before the two of you.

If he was thinking straight, he’d have delivered them better. Presented them in a kinder format. Instead, his heart had been in his throat, hammering and thumping as he wiped the tears from your cheek. The ones you’d refuse to say were spilled because of him.

He didn’t blame you. He wasn’t sure if he’d have been willing either—but the adrenaline forced his hand. Made him run headfirst and care about it after.

Just like he did on assignments, operations—missions. The same ones you glare at him for, not outwardly telling him what’s wrong, but it's clear from your face you're not impressed.

You worry. And it’s why he worries. Because you rarely show any emotions when it comes to him, you are so hard to crack, so hard to see through. But, over time, you’ve allowed him in—and what he once recognised were unimpressed glances, he suddenly sees are secret distress.

The two of you put the job first, the task. But as it approaches a year of that cabin and what transpired, the worry of losing you appears like a jack in the box. It shoots up, bouncing in front of him when you’re talking to him—when you’re letting him in.

You could lose her. You’ll lose her. You’ll lose.

It’s why sometimes he holds you a little closer, lets you groan against him as he keeps you pinned to him—sheets tangling around both of your legs. He savours it. Let the moment steep until the corners of your mouth rise less sarcastically, your breaths slowing, before you brush knuckles against his cheek.

You want him to hold you, he can tell. You just won’t ask. Afraid, maybe.

And so sometimes, he doesn’t give in to his wishes and instead respects yours.

But, he should have taken his time today.

He would have done it, had he known how the day would end. He’d have taken his time. He wouldn’t have made it quick, rushed the time alone. He’d have spent longer touching you, making you keen against his hand and he wouldn’t have bottomed out in one quick thrust.

His mouth would have spent time leaving marks on your skin, instead of setting a brutal pace that had the name Johnny kissing the air in bursts. Mostly, he’d have spent less time bruising his fingers into your hip bone—sinking his teeth into your shoulder—and more time staring into your eyes.

“So fuckin’ pretty.”

“You s–say that so often, it’s going to st–fuck–stop meaning something.”

His hand had brushed over your collarbone, sliding up against your neck as your lips parted. “No, it won’t.”

He watched you smirk. Just lightly—just enough. Lips twitching around your impending pleasure that’s ready to wash over you. He liked you like this. Liked consuming you—claiming you. He also liked watching you squirm, writhing under him, the room dyed in the squelching noises coming from him fucking your cunt.

The memories of the morning kept him entertained as they were dispatched. You sat far away, head turned, talking to Price. His eyes occasionally glanced your way, wondering if he should say something, anything. A ‘good luck’, a ‘look after yourself’.

Now, he wishes he did.

The whole thing went to shit the moment their boots hit the ground. Your radio messages fragmented, cracking—Ghost’s voice stern, trying to ascertain what it was you were saying. In and out. In and out. Those were the words Price had said.

And you’d gone in, like planned. Alone while the others caused a distraction—you’re good. Quick. Talented. But, you’re also on the opposite side to where he was stationed—and you had failed to come out.

In and out. In and out.

“LT—“

“Find her.”

He nods, trying not to focus on the tone. The edge to Ghost’s voice and how it tinged with concern. He’d become softer, less Fort Knox and more regular prison walls since Graves—especially with you. Your dry sarcasm and focused energy likely made it easy for him.

You made it easy for all of them to let you in.

It’s all he thinks as he entered the building, sweeping the corridor, turning and turning, corner after corner.

Then he sees you.

Sees you break for reasons completely opposite to how he’d made you break this morning.

He didn’t move to check the other body in the room. He knew they were dead, disposed of. No threat. He knew because of the way you were huddled into a corner, knowing you’d have done the job before you tended to yourself.

You do that a lot. For as heroic as you say he is, you’re not that different.

His hand clenches as the air is tinged with the horrid sounds of your breaths—all ragged, desperate—punching each one out into space.

For a second, he just stares. Watching. Boots gelled to the floor unable to shift himself as he watched scarlet coat your fingers. His own worries building, anxiously swirling, rendering him fucking useless. He can’t lose you. Not now he has you.

“J-Johnny.”

He blinks, and then he moves. Your fractured voice yanked him from his frozen state, his heart attempting to break.

He tries not to let it.

It does all the same.

You broke right at the seams.

Falling into the corner, panic setting in—bathing you, dousing you. Your breath is jagged, uneven—your thoughts jumbled, and your training all out the window.

You picture him, initially: Johnny.

How crestfallen he’d look, how full of sorrow—likely even able to hear his heart descend to his feet. For that reason, you hope he’d leave you behind. Go on—not ruin the images of you he has by seeing you like this.

Because if you look how you feel, you’re not a pretty sight, and this morning you'd been…

This morning was nice. Maybe too nice. Your hips rolled with his; your hand almost reached for his, wished to grasp it close, press it against your skin.

Now, you wish you had.

Wished you’d stolen a moment, had something to call back to as you tried to not bleed out across the dirt and dusty floor.

All because of a knife.

One you’d not anticipated, one you hadn’t expected.

Fool. You’re a fucking idiot. You can hear Ghost spit that you are; hear Price ask if you’d lost your mind. You guess you did—allowing yourself a moment to think of this morning. Of how full you’d felt; how empty you felt before. Now, you feel even less.

Your hands shake, tremble. They clutch the slits of your skin together as your eyes flick up—hoping, praying, seeking. And then, there he is. The light from the world outside the room all haloed around his figure, making him look like an angel. You guess he is.

He saved you, without knowing you needed to be saved. He was a rock, something to cling to when the sea battered you against the sand. He was… hope, in the dark and something entirely too good for you and—

It had been the very thing which infuriated you, to begin with. He was good—too good. They all did good things, but he did them without thought. They came naturally, being a hero—doing right for the cause. That and the fact he couldn’t meet your eye, couldn’t spit a response at you.

Now, all he did was talk, and you lapped up each word.

“J-Johnny…”

His eyes fell, face dropping—shattering amongst the bullet casings and blood.

Thick, horrid, throat-choking sobs dilute the rest of your words. Suffocating them as he slides to you on his knees, hands unsure where to go. The panic evident as you clutched it—held the weeping wound as best as you could.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

“Let me see, lemme see… steamin’ Jesu—Yer gonna be alright—We just need a medic—look at me.”

You flicked them up, meeting blue—all-Johnny-fucking-blue—his hand, rough and all coated in your blood as he grasps your cheek.

Flashes of memories. Ones where he’s lying next to you or hovering above you, ones where he’s caging you against the wall and when he’s pressed you down against the washer. All of them rush you, overwhelm you…

And you want more of them.

Your lips curl, opening—all cracked and sore—as you try to get yourself to say that. To say you want more of him, more of them—

“I need t’move y’, ‘kay? I gotta move y’, hen. Then can fix y’. Keep y’with me.”

His other hand slides under your legs, preparing, staring into your soul as he tries to soothe it. He does. He always does.

Has done since that first night, splinters in your thighs as you grasp onto him. The quieter moments, where the two of you simply lay breathing, no other sounds, allowing it to ferment and develop.

You don’t tell him that enough. That he matters to you.

There’s a lot that you don’t tell him, truthfully.

Secretly keeping it buried inside, afraid to lose—afraid to have something and then not. You’d done it once, loved and lost. It hurt. It broke you. The shards of yourself barely back in place before you ended up here, with a new family—new people to care about. To fall for.

But, for him, you fell all the same.

You’d do it again, too. Over and over. You’d jump, leap and fly.

“Y’not leaving me, lass. Y’hear me.”

You smile lazily—and it hurts to try. Head sliding into the space near his neck, your hand desperately clutching at your own stomach.

“Arm round m’neck, hen.” You pause, afraid to taint the back of his head and helmet with blood till he stares—waiting, both patient and impatiently till you do, your eyes watching as blue and black swirl in his eyes. “Good girl, such a good girl. This’ll hurt, I’m sorry…”

Don’t let me go. Don’t let go. Don’t go.

It should hurt. It prickles, and nicks. But it doesn’t make you burn as it should. Instead, you’re so fucking cold.

“—I’m so sorry, so sorry—”

So damn cold it hurts.

Bone-chillingly, so.

“—Hold on, lass. Y’hear me.”

You nuzzle, smelling him—salt, sulphur and sweat. Hoping to capture as much of it as you can, just in case… your eyes unable to stay open, hand unable to remain on his neck, on your stomach—

Especially as you jolt, bounce—

Black.

You’re under his skin.

Like exploded ink swirling with his blood. He sees that now. How you’ve spread and seeped into him—stained all of the parts of him. How you’ve bled beautifully across his heart, forever ruined. You don’t heal him, but you make it easier to smile, to breathe.

And it’s enough. More than he really thought he’d have in this line of work.

Which is why he needs you to wake up. Needs your eyes to coat his skin. Desperate to hear your voice, your laugh.

Soap brushes his hand against your cheek. It’s natural, normal almost—thankful your skin feels warm, and soft, even with the nicks and growing bruises.

“Yer scared me, hen.”

He says it to no one.

You’re not awake, not in a coma either. You’re somewhere in between, not lost, but not found. There’s no way you can hear him, but he speaks to you all the same.

It’s why he lets his fingers do a slow stroke of your cheek, unable to hide how calming he’s finding it as his shoulders sink into their usual place and his jaw loosens its iron grip on itself.

“Dunna think I can live without yer. As… terrifyin’ as that is to admit.”

He drops his hand from your cheek to clutch your hand. Contemplating whether to climb in beside you, now there’s no medic hovering—no one else here, busying themselves.

“Glad y’not awake, y’d be fumin’ with me for getting all emotional.”

He moves, and stands. Cautiously easing himself down beside you, trying not to move you, trying to crush you. His hand slides up to your jaw and cheek, clutching your skin as he listens to the soft patter of your heart—happy he hears it, proving you’re alive.

At one stage—one horrid stage—he hadn’t been sure you would be. So pale, so lifeless, the wound on your stomach continuing to leak scarlet over the evac floor as he dug his elbows down into his knees.

They perform miracles, the medics.

He knows that. Puts all his faith in them. Knows there were plenty of times he’d been in their hands…

But he couldn’t lose you.

His grip on your jaw almost tightens, except he doesn’t want to hurt you, doesn’t want to leave any more marks on you the world hadn’t tried to paint.

His own lashes were heavy, a calmness spreading from being close to you—just like he’d been yesterday morning. Yesterday when things were different, your body beside him, under him, against him—

“Hi…” you croak, eyes still closed.

Pausing, he doesn’t dare move, afraid he’s hallucinating it all—you, your voice.

“…D-Don’t stop. Feels nice.”

And he sighs in relief. His heart leaps, both up and down, bouncing in joy as he fights, pulling you close. His lips twitch, teeth pinching the inside of his cheek.

“Hey, lass.”

“You miss?”

He nods, even if your eyes are closed. “I missed, hen. Fuckin’ Jesus I missed.”

He’s begun making a habit of kissing your scar.

Even if your body is adorned with little stories, here and there. Some silver, some pink and some he knows and some he's never asked about. It's the larger one which demands his attention.

Before your newly acquired one, he loved kissing your shoulder. It made your chest heavy, almost bloat. He'd been all concerned with it, as if somehow he was to blame—but, now that's quickly forgotten. It’s no longer deemed as kiss-worthy as the one which runs along your stomach.

Not that you care.

You like running your fingers through his hair when he’s kissing along your hip bone. Your cunt fluttering around nothing, desperately craving his fingers, tongue or cock.

But, you wait—patiently. Having truly been able to master what that even means when you had been banned from overexerting yourself. Taking the simple things for granted like his chest being between your thighs and you being able to run your nails along his scalp.

You'd been allowed to kiss him, to have him close. Johnny had allowed that. Given into that, even if at first he'd been reluctant. Not wanting to hurt you, not knowing, because you were too afraid to tell him, that by not it would hurt far worse than a knife.

Plus, there's nothing quite like Johnny kissing you like you’re the only air he ever needs. It makes your toes curl, your thighs desperate to wrap and cage him close, not wanting him to be away from you.

But, it's easier to just hold him close than tell him he’s all you need, too.

Now, though, you can bask in the moment when he descends down your collarbone, kissing the skin under your breasts before sliding down to your naval, kissing the healed scar and its tingly nerves. Usually, you watch his eyes flick up at you, bathing you in blue that makes it feel like you’re swimming. Your breath hitching, knowing that look—how it’s accompanied by a slow, taunting descent as the tip of his tongue makes a path down to your cunt.

“Don’t tease,” you whisper, pleadingly.

But he will.

He gets some sick satisfaction from making you wait, from torturing you. You don’t blame him. You enjoy doing it back. Slow torturous kisses up his shaft followed by slow swirls of your tongue over his dripping head.

“Like takin’ my time wit’ yer, lass.”

He savours you now. Likely has done for some time.

You're unsure when it changed. When it went from chest pressed down on a washing machine, fucking into you like he’s running out of time to this. Now, it’s locked doors and holding you close, pressing your spine against the inside laundry door, slowly filling you as he holds you up, close, with nowhere to go.

As if you want to be anywhere but with him.

You blame the injury. He doesn’t treat you like you’re fragile, but he doesn’t fuck you like your robust. Not since you bled over him, since he paled in front of your eyes and you stole all his cockiness.

Now, it’s like he needs to remind himself you’re alive—and he does so by making you mewl, moan and whimper. Both of your previous coping mechanisms for stress and hate have now developed into something else entirely. You know you’ve sunk to your knees for him, taking all of him down your throat—tears springing to your lashes—just to remind him he had someone. To root him, fill him with a reason to come back to you, to find you, to let you in.

If it wasn’t for Price, you wouldn't have known it was reciprocated, that same yearning, same need to keep hold of him.

Price told you that you broke him—snapped Johnny in two.

“Like a kicked puppy, that one. Half-surprised he didn’t piss a ring around y’bed. Wouldn’t even get himself looked at. Practically wore the floor out, turnin’ on the spot.” “No he wasn’t.” He assures you he was. “Heal up, alright? Need you back with us.”

That had been over a month ago.

Now he’s lying between your legs, very much whole. Treating you—rewarding you for not giving up during sparring. Even if you’d wanted to. Even if all your muscles burned in anger at him, especially when his body was close—a grey t-shirt clinging to his muscles from sweat, looking every bit carved and god-like even in clothing.

You hated it. How fit he was.

How weak you were.

He saw it, must have done—you did a piss poor job at hiding it. And so he blackmailed you—tempted you with the only thing he knew he could give you, and him alone.

“Think of it like this, Hen. Y’get me on my back. I’ll make y’ bein’ on yours worth it later.” “I’ve got fingers, MacTavish.” “Aye, you do. But, your tongue can’t get tha’ hard to reach spot now can’it?” His hand on your waist, on the good side—staring into your eyes. And fuck, you wanted to kiss him. Wanted to run your tongue passed his teeth. “And, I kno’ y’love my mouth, lass.”

He keeps his word.

Beginning his promise in the shower, water and body wash sliding down your skin as he pins you to the tiles. No touching, just there—all within reach. Letting your eyes follow the suds as they slide down his deep-V.

Then you were on your back, wet towel on his floor, cool air brushing over your still damp skin.

“Seems counterproductive, showering me, to get me filthy again.”

“Maybe,” he grins, kissing your neck, the tip of his tongue drawing circles. “But, I’ll never complain about gettin’ and keepin’ yer naked, hen. You’re fuckin’ beautiful.”

He pulls you from the memory, the one which happened mere minutes ago, as he slides the flat of his tongue against your core. It makes you almost jolt—hiss, moan. His hand pins your good side to the bed.

“Keep still, lass. Don’t want y’to exert yourself.”

“You cocky pri—“

He buries your words by prodding your cunt with his fingers, tongue swirling your bundle of nerves as you grasp the sheets for leverage.

You swear he smirks. Can feel it against you as he circles his tongue over you, lapping, teasing, and tasting. Likely fuelled by your desperate whines, the ones he pulls from you over and over again.

He hums, and vibrates his mouth against you as he curls his fingers inside of you—hands clenching around his hair, doing your best to keep your back on the bed.

He has you at his mercy. Dangling you over the edge, almost allowing you to tip over, coat his tongue and palm in your pleasure.

But, Johnny is an expert. He knows you, what has you whimpering and moaning—and how to keep you hanging. He’s studied what pressure to apply, how to twist his tongue against your clit, until you’re a quivering mess, barely clinging to reality as he pushes you close to ascending.

Your hips buck, but his grip on your hip is stronger.

“Yer taste heavenly.”

You’ll never grow used to his compliments.

The ones which fall from his mouth with ease. The ones which make you blush from your cheeks to your toes—something he must notice, even if he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Want y’ forever.”

Your heart rises, doubles and flutters. “I’m all yours, Johnny.”

You only know he’s heard you from how he pauses, before he continues his assault—and this time he doesn’t dangle you. He lets you fall, right over the fucking edge.

It hits you so fast it takes your breath away, unsure how you had enough to spit his name out—never mind it falling from your lips over and over again.

Johnny pecks the air, merging with whines to make a sound that was sinful, so rich—you’re sure the room would ring off it for hours. Your eyes flicker, glancing down, seeing him lift up, grin adorning his face.

“Yer tired, hen?”

You snort, trying to hide how your legs are trembling. “No.”

“Good girl.”

His eyes a thunderstorm out over a sea—and a fucking sight to behold.

10.

You used to fuck him because you didn’t like him.

Now, you fuck him because you love him and you’re not sure what to do with it.

The feelings knotting, amassing into a chunk in your chest. Your lips say as much when they crash against his, pulling him closer by his belt loops.

“Need to feel you, Johnny.”

You don’t beg. But you do ask, now. Less action, and more words. Your fingers peeled his t-shirt first, allowing your hands to run over his skin, feel each muscle, the thrum of his pulse. The rest fall from both of you, littering the floor as you cling to him, as you palm his want in your hand and he coats his fingers in your desperation.

There’s a heaviness to each movement. It wraps its fingers around each touch, each noise. It pollutes it, what this could be—something nice, normal.

Instead, it reminds you of what you could lose. That you could board and watch the base vanish into the distance, not sure if you’d see it again. See him again.

You’d tried to not let feelings bloom. You’d tried to keep it as pleasure, as stress relief—but you’d liked waking up beside him—loved that he was the person beside you when you’d opened your eyes after surgery.

While the clinical stench hit you first, then the pain, it was he who quickly followed. Even now, even as you’ve tried to rewrite that moment, you know in your heart you’d wished he had been the first thing you’d felt. Only him. No pain, no smell, not even a noise: just Johnny.

He must know. He has a second sense for things—for bubbling thoughts and moments being twisted. Or, he has a sense for you, at least. You think it because he’s on his knees on the cold floor, hooking your thighs onto his forearms as he devours you—and fuck does he do it well.

He takes you to the edge, lets you dangle, almost lets it swallow you before he pulls his lips back, blowing cool air along your soaked cunt.

“Gotta make y’come back f’more.”

Johnny says it like he doesn’t know.

Like the idea that you’re in love with him isn’t possible, unfathomable, rather than something which is very much reality.

Because you are in love with him. It’s a fact. Something concrete. Just the same as you are full of him, once he pushes you back on the bed and buries his cock to the hilt in you.

It’s filthy—obscene—all the noises you let loose. The ones willing to escape, purposefully peeled from the words that cling to your tongue: I love you. I love you so much.

His cock hits that spot which makes your legs feel weightless, and you kiss him again, hungrily, needily. His hand fists your hair, each thrust perfectly hitting that spot that made a tear fall from your lash at how good it was—how good he was.

“Fuck, Johnny—fuck.”

It’s the only words you let escape—all you can do. So fearful of those three words touching the air, escaping.

I love you.

Your teeth clamp down on your bottom lip as he presses his forehead to yours. His hips meeting yours, another wave of pleasure building and building, all set to crash down and cover you.

You took it all the same. You’d take everything he’d give you. Your hands grasping him closer, clutching onto him as your throat burns—you’re so full of him, in every sense of the word. You can’t imagine it never being him, not just here, between your thighs but everywhere else he is.

In your bed.

In your head.

In your heart.

His hand knots in yours, fingers on either side of yours as he clamps himself, palm to palm—secretly clamping you.

And it’s too much.

It’s so real, so beautiful. You want to deserve it, deserve him—

“Fuck.”

He angles himself, dragging his cock through your walls harder, faster.

“I kno’, lass. Yer fuckin’ somethin’ else y’are, hen. Heavenly. Fuckin’ goddess-like.”

Then he plunges you in blue, and stares past your eyes and into your soul. Likely seeing the words, the ones he should have, should be given willingly and not held back by nervous hands.

“Let go, hen. Let go f’me.”

And you do. You'd do everything for him.

So, it snaps, the knot in your stomach. The one you'd been clinging to. Your body becomes both tight and loose all at once as you let go, and come around his cock. His name rips from your throat as pleasure, all white-light and flaming-touch, tears through you and consumes you.

It’s like lightning and fireworks, and everything else when your resolve cracks—his hips still pistoning, chasing his own as your aftershocks continue, as you flutter back down to him.

But, it’s his hand in yours, the one still clamps you here with him that you focus on when you hear him moan your name.

Your hand remains with his even as he slides himself out of you, his frame falling limply next to you—right onto his side of the bed. The place you always leave free, whether it’s your own bed or his. The place your head is already turned, waiting expectantly for him. So used to all of this now, this routine.

“When do y’have to go?”

Your mouth twitches, a longing in your eyes and the heaviness from earlier, settling onto your bones. “I’ll miss you.”

“Aye?”

Smirking, you roll your eyes. Trying to keep hold of the moment for as long as you can. To keep a mental picture of him like this, happy, not fearing and nervous.

“You’ve prepared me well.”

“Aye. Well. Y’let me.”

You kiss him.

Not like you’d usually do, but one which says more than you think you can articulate. The movement of your lips is able to write the words your heart is desperate to sing. You keep hold of his hand, quite liking his palm against yours. You enjoy how your thumb can stroke the healed and silver scar on his hand, all from something boring like DIY and not combat.

You don’t want to stop, hating it when you do.

Each item of your clothing returns back into place, fixing your hair, and haphazardly wiping anything from your face—pleasure-filled tears or sweat.

When you leave him, you’re thankful he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t ask you to wait; doesn’t ask for another second. He knows, like you do, that operations wait for no one and those in the dark don’t wait for the sun to set.

You do hear him call your name, more professional than he had moments ago.

You turn, walking backwards staring at his head and how it peers around the doorway. “Y’come back in one piece.”

“For you?” you smirk, “I’ll consider it.”

11.

Now, it's different.

It began on a dusty floor, and it grew amongst the sand and sheets.

Your head turns, staring up at him as he adjusts the strap on his vest. His brows pinched, strands of hair threatening to fall across his forehead—his hair so much longer across the entire space of his head. The same hair you ragged and ran your fingers through.

It’s nice to be beside him again. To be allowed to run with them as a squad—your smaller, less combative operations appeasing Price that you’re ready.

You’re an important part of the team, y’hear me? We ain’t rushin’ it.

Now, you were glad.

No ghostly pains, just ones from Simon’s stare at your commentary. No pangs or jolts, only when you hear Johnny recommend something dangerous, always involving himself. Even if you know he’ll come back. Even if he’s promised you he will. Your heart lurches each time you think of something nicking his skin, something embedding into his bones—something taking his eyes, smile and soul from you.

“Yer good?”

Smiling, you nod, “Aye.”

“Bugger aff wid ye’.”

You smirk, rolling your lips, sliding one hand between your top and vest, staring off at the others checking their gear as you hear him sigh.

“Try n’ follow orders, lass,” he says in a low voice, “Don’t fancy gettin’ stuck in a dusty safehour wit’ yer. Can’t keep y’warm. Got a girlfriend, y’know.”

Sweeping your tongue across your bottom lip, you fight a grin. “That so? She must be a saint.”

“Aye, she’s somethin’ special, I’ll tell you.”

“Has to be, to put up with you.”

He keeps his laugh low, but it lights you all the same. Kisses every inch of you, warming you from head to toe. Your skin is desperate to press against him, your muscles and bones calling for him.

His fingers stretch, flex—ghosting between the gap which feels like miles. You can feel his head turning to look at you, likely watching you as you stare out at the sand—the two of you all kitted up, weighed down and raring to go.

And then he does it, lightly brushing his fingers against yours. It’s the most brazen he’s been—most the two of you have ever been. Even since the two of you became something real, something more than just a rumour and a lie.

And it’s electrifying and grounding, making your lips twitch, eyes smiling the rest.

You know he can tell, even from the side. He knows you too well by now, the same way you know him. The two of you have become so well versed in one another—knowing exactly what each muscle change in each face means.

“Didn’t have you down as unprofessional, MacTavish,” you whisper. Just loud enough for him to hear.

Your fingers hooking around his, holding his hand. Tightly. Meaningfully.

“For you, I’m a lotta things, lass.”

“That so?”

He smirks, tilting his head, as you raise your chin to look at him. “Good job I’m happy to be a lot of things for you too, then. Isn’t it?”

“Tha’ y’saying yer love me, lass?”

You smile, staring ahead as you sigh. “No. You’ll know it when I say it. But, I do know you love me, MacTavish.”

“Aye. I do.”

His fingers release yours, a breeze ghosting over the space they were. Your head is unable to turn, unable to stop your eyes from staring into his.

“I’m not saying it now, got to give you something to come back to me for.”

You watch it slowly, how it eclipses his entire face. It sparks his eyes, blasting you in a blue that should change the entire environment and not just you. Then, it lifts his cheeks, the corners of his lips, and then he grins—grins so wide he’s sure he could make you forget how to breathe.

“Fair,” he says, raising his wrist, fingers moving along his wrist as you frown.

It takes a second—far too long for how intuitive you are. Your eyes catch sight of it, half-impressed he hasn’t lost it as he slides it from under his watch—that hairband. The one he stole.

“But, yer should kno’. I’ll always come back t’you, hen, ‘cause I gotta give y’this back.”

You nod, and your other hand—the one desperate to hold his—clutches the other strap of your vest, pressing your thighs together. The earlier moment now isn’t feeling enough, even if the bruises on your hip brushing against your trousers say otherwise.

Turning your head, you look across at the others, them looking almost set, as you sigh.

“I love,” you say in a whisper.

Not sure if the breeze stole it, whipped them and carried them away into some corner of the world. They were only two words, after all.

But, he presses his hand on the lower part of your spine—firm, and fingers spread. The two of you walking, hating that with each step you were close to feeling his hand fall from you until the next moment alone.

“I love, too.”

He says it with a dipped head, a soft look in his eye as he slides his hand along your back, around your hip before it’s gone—just left with blue, Johnny blue, the best fucking shade of all.

it's completeeee. i know she was only three chapters, but i don't think I've been able to juggle my life to be this consistent with anything in a long time. so, i'm buzzing.

soap sunday will continue with a new mini-series. diff reader, etc. but thank you for making my sundays have purpose, and all being so kind about me, this and my work. i loves you.

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