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painted-flag · 4 months ago

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Little Red Riding Hood - Cregan Stark

Part 1 of 2.

Story 2 of Between the Pages: a HOTD x Fairytale Series.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ series masterlist. main masterlist. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ pairing: cregan stark x f!reader (no use of y/n) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ warnings: a little bit of period-specific misogyny. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ wordcount: 5.7k .𖥔 ݁ ˖ notes: the reason this is split into two parts is that my mac crashed and i lost the full draft (around 10k). i rewrote it, but i promised that it would release on the 29th so despite the fact i have not finished writing the full imagine, i am splitting it into two parts.

The sound of quiet chatter filled the small schoolhouse. It was a stone building, old and worn from the centuries since its construction, one of the oldest buildings in the small town of Wildgate. Young girls sat in a circle, each focusing on the fabric in front of them as they stitched the day away. Their hands gripped their wooden loops and meticulously weaved the needle up and down to create their desired patterns.

The hall was warmed by two hearths on each side that chased away the winter chill. Your clothes aided in keeping warm while you paced around the outside of the circle. Your gaze watched the little girls as they sewed and your heart swelled with pride at the proficiency of your students. It was a rewarding job to work as a teacher for the girls in the town, despite the abysmal pay. Any money counted to the support of your family.

The girls finished their work one by one, earning praise from you which had them giggling and running to go home to their parents and share their work. As each girl left, you began to clean up the room from the day's activities. Once the desks were moved back into their regular position and the chairs in place, you eagerly made leave of the schoolhouse.

You made your way through the bustling town streets. The ground, usually muddy, had frozen over for the winter and patches of piled snow littered the area. People were hastily making their way to their destinations to run from the chill. The deep scarlet cloak you wore had been a gift from your grandmother and provided the perfect reprieve from the icy air. The red contrasted against the snowy surroundings.

Upon turning to another street, you quickly open a wooden door. The heat from the ovens in the bakery had mixed with the smells of fresh bread. You inhale slowly, savouring the scent.

A man came from a backroom and grinned when seeing you, “Ah! Darling, how are you today?” He was a short and plump middle-aged man who never had anything but a smile on his face and rosy cheeks. Every week, he would donate food to the schoolhouse for the children who were from poorer households.

“I am doing alright, James. How have you been?” You put your basket down as he begins to place your regular bread order in it.

“Well, the weather is drab but every day alive is a great day.” He nodded to you and accepted the payment. Once saying your goodbyes, you wandered back outside to the cool streets. Only a few buildings down was your next destination. The familiar sound of metal clanking against steel got louder as you approached.

The area was covered with a roof but open to the elements with a single wall being opened. It was the only blacksmith in the town, which happened to employ the man who had enchanted your fantasies. You watched as Aegon pulled a blade out of a forge and set it against an anvil. He grabbed a heavy hammer and began to pound it down against the glowing steel, over and over. The sound reverberated across the buildings and travelled through your body. He was sweating from work and despite the gentle snowfall, he only wore one set of clothes. The shirt he had on was thin and billowed with the breeze.

Aegon was not your first choice in men. He had only arrived in the village a few years ago and settled down into an apprenticeship. While you could not deny the beauty he held, you had not been enticed at first. You were generally disinterested in most men in the village, especially having known them all since childhood. His uniqueness was what had reeled you in, not the prospect of romance. Though there were no qualms with the way he treated you, the spark you so desperately wished to feel only flickered.

One thing was undeniable, his steady income would protect you and your family. A considerable rarity among the other available men.

Upon seeing you approach, Aegon used large tongs to pick up the blade and dunk it into a nearby vat of water. The sizzle and bubbles from the heat-laden steel rippled across the water. He smiled at you and put the items down. When you made it to the work area, Aegon took and placed your basket down. He gently held your hand and brought it up to lay a small kiss on the knuckles.

You accepted his affection, following like a sheep unaware of the wolf’s lure.

“And how is my lady?” Aegon moved back to organizing some of his tools, lifting them as though they weighed nothing, despite them being heavier than you could imagine. Although he had a lean and built figure, it seemed uncharacteristic with the amount of weight he could lift.

“The girls are doing so well with their stitching progress. I don’t believe there is much else I could teach them.” You spoke and Aegon hummed while he placed a hammer off to the side.

Aegon moved back to you and kissed your cheek, “Well, it is just stitching. There is not much to that work, maybe they could move on to other womanly duties?”

There was a brief moment of bitter taste in your mouth, but you swallowed it down. You reached for your basket on one of the tables and lifted the small cloth that covered the items inside. When you took out a package wrapped in cloth, Aegon watched your movements.

“I got your favourite dinner.” You placed the package into his outstretched hands choosing to ignore his previous comment, “Though, I am still so confused on how you could eat so much.” You laughed at your little joke and Aegon did too, but his gaze still pieced through you.

“I am always hungry,” Aegon’s voice dropped a few octaves and his expression darkened for a moment. It was quickly extinguished and he continued speaking, “Thank you, my love, for bringing this to me. I should get back to work now.”

You nodded at his words and leaned in to kiss the side of his mouth, “I shall leave you to it then.”

Your hands grasped the handle of the basket and picked it up. Giving Aegon a wave goodbye, you started back down the street and hummed idly to yourself. The trek in the falling snow was quiet and pleasant. All of the cottages around you had smoke billowing from their chimneys and glowing windows from candlelight. The sky had darkened fast.

A cottage in the distance caught your eye. The home was not large, but the warmth from your mother and little brother was more than enough to make it feel larger than a castle. You opened the heavy wooden door and rushed in, closing it quickly to keep out the cold. In the open area that consists of the kitchen and living space, your brother was sitting in front of the hearth and your mother was busying herself with dinner.

Upon spotting you by the door, your little brother rushed to greet you. He called out your name and wrapped his arms around your legs with his head burying itself in your stomach. Your arms encircled him and squeezed.

You ruffled his dark locks, “Good to see you too, buddy.” He pulled away from you and started asking countless questions about your day. You laughed at his curiousness and mentioned you would speak over dinner before sending him on his way to wash his hands and prepare the table.

Your mother had moved to the hearth to tend to the cast iron pot simmering with that night's stew. She stirred it around and brought a wooden spoon up to her lips, blew on it, and tasted. She nodded at the taste and decided it was ready. She turned around and saw you standing there and wrapped you in a hug.

“I expect your day went well?” Your mother pulled back and grabbed the pot. She carried it to the table and set it down by the bowls your brother brought out. When you sat down with your brother in the spot beside yours, a piece of parchment was dropped by the bowl that your mother placed.

“My day was fine. What is this?” You held up the parchment.

“A letter from Winterfell’s healer.” Your mother answered. You furrowed your brows. Winterfell was the town over, about a little over a day's ride from here. It was where your grandmother lived. It had been years since you visited last.

You unrolled the parchment and began to read. The more you did, the greater your worry grew. Your grandmother was sick and had been for a while. The healer could not keep watch on her enough while also taking care of others in Winterfell. He asked for a family member to come to the town and watch in on your grandmother for the times he is not there. The healer said he would be waiting at the town gate on the morning of the moon's first quarter to escort whoever showed up to her home.

“That is two days from now.” You spoke to your mother as she swallowed a spoonful of stew, “I will have to go tomorrow at midday.”

“You do not have to.” Your mother interrupted, “I could go.”

“Mother you need to take care of Joffrey.” You interjected. Your mother did not speak for a moment and considered your words. After a few minutes of quiet eating, she acquiesced to your stance and accepted your travel plans.

Dinner was spent with your brother speaking about his day. Both you and your mother occasionally interjected with quips, but the mood from ill news regarding your grandmother hung over the table like a thick smoke cloud. You thought back to all of those moments you had with your grandmother, which became fewer the older you got. Trips to Winterfell became scarce to the point that it had been close to a decade since your last visit.

Cleaning up the kitchen and table was done in silence between you and your mother. Your brother had been dismissed to go to bed early - something he was adamantly against, but listened to nonetheless. You slowly packed the items you would need for the trip over. Getting time off of teaching would be easy, but you were hesitant to leave your family for however many weeks it would be.

Once you were settled in for the night, sleep came quickly.

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

Your black boots made crunches in the snow as you walked through the town. You had swung by the bakery that morning to pick up a couple of sweets and pastries for the road. Your grandmother had always loved raspberry tarts, so you picked out a couple for her. While you may not be able to cure her sickness, at the very least you could brighten her spirits. You were set to begin your journey in just a few hours, but you had one last task to complete.

The same familiar sight of the blacksmith appeared as you made your trek down the street. The sound of metal clanging rang through your head. You saw Aegon working, steady and focused. When you approached closer, he spotted you out of his peripheral. He stopped what he was doing. The smile on his face faded slowly at the neutral expression across yours.

“Are you okay?” Aegon spoke. He moved forward and pulled you closer by your scarlet cloak. One of his hands fiddled with the hood that protected you from the snowfall.

“I have to go,” You began, “My grandmother is sick and it's getting worse.”

Aegon’s face scrunched up in confusion, “Go? Go where?”

“Winterfell.”

For a brief moment, a shadow swept across his face at your answer. His posture went rigid and the hand clasping your hood was pulled back and balled into a fist. You attributed his change of mood to your sudden departure.

“For how long?” He asked.

You reached out to gently squeeze one of his biceps, swiping your thumb up and down in comfort, “A few weeks, possibly a month or two. I leave tonight.” Aegon shrugged free from your hand and stepped back. His arms raised slightly with his psalm facing you. They shook for a moment before lowering.

“So, you’re just going to leave… like that?” Aegon now looked bewildered, with a slight air of offence in his voice.

“My grandmother needs someone from her family to take care of her.”

Aegon began to move his equipment away, “I’m going with you.” The finality in his tone made no room for rebuttal, but you stood your ground.

“I need someone to look after my family here.” After you spoke, Aegon halted his movements and turned back to you. You went up to him and placed your hands on his chest.

“I’m guessing no amount of persuading will work?” He questioned. When you nodded, he accepted your answer. He cupped your face, “Just… stay safe. The people of Winterfell are vipers.”

You rolled your eyes at his overprotectiveness, “I will, Aegon. Just keep my family safe while I’m gone.”

Aegon licked his lips, “I’ll keep your family safe.”

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

The gates of Winterfell looked unfamiliar compared to the faint memories you had of this place. It was morning and the ground was laden with a thick cover of mist that hovered above the packed snow. Early light from the rising sun cast against the snow and sparkled. You breathed in the scent of pine and exhaled, watching as the mist from your mouth evaporated in the air. You wrapped the scarlet cloak around you more to drive away the chill. The horse you had rode had been taken to the stables.

On the inside of the gates, you spotted an old man hunched over. He was dressed in clothes that signalled his position as a healer; neutral grays and a simplistic design of a tunic, trousers, and coat. His hair had turned gray from age and his beard was twisted into a braid that fell down to his chest.

You approached him, “Excuse me, are you Orym?”

“Yes. I assume you are one of the family members?” The old man greeted you politely and shook your hand.

“Her granddaughter. Is she alright?”

“She is as good as she can be, given her condition.” The man responded. Just as you were going to speak, the sound of horse hooves hitting the ground caught your attention. A couple of horses ridden by men passed through the walls. They all dismounted. One of the horses had a wooden carrier that towed the body of a large stag. The man on the horse dropped down with his back to her.

The men all gathered around the stag and clasped the shoulder of the man who, by the positive words being spoken, had taken down the wild beast. From his back, she could see the thick pelts that draped from his broad shoulders. His dark hair was long, falling to his shoulders, with the top half tied up in a knot. The greatsword on his back had to be close to six feet.

He turned around and she saw his face. Strands of his dark hair framed his face, carving out the already sharp jawline he possessed. His brows were even, set over pairs of calculating eyes. The man’s face held a stoic look while his lips were set in a line. You were shocked that such a handsome face could belong to an imposing figure like his. Despite his stately appearance, there was a sense of familiarity there that was comforting. The morning sunlight shone against his figure, almost deifying him.

The man’s gaze found yours and that feeling of calm swayed to a sense of purpose. Like all your life had been waiting for that precise moment.

His eyes were kind and inviting, but also commanding. You were stuck by how off-guard you became. The snow that fell around you, including the world, faded into the background. A sudden pounding feeling hit the back of your head. It was like a part of you, somewhere deep inside, was clawing to be released. It felt as though you knew him already.

Orym shook your arm slightly, “Are you alright?”

You broke your gaze from the man and turned to the healer, “Just fine. Could we go to my grandmother now?”

Orym took your arm and escorted you through the streets of the town. People began to bustle through the streets. All were friendly, exchanging good words with others as they passed. Some stalls opened to sell goods ranging from fish to other oddities. You were slightly angered that you had spent so long away from such a town. This place would have been a wonderful area to grow up in. There was a fair amount of carved wolf imagery in the wood and stone that made up all of the buildings, a running theme throughout Winterfell.

There were summers that you spent here in your youth, but the memories of them had faded with time.

After a few short minutes, you and the healer happened upon a cottage. It was humble but looked homely amongst the snowed backdrop. You had a faint recollection of this place, but since those scattered memories were only marked by summertime, the winter feel of everything was new. Yet, the winter here somehow felt warmer in spite of the biting cold. Three large oak trees surrounded the home, protecting it from the elements.

Orym opened the gate that surrounded the cottage and walked you to the door. He tapped three times on the knocker. He announced you coming before opening the door. Orym bid you a good day before hurrying on to another patient who needed him. When you entered the home, it was apparent that your grandmother lived there. It was neat but decorated immensely with furnishings, quilts, and other odds and ends. The smell of baked goods permeated the air, mixed with hints of dried lilac.

From the door of a room on the far end emerged your grandmother. She was a short and plump woman whose natural energy radiated everywhere she went. While your heart swelled upon seeing her for the first time in many years, you could not help but notice the slight sway in her step and the way her eyes were almost glazed over.

She welcomed you with a great hug, “Oh, darling look how you’ve grown!” For the first time since your arrival, you felt warm and at home with just a simple embrace.

“How are you, grandmother?” You questioned. The woman pulled back to look at you and pinched your cheek lightly.

“I am healthiest than ever. Really, it is just a cold.” She then moved over to her kitchen, but her steps faltered and you caught her and guided her to a seat by the hearth.

You knelt and began to stoke the fire more as it had reduced to burning embers. While you were occupied, your grandmother began to brief you on all her symptoms and how the sickness had progressed, but she seemed to be in denial about how bad it had gotten. Your worry had tripled upon seeing her state.

You took out the raspberry tarts that your grandmother would love. Over the course of a few hours, you two caught up on all the years missed. It was as if no time had passed. You ate the treats and laughed by the fire as the cottage warmed. At some point, you made tea that the both of you nurtured in cups.

There was a sudden knock on the door that broke you out of the story you had been telling. Your grandmother smiled like she knew who was there and called out for them to come in. The door opened, and a large figure fit through the doorway, ducking to get in. The light from the gray day outside hit his back and cast the front in darkness. He closed the door and suddenly you could see it was the same man who you saw just a few hours prior.

“Cregan, how was your hunt?” Your grandmother asked. The man, who you now knew as Cregan, smiled and moved to place a wrapped package on the table next to the kitchen.

“A large stag. I saved you a hindquarters cut.” He responded. You furrowed your brows. The hindquarter was one of the most expensive and you wondered why this man was just giving it away. Your grandmother stood up to go and unwrap the meat and you followed.

Your grandmother looked between you and the man and decided to introduce you, “This is my granddaughter. I told you she was coming to take care of me.”

Cregan then moved to greet you, taking your hand in his and pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles, “It’s good to see you again after all these years.”

You were confused by his words. There was not a moment you could recall ever meeting a man such as him. Surely, with looks like that, you would remember. Upon seeing your confused expression, Cregan released your hand and looked to your grandmother.

“I am sorry if I misstepped there. It was rude to assume you would remember me, for you were a few years younger.”

It was then that the scratch from the back of your brain was alleviated. The name had sounded familiar, but now that you were closer to him, that familiarity you felt when you saw him for the first time washed away to the faintest of memories. It was flashing still moments in your brain. The tall summer grass, glaring sun, and the images of children running in an open field. The same dark hair bounced on the head of a young child, just a few years your senior, as the two of you chased the other children.

“Cregan?” You spoke, “I think I remember.”

The corners of his mouth turned upwards, “Well, I never was one to make lasting impressions,” He joked.

Your grandmother hit his shoulder gently, “Don’t be so silly, you are a wonderful young man.” You could clearly see that Cregan and your grandmother got along well. He must have been taking care of your grandmother for a long time. It made your heart stutter.

The old lady then yawned, “Could you show my granddaughter around Winterfell? I am awfully tired.” There was a mischievous glint in your grandmother’s eye and you were unsure of her motives.

“It would be my pleasure,” Cregan answered. He turned to you, “If you would like to, of course.”

“It would be good to see all of Winterfell as I plan to stay for a while.” Your reply made the subtle, almost indecipherable smile on Cregan’s face light up a little more. You and Cregan gave goodbyes to your grandmother and put your cloaks on. The scarlet colour was a sharp contrast to the greys and blacks that made up Cregan’s clothing.

Cregan held open the door for you. You gave one last look to your grandmother who sent a wink your way. Your face flushed at figuring out her plan to get the two of you alone. Surely, if you had mentioned seeing Aegon back home, she would not have done this. It also made you question yourself. Why had you not spoken of Aegon when catching up with her? He was a large part of your life, yet did not seem important enough at the time to bring up.

Upon reaching the road, Cregan began to point out important locations. The bakery, library, market, and everything in between. You noticed everyone had kind exchanges with Cregan. They seemed to gravitate towards him.

“The people like you.” You spoke to him.

Cregan glanced at you for a moment while still walking, “Well, I am the lord of Winterfell. My family was given the title by our Queen Rhaenyra’s ancestors. It is a lucky position to be in. I’m grateful to serve these people.” You watched as children ran across a patch of road, all giggling and chasing one another.

“Is Winterfell in need of a teacher?” You asked. Cregan weighed your question for a moment.

“We could always use help with the children around here. Are you a teacher back home?” Cregan spoke.

“Yes. If I am to be here for a while, I should contribute and get money to support my grandmother.” You reasoned. A light dusting of snow began to fall and settled all around. Pieces of snow clung to Cregan’s hair and he shook his head.

“You need not trouble yourself with work. I have taken care of your grandmother for years, I can do the same for you.” He spoke.

Your heart warmed at his words. “That is kind, Cregan, truly. However, I would like to teach.”

“A beautiful woman like you should not trouble herself with work,” Cregan responded. Your brows furrowed at his words, having taken them the wrong way.

“So a woman’s looks dictate whether or not she should work?” You crossed your arms.

Cregan froze while you continued to walk. He was caught off guard by your quip. “That was not my implication. I merely thought that your husband would have made sure you have enough coin for your trip.” You turned around to see him stopped with his hands raised in a surrendering manner.

“I do not have a husband,” Cregan caught up to your pace and let out a hum after your words, “But there is a man I may marry, he is a blacksmith back home. His name is Aegon.”

Your gaze was focused on what was in front of you, but you could still see the hardened gaze of Cregan’s features. His lips turned down to a sharp frown. The name almost seemed to evoke a deep response in him.

“Well, then you must be sure that he will treat you perfectly if you are so faithful in his intentions.” Cregan’s words seemed to hide a double meaning that you struggled to ascertain. His steps fell harder on the snow-covered ground. You began to question the meaning of your relationship with Aegon. Now that you were away from him, it felt like you were washed from the confinement of his presence. A troubling but newfound realization. It was then that a guard turned around the corner and looked relieved to see Cregan.

“Lord Stark! You are needed at the gate.” The guard spoke and then spotted you there as well. He lowered his voice, “Tracks have been spotted.”

Cregan tilted his head in question, “I fail to see how that warrants my attention.”

“My lord, it is uh…” The guard whispered the last bit, “Wolf tracks. Not of our own.” His words made Cregan’s shoulders stiffen. His gloved hands formed hard fists. You were confused about those last words, not of our own. The meaning was lost to you.

Cregan turned to you, “It is best that you get back to your grandmother’s house. I must go handle this.” He moved in the direction of the gate with the guard following. You stood back for a few moments in the falling snow and watched as he walked away. The chill crept up your spine and you decided it was best to go inside.

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

The first week in Winterfell was spent taking care of your grandmother, watching over some of the kids at the school, and spending your free time with Cregan. The children in Winterfell were much more calm in the classroom, but also wicked tricksters outside. However, you managed to gain respect from the kids and are not subjected as a victim to their pranks. That was done rather easily having brought them butter tarts and candied lemons.

Once the children trusted you, the people of Winterfell warmed to your presence as well. They were wary of outsiders, but seeing their children take a liking to you was enough to sway them. You were on your way to do errands. While weaving through the streets you listened in on people talking. Bits and pieces hit your ears.

“Jamie is improving on his reading.”

“There are no good pieces of-”

“The full moon is tonight.”

“Where is Lily?”

You made your way through the street stalls. While on your errands you wondered what Cregan was up to. You had found a good friend in him, despite the fact that your heart would beat faster and your cheeks would burn when you got near him. He had been a friendly companion, having shown you around Winterfell and introduced you to his friends. His friends, while a bunch of rowdy loud-mouthed people, had treated you respectfully.

Cregan continued to check in on your grandmother and bring game from hunts every day. There are moments when you are alone with Cregan, that you find your resolve crumbling. With each passing day, your fancy for Aegon dwindled to the point that he was rarely - if ever - on your mind. It brought you an immense feeling of guilt. Aegon has been nothing but supportive of you and your family. While he did tend to get overprotective - at one point fighting an old childhood friend simply for talking to you - Aegon still showed you passion.

Yet, with Cregan, he introduced a type of stability you had never felt before. There was support given to you, but reassurance and encouragement in your own capability of taking care of yourself. You were not treated as helpless by Cregan, a surprising contrast to the men back home. It was nice to see, but also wildly different than what you were used to. It confused you to see such a difference in culture despite there only being a brief two days of travel between the two places. Cregan only said that it was the way Winterfell functioned.

“We are like a pack here - always looking out for one another.”

It was easy for you to fall in love with Winterfell in just a week. With your grandmother’s improving condition, you wondered how many days you had left in your stay. It was incredibly relieving to have your grandmother up and active more and coughing less, though you wondered if it would be okay to extend your stay.

You spotted one of Cregan’s friends, Ser Dustin, walking in your direction. He was a few years older than Cregan, with a bushy beard and muscled figure. His clothing matched Cregans - dark greys and black with silver embellishments and the familiar wolf head insignia on a patch on his chest. You smiled in greeting. His normal warm smile was replaced with a troubled look on his face.

“Are you alright, Ser Dustin?” You questioned.

“Quite alright. The night is approaching, you should be inside.” He responded.

You pulled your scarlet cloak tighter around your frame, “Have you seen Cregan? I have not seen him today.” Ser Dustin sighed.

“Cregan has been busy with his duties. I’m sure you will see him tomorrow.” His brief dismissal was so out of character. You blinked a few times.

“Okay,” You spoke, “I’ll be going home now.” While you wanted to talk to him more, his earlier comment on the day ending almost sounded like a warning rather than an observation. It sent a deep feeling of uncertainty in your bones. The cold of the weather was not the origin of the chill that slithered up your spine.

You took a few steps back from Ser Dustin before turning and going on your way. When you were out of sight, your hands grabbed the fabric of your skirt and lifted it up so you could run. You sprinted as fast as your clothing could allow you until you reached your grandmother's house. You swung the door open and flung yourself against the door to close it. Your lungs were pushing for any semblance of air. Your grandmother looked up from the table as she was setting down two bowls of stew.

“Is everything alright?” She questioned. You calmed your breathing and shrugged off your scarlet cloak to hang it up on a hook by the door.

“Everything is fine, grandma.” You lied, not wishing to stress her out, “What’s for dinner?”

“Stew.” She responded.

Dinner was spent with your grandmother taking up most of the conversation. You nodded along graciously and occasionally made quick observations, but your mind was elsewhere. The entire day something had felt off. An unfamiliar itch that you could not ascertain. The people of Winterfell seemed more tense than usual, and the countless ornamented wolf heads felt like they were staring through your soul, piercing everything within. You had chalked the feeling up to homesickness, nothing more. Yet, your gut was sounding an alarm.

It is nothing but missing home.

You exchanged goodnights with your grandmother and secluded yourself in your room. The gentle monotony of your night routine lulled your nerves just a bit. You were down to your nightclothes - a thin white shift with silver vine embroidery - when your gaze locked with the small window. Night had come and you could see the full moon rising in the distance. Clouds obscured the moon, but its white light still illuminated Winterfell.

A pounding sensation began to hit the back of your head. You lay down in your bed hoping that some rest would wash it away. Over the period of a few hours, your body tossed and turned as you fell in and out of sleep. You had left your window open just a hair to let in the winter cold, but your body felt like it had been set alight.

It was in that forever torment of heat and restlessness that a shrill shriek cut through the crisp night air; a sounding cry bellowed from the depths of a chest and torn through the vocal cords. Wolf calls echoed the sound and bounced off the walls of buildings until they bounced throughout your skull. When the vibrations hit your ears, the pounding in your head eased.

Another shriek rang out.

_____________

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janeyseymour · 5 months ago

Text

chosen family

summary: jacob hill has always been like something of a son to Melissa Schemmenti. You, Melissa's partner, make him realize that.

WC: ~3.3k

Melissa Schemmenti has always been drawn to people who could not be further from herself. It’s always been that way for her.

You are not the exception. You couldn’t be more different than the fiery redheaded teacher. Just like everyone else to work there that she is close with, you couldn’t be more different. You’ve picked up on this pattern. You’ve also picked up on other things concerning your new colleagues.

Barbara Howard is a perfect example of being entirely different from Melissa Schemmenti- her work wife, her platonic soulmate until the end of time. The first day, you were made very aware that Melissa Schemmenti and Barbara Howard were something of work wives and platonic soulmates. While yes, they both attend church every Sunday, the kindergarten teacher is much more devout. Barbara Howard is a rule follower, where Melissa bends the rules in ways nobody ever thought possible. While Barbara Howard is often steady and stable, Melissa Schemmenti could light someone’s car on fire over something as trivial as picking up the wrong pasta sauce on the way home.

Janine Teagues, someone who radiates sunshine and positivity, is somewhat of a daughter or a niece to the redhead. The same goes for Gregory- he’s like a son or nephew, in an odd way. You’ve learned that one thing to be aware of is that Janine is never stopping- she’s always going to the point of exhaustion and usually ends up creating a bigger mess than the one she was trying to clean up in the first place. You’ve learned that her and Gregory are dating; but apparently they’ve only officially been dating for a few months now. Before then, they’ve been the ‘will they, won’t they’ talk of the staff room.

Mr. Johnson has such a free spirit that it irritates Melissa at times. But they see eye to eye when it comes to important things in life- like how they would survive on a desert island or a zombie apocalypse. The two have a friendship that confuses both of them. He is there for fun, despite having a crucial part in the school.

Ava Coleman, at one point an enigma to the teacher, has a special spot in Melissa’s heart. At first, it was hatred. And then it was something of a kinship. Ava Coleman may not be conventional by any means, but it worked. Melissa found that she quite liked the zest and interesting takes that the principal held with her. It took time, but they found a rhythm, and that rhythm has since been perfected. Ava Coleman, much like the custodian, wants all fun and no work.

And that left Jacob Hill. Jacob hill, a soft and at times skittish gay man that Melissa couldn’t stand when he first was employed by the city of Philadelphia. But now? Now they’re like two peas in a pod. They’re quite the unconventional pair- a very soft and somewhat skittish gay man and a tough, mob-like redhead. But they seem to work. They seem to work far better than anyone had expected, including the two living together. And the last thing that you’ve come to understand about the young man is that Jacob Hill is something of a son to the fiery second grade teacher. When you first started working here, you actually did think that Jacob was her son- that was quickly laughed off by Janine and she told you the truth of the matter.

And since you’ve worked at Abbott, you’ve become quite close with the second grade teacher. You’re actually dating her now. It’s something that you’re still having a hard time grappling with. How could someone as beautiful and as… Melissa, as she is end up with someone like you?

But it seems to work out. The green eyed woman seems to be drawn to people who could not be further from her.

Jacob has quickly become a staple at the apartment that the two of you now share, him moving out a few months ago- it makes sense in all actuality. He and Melissa are quite close, and in turn the two of you are closer now as well.

You see how happy it makes your girlfriend to have the always grinning, and yet somehow still always subtly cynical, man around. You see it when she’s able to make him a plate of dinner, share lunch portions with him, when she’s able to give him advice (in teaching or other), when he’s settling on the couch with the two of you to watch what they know refer to as ‘their’ show. Melissa mothers him more than she mothers Janine, leaving that job to her platonic work wife. It’s a sweet little relationship that the two of them hold very dear to their hearts.

You’re about to enter the staff room when you hear the two of them chatting quietly over their lunches.

“You’re still coming over tonight to watch, right?” you hear your girlfriend ask.

You can hear Jacob scoff. “Of course I am. Where else would I be?”

“I figured now that you’re seeing Ravi a bit more seriously, maybe you would want to-”

“Mel Mel, no,” you hear the middle grades teacher laugh. You can practically see him rolling his eyes. “Why would I want to be anywhere else?”

You see this as a good time to enter the room, taking your seat next to the redhead. You peck her cheek delicately before diving into your leftovers from last nights Schemmenti family dinner.

“Jake’s coming over for dinner tonight, that okay?” Green eyes look into yours for any sort of hesitation from you.

“He knows he’s always welcome to come over.”

So that’s how you spend that night. You’re in the recliner reading your book while Jacob and Melissa veg out on the couch with their popcorn and sour cream and onion flavoring. They each have a glass of wine, and they’re deep into conversation about who is slighting who and why. It makes you chuckle as you half listen to their conversation, half read about the drama that is happening in your book.

“What are you reading?” Jacob asks. Only then do you look up from your book and realize that your girlfriend is nowhere to be seen.

You show him the cover before asking, “Where’d Mel go?”

“Bathroom,” he tells you. “Then we’re going to watch a movie since our show is over… she thought it might be a nice way to wind down, and who am I to deny that?”

“You’re such a good son to her, you know,” you say casually as you return your attention back to your book. You flip the page.

Jacob is left searching for words. “She’s not my mother.”

“No, but you’re still the best son she has,” you shrug and reach over to pop a piece of popcorn in your mouth.

He goes to say more, but Melissa returns, reaching for the blanket that is draped over the edge of the couch. She lays it across the two of them before reaching for the remote to turn on whatever movie the two of them will be watching. Jacob swears he sees a smirk dancing across your lips. And he’s right- you are smirking. Because now you know he’s thinking about what you said.

He supposes he sees it- the way that Melissa mothers him. If he’s being honest with himself, his own mother doesn’t even treat him like this anymore. It’s… nice to have someone care for him like that.

That night ends in Melissa sending Jacob off to his house with a Tupperware container full of Braciole and a “Text me when you’re home and safe in your apartment!”

As time goes on, your words linger in Jacob’s head. He’s like the son Melissa never had. And that is oddly okay with him- he like’s being the best son that your girlfriend has.

And when he and Ravi end with a messy breakup, your girlfriend is the first person he calls. He doesn’t call Janine, he doesn’t call Gregory, he doesn’t even call his own mother. No. The first person that crosses his mind as he leaves Ravi’s apartment for the last time is Melissa.

It’s late, and logically he knows that she probably isn’t awake and hasn’t been for hours. But he wants some maternal love and dials anyway.

You and your girlfriend are curled up in bed- her asleep, and you on the verge of sleep- when her phone rings to life.

“Who the fuck is calling at…” she blinks her eyes awake and glances at the clock. “1:30 in the morning?”

“Just let it go,” you sigh softly.

She reaches for her phone, and when you expect her to set it back down and pull you into her arms again, she doesn’t. Instead, her voice sounds concerned.

“Jacob?” is the only thing that she says into the phone.

You can hear his labored breaths. He doesn’t speak.

“Jake,” your girlfriend sighs. “Jacob, what’s going on? It’s 1:30 in the morning.”

“I- I know,” he chokes out. “But I- Ravi and I just broke up, and I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Oh,” Melissa’s face absolutely drops. She knows how much the social studies teacher liked the firefighter.

“I- I’m sorry,” he says pathetically into the phone. “I- I don’t even know why I called. Get back to-”

The redhead clears her throat, trying to get any of the remaining sleep out of her voice before she speaks again. “We’re still up. Come over.”

“It’s okay,” the distraught man sighs into the phone. “I can just…”

“Jacob, your ass better be here within the next thirty minutes,” Melissa tells him sternly. “You called me, you clearly don’t want to be alone, we were already up, so just come over.”

And that’s how you end up curled up next to your girlfriend, a glass of white wine in hand while Melissa sits in her spot, two glasses of red wine poured out for when her work son arrives.

“Babe, when he gets here though-”

“When he gets here, I’m moving to my recliner so you can mother him,” you roll your eyes as you yawn. “I don’t even know why I have to be here when he comes in.”

“Because I told him we were both up, and I don’t want him to think that we got out of bed for him,” Melissa tells you.

You smile at her softly as you rest your head on her shoulder. “You’re a good mother to him.”

“He’s not my son,” she chuckles.

“No, I know,” you sigh. “But he might as well be at this point. He called you, not his own mother.”

That thought makes her quirk her head to the side, thinking on this sentiment. She doesn’t have much time though, because Jacob is at the door knocking softly. You pick your head up and stand with her. While Melissa makes her way to the door, you take up the space in your recliner and curl up under the blanket, immediately reaching for the television remote.

You hear his sniffles as he comes in. He kicks off his shoes, and your girlfriend ushers him to the couch. She hands him the wine and wraps her arms around him. All Jacob can do is cry.

The redhead hushes her coworker gently, promising him that everything will be okay. And Jacob believes that- because if Melissa is saying it, it has to be true.

That night ends with him falling asleep on your girlfriend’s shoulder, and Melissa lays him down on the couch when the two of you finally decide to retire back to bed. She pulls the afghan from the back of the couch and gently drapes it over his body before running the tip of her index finger over his cheek.

“You’ll be alright, hun,” she whispers to him. Then she turns back to you and takes your hand.

As the two of you are curling up in bed for the second time that night, you hum, “You really would make a wonderful mother.”

When the time comes that you finally (according to Jacob and Janine) think about getting engaged and married to Melissa, Jacob could not want to be in on it more. He helps you find the perfect ring, he helps you plan it all, and he even insists on hiding out in the shadows in order to capture the event.

“Trying to make your mom happy?” you tease him.

He rolls his eyes with a smirk on his face. “She’s not my mother, but… Melissa being happy is all all of us want.”

When you do end up proposing to her, you expect Barbara to be the first person that your girlfriend flies into the arms of. Instead, it’s Jacob. Barbara, of course, is second. But Jacob seems absolutely ecstatic, telling the redhead that he helped with almost every aspect of the proposal. Melissa tells him that she couldn’t have wished for it to be anything else, and that she was very proud of him. Jacob blushes profusely, and it reminds all three of you just how close your Abbott family really is.

As wedding plans come along, Jacob is there for all of it. It’s a sweet thing. He looks like a kid in the candy store as Melissa, Barbara, and he look for the perfect outfit to get married in. Barbara is of course Melissa’s matron of honor, and Jacob is just happy to be there. He has no idea that at this appointment, Melissa is also going to be having him try on suits to match the bridal party.

“So,” Jacob leans forward with excitement. “What colors are you planning on doing for the bridal parties?!”

“Y/N and I decided that a nice salmony pink color might be good,” Melissa says with a twinkle in her eye. “So… you better start looking at ties and suits, mister.”

Barbara, who knew that her best friend was going to reveal this bit of information, grins. Meanwhile, Jacob’s jaw absolutely drops. He’s astounded.

“What? Why would I have to find a tie for-”

“Did you really think I wouldn’t have you in my wedding party?” the redhead rolls her eyes as she opens up her arms. “You’re as close to a son as I’m going to get as of right now. Of course you’re in the wedding.”

Tears begin to pour over the younger man’s face as he fully tackles his work mother in a hug. “Oh my god.”

“I don’t know,” he chuckles through his tears. “I just thought that I was here to-”

“To help me pick out my outfit, but also to help figure out the perfect color that you’ll be wearing and to get fitted for a suit, if you want,” Melissa tells him.

Barbara passes out three glasses of champagne in celebration.

When your wedding day finally comes, you’re standing up at the altar in your own suit as you await the moment that Melissa will be walked down the aisle by none other than Mr. Johnson (he was elated when your fiancee explained to him that he was something of a father figure to him).

The ceremony is beautiful- perfect even. Everybody laughs, everybody sheds tears, everybody is just thrilled at the fact that the two of you are tying the knot.

The reception is a thrill. Both you and Melissa make small toasts, a few others speak, and then it’s time for dancing.

You have your first dance with your wife (good God, you can call her your wife now!), she dances with Mr. Johnson, you dance with your own father, and then… Melissa makes her way up to the microphone.

“Hey youse guys,” Melissa chuckles nervously. “I know everyone else wants to get to dancing, but there is one more special person that I’d like to dance with… if he’ll make his way up.”

Nobody stands, but your wife’s green eyes are trained on Jacob.

“Me?” he gasps. At Melissa’s nod, he stands hesitantly before making his way over.

“Of course.” You see that those green eyes start to turn a little glassy, and she takes a deep breath to steady herself. “For those of you that don’t know… this is Jacob Hill- grade A pain in my ass turned something like a son to me.”

The two dance to a beautiful song written by Elton John, “Chosen Family”. By the end of it, there are no dry eyes in the audience. It’s a song that feels like it was written for them.

And then the night is off, everyone is dancing, and you’re just relishing in this beautiful moment that you have in your hands.

Jacob is dancing near the two of you when you decide to make your way over.

“Hey,” you check him with your hip gently. “Welcome to the family.”

The man smiles at you from ear to ear.

“You’re such a good son to her,” you compliment softly as you envelope him in a hug.

He just chuckles in your ear. “I know. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have her in my life.” Then his jaw drops. “Oh my god. Does this mean you’re like a weird sort of step-mom to me now?!”

As time goes on, you and your wife decide to try to expand the family. And somehow, by some grace of God (Melissa would tell you that it’s because Barbara prayed over you two night after night), you end up pregnant after the first treatment.

If you thought Jacob was a part of your household before, he’s only over more now. He’s constantly bringing over baby clothes and toys, helping Melissa to assemble the crib and the rocking chair as well as installing carseats into both of your cars, he’s bringing over remedies to help you with morning sickness and then creams and other things to help you feel the most comfortable that you can be during this pregnancy.

When you go into labor, he’s the first one Melissa calls, and then she calls Barbara.

You deliver a son, a beautiful baby boy. He’s perfect. And he has an even more perfect name.

“Go get Jake,” you tell your wife gently as you continue to cradle your son to your chest. “He deserves to meet his godson, and lord knows that boy has been sitting in the waiting room since he got your call.”

Melissa just chuckles as she stands from her place on your bed, kisses you softly, strokes the boy’s cheek, and then heads out.

She brings back both Barbara and Jacob, who immediately squeal upon seeing you as a mother for the first time. While Jacob fully thinks that you’ll hand the baby to your wife’s work-wife first, you actually hand the baby to him. He looks at this baby like he’s never seen anything more perfect.

“Do we have a name?” Barbara asks.

You smile at the man holding your newborn. “We do.”

“And it is?” Barbara prompts.

“Mel, do you want to tell him what his godson’s name is?” you prompt.

Jacob’s eyes go wide, and his jaw drops. “G-godson?”

“Godson,” you confirm, tears in your own eyes. You wipe at them gently as you lay back in the hospital bed.

“His name is,” Melissa chuckles through tears of her own as she makes her way over to the pair. “Milo Jacob Schemmenti… Milo meaning beloved, and Jacob, after you.”

“After… after me?” Jacob’s voice goes high as his eyes fill with even more tears. He holds the baby even closer to him, if that’s possible.

“Of course,” your wife smiles as she wraps a proud arm around him. “And if Milo turns out half as good as my first son, that kid is going to be set for life.”

TAGS: @schemmentis @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @thesamesweetie @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @marvels--slut @gwennybriggs @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @sapphicxrat @a-queen-and-her-throne @sunsol-22 @notinmyvocab @melanielaufeyson @dvrkhcld @cosmichymns @sasheemo

#abbott elementary #abbott elementary fanfiction #abbott elementary fanfic #melissa schemmenti fanfiction #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #jacob hill

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

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Killing Time 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, includes violence, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: a job offer could be an escape from your old life, but the new one, may not hold freedom.

Characters: Kraven the Hunter, August Walker, Lloyd Hansen, James Conrad, God the Bounty Hunter, Court Gentry

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

Your frustration mounts as you click the permissions again to allow the camera and microphone access. It’s so annoying! It just keeps running you in circles. Great. This is off to a good start. Late for the interview. That’s always the best first impression.

When at last your firewall stops blocking the call, you flinch at the sight of yourself in the corner. You’re further jarred by the man staring back at you. Your mouth opens and for a moment, you’re frozen. You were so focused on troubleshooting, you forgot about what was waiting on the other end.

“Oh, hi,” you squeak. “Sorry, I--” you look around, glancing through the clear walls of the library study room. It’s the first time you’ve been to this branch but you didn’t think the clutter of your apartment would make a good backdrop. “I was having issues with my camera.”

“Quite alright,” he responds with a grin and a lilted accent. He sounds as professional as he looks.

He wears a grey jacket over a muted teal shirt that lights up his eyes, even over the screen. His short hair is combed back neatly and there’s not a speck of stubble on his jaw. Under the structure of his attire you can tell he’s well-built.

You resist the urge to look down at yourself. A white blouse. Boring but professional. It gets the job done. Hopefully.

You force a smile.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” he begins through your nervous silence. “I do appreciate your time and I would hate to waste it. So, we can hop right in.” He looks unflinchingly into the camera, “oh, let us not go so far past courtesy. I am James, we’ve been corresponding, yes?”

“Uh, yeah, I remember. James.” You gulp.

He says your name with a keen inclination. “This is rather not the position which requires those cliche questions so I won’t trouble you with asking what animal best reflects your personality.”

You cough out a humouring chuckle and fold your hands on the desk.

“Forgive if I should seem to the point. You see, it’s a very practical position. I think it’s best we go over what is expected before we go into the finer details; expenses, relocation, dates--”

“Mm,” you squeak and put a finger up, “s-sorry, um, I thought we were interviewing but it sound like you’ve made a decision?”

“Well, yes, I’ve reviewed your CV and your submitted profile and your answers to the questionnaire were acceptable. I didn’t think there was much else to consider,” he intones. You shift and try to hide your surprise.

“No, of course, that makes sense,” you say. “Thanks, I guess I was confused.”

“Not to worry. I find that written communication can often lack clarity so I thought it best we have a face-to-face in this circumstance,” he looks down as if he has a book or paper before him. “So, did you have any questions before I proceed?”

“No, no, really, I'm sure you’ll answer them all.” Your cheeks bloom in a half-smile. You were so nervous about getting the job but you’ve already got it.

“Right then,” he sits back and once more stares down the camera. “It is a very old property but the upkeep has been consistent. There should not be any glaring necessities for maintenance, this more of a custodial position. So, you would be the one to keep the place clean, make sure it is aired out, tend to the lawns but we do employ a grounds keeping service that comes fortnightly to trim.”

You nod. It’s intriguing. You were sent photos of the property but you’re not quite sure of its purpose. Judging by the clustered pines in the background, you would guess it’s remote. A getaway that could be a goldmine for those wanting a vacation from the urban jungle.

“You would have a roster, you see, of those you could contact for service so you will not require any specialisations. You are the day-to-day and would be expected to bring in the appropriate support for higher-touch difficulties.”

“Right,” you try not to show your anxiety.

“Albeit I should warn you that the reception in that location is not the greatest so if you cannot call out, you would need to keep trying. It will eventually catch but uh, not to mind, as long it is attended is what matters, not when,” he says.

“Mhm, that makes sense. Um, can I ask what the property is? Is it like a summer home or...”

“Ah, family inheritance,” he answers primly. “I’ve not much use for it past the sentimental value and I thought of leasing it for traveling parties but I’ve heard horror stories. Right now, I’m merely sitting on it until I figure out exactly what to do with it.”

“Oh, right. Wow. Quite the inheritance.”

“Hm, yes, my uncle did rather adore me. I was the only one named in his will but he was a bit of a curmudgeon.” He laughs. “Now, I must ask the most important question--”

Before he can, the door swings open and you jump in your seat. Your heart sinks. You signed the room out for ninety minutes. You thought it would be more than enough. Surely it hasn’t been that long.

Shoot. It’s him. How did he find you? You deliberately went out of your way so that he couldn’t.

“Jake,” you stand and turn to him, trying to block the computer. “What are you doing?”

“There you are,” he touches his chest as if he should be the one so afraid. “You didn’t come home--”

You growl and cross your arms.

“Jake, go away,” you grit out. “Not right now. Please.”

“I had to make sure you’re okay,” he steps into the room and you push yourself back against the table. “Who else is going to look after you?”

“I will scream, alright,” you warn. “Now leave me alone. I’m tired of telling you.”

He sighs and his jaw squares. “I don’t get you. You act like I’m such a bad guy and I haven’t done anything to you. I never hurt you but you hurt me. You just spit in my face--”

“Pardon,” the voice rises from the speaker at your back. “If I may, she is occupied and you are interrupting. I have a mind to contact emergency service should you persist.” Your mouth falls open and you turn to look at your laptop. James leans forward to glare at the lens, “Not sure who you are, fellow, but the lady has been clear.”

“Who-- who is he?” Jake sputters.

“Please, just go,” you plead. “Or I will call the police.”

Little good they will do, you think, but that doesn’t need to be said aloud.

He frowns and his eyes glint dangerously. You stare back at him, tense, fingers curling and uncurling nervously. That man on the screen won’t stop him and you don’t know if anyone would hear you from the desk.

“Fine, guess I’ll see ya around,” he relents and backs out.

You don’t move until he snaps the door shut. You hurry over and twist the lock on the inside. You don’t know why you didn’t do that before.

“Are you alright?” James asks, drawing you back to the desk.

You sit and look at the keyboard, “I’m very sorry. I...”

“He doesn’t sound like a friend,” James says. You shake your head. “Well, then, it does sound like you’re in need of a fresh start. I do hope this can be that for you.”

You look up and bat away the glimmer on the brims of your eyes. You’re not just afraid, you’re embarrassed. His kindness is as comforting as it is unexpected.

“Thanks, um, anyway...” you exhale, “you were going to ask something.”

“Yes, uh, yes, I was,” he reconfigures and puts another smile on. “When can you depart? I would of course arrange travel to be sure you get here safe and sound.”

“Oh, when... whenever is best. Not to be too desperate but as soon as possible,” you say.

“Wonderful,” he praises, “absolutely wonderful. Is tomorrow too soon? Pardon my own desperation.”

“Tomorrow?” You utter and shake your head. “Tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow.”

It's sudden and scary but it’s good. The sooner you go, the less time Jake has to figure out what you’re doing. The less chance he can follow. It’s an escape. Not a perfect one but it’s all you have.

🩸

You spend all night packing. You parse down what you have to the essentials and put the rest in bags. You don’t care about the furniture. You say as much in your email to your landlord, telling him to use your deposit for the disposal.

You whittle your life down to three bags. A large suit case, a knapsack, and a single purse. You have it ready to go by the door.

You feel uneasy about it. You stare at your luggage, the lights off, windows closed. Your phone buzzes and you put it to silent, ignoring the messages from your personal pest. You’ll be done with him too. You wonder if you should just toss your cell.

You don’t sleep. You can’t. You still can’t believe you’re getting out. You hope you haven’t given the game away.

There’s a tap on the window. You nearly roll onto the floor. You look over and hear it again, a harder impact. Are you serious? He’s throwing stones. He could break the damn glass.

You shake your head. You won’t fall for it. Not again. You remember when he came to your door and cried until you opened up. He even smeared ketchup on his face to make you think he was hurt. It’s hard to tell the difference through a peephole.

Almost there. Almost out. You just need to make it a few more hours.

As you ignore the incessant tapping and the light of your phone glowing ever few minutes, your thoughts turn bitter. You should message everyone who turned their back on you and tell them exactly what they’ve put you through. Somehow, you think they’d care as much as they did before.

Sleep eludes you but a foggy daze comes over you as the windows soften with the early morning. There’s no more pebbles bouncing off the pane. Just you and the buzz of the sleeping city.

Your alarm chimes and you get up as your head pulses. You’re used to the constant fatigue. It will ease up and you’ll just feel a bit heavy. When it’s normal, you don’t notice as much.

You get ready and have an instant coffee by the door. James messages just before nine. Your car will be there in ten. Oh, early. You don’t mind about that.

You won’t go out and wait. You’ll stay here, where it’s safe.

When your phone goes off again, you expect it to be Jake. It’s James. Whew. You’re so close, you can’t believe it.

You grab your knapsack and purse, and drag your suitcase out behind you. You lock the door and throw the key through the mail slot. You hurry down the hall and take the stairs over the elevator.

You don’t look back or anyway but forward. You look at your cell. 'Black Jaguar’ followed by a plate number. Jaguar? Holy moly.

The tinted window rolls down and reveals the same face from the Zoom call. You didn’t know he was coming himself. You assumed he was sending a cab or something. You slow as you come out the door. He smiles and pops open the door.

Before you can come forward, another figure appears, blocking your way.

“Hey, I've been calling all night,” Jake says. You stop short and nearly yelp. Of course!

“Jake, move.”

“Where are you going?” He looks at your bags desperately. “Wait, you can’t--”

“Pardon me, sir, is there some issue?” James strides up behind him.

Jake turns to face him and stiffens, “and who are you—wait, you’re that guy from the computer.”

“I’m none of your business, as is her life,” James insists. “Now, seems you’re used to picking on those smaller than you but let’s see how you do against me?”

James steps closer. He’s a few inches taller than Jake. You can’t move as they stare each other down. You wait, expecting chaos.

“I was only talking,” Jake shows his palms and shrugs. “It’s whatever. She’s a bitch anyways.”

He turns and snarls over his shoulder at you. You back up. As Jake turns, he’s knocked off kilter as James hurls his fist into his jaw. The shorter man staggers and falls to one knee, catching himself in the grass.

“Well, that was a lovely chat,” James smirks and beckons to you, “shall we?”

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juqtier · 5 months ago

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₊˚╰ 𖣠 MERCY ✧.* SPENCER REID

SUMMARY: During one of the most detrimental and devastating outbreaks this world has ever seen, the BAU had spent countless hours trying to bring in the man responsible, dead or alive. When they seek help from a minacious mercenary, and personal feelings somehow get involved, the situation quickly becomes much more complicated and difficult than anticipated.

GENERAL WARNING: ANGSTY and horror (somewhat), weapons, violence, descriptions of viruses and diseases, death, kissing of course, zombie like creatures, apocalypse, outbreak, descriptions of mutations

CHAPTER WARNING: descriptions of violence and viruses, reader is kinda an asshole. THIS CHAPTER MAY SEEM BORING BUT PLS the story will get interesting as it progresses! just gotta explain the basic concept!

A/N: the first chapter, yay! this is clearly inspired by resident evil (my fav game series). i thought it’d be interesting and unique to combine my two fav hyperfixations. i made the virus names and effects, and im clearly not a scientist so if they are scientifically inaccurate ignore it or im gonna cry. also, I wrote this with early spencer in mind (3-5) but if you imagine him from a different season lmk! ALSO sorry if any of the writing is bad, my english is terrible!

ACCOMPANYING SONG : SMELLS LIKE TEEN SPIRIT, NIRVANA

. . .

CHAPTER 1

January 15th, 2009

- 985 days since the outbreak

You had been caught. You had finally been caught.

Of course, you were well aware of the risks that came with being a mercenary, being caught was one of them. Yet, this didn’t diminish the anger you felt, sitting in a dingy, dark interrogation room, cuffed to a table.

It felt as if days passed by. Your eyelids felt heavy, you couldn’t manage to find a comfortable position to rest in. A metal folding chair would quickly prove to be a poor place to even attempt to relax in. Sitting in silence for so long, your ears could perfectly hear the buzzing of the flickering bulb above you, and it drove you crazy.

Just before you could drive yourself insane, focusing on each bothersome aspect of the interrogation room once more, the door opened.

Two men, two entirely different vibes.

One was an older, tall, stoic man wearing a suit practically devoid of color.

And while the man that stood beside him wasn’t wearing the most colorful outfit, his blue shirt and purple tie were a stark contrast to the other man’s outfit.

His long, wavy brown hair stood out as well. A part of you wanted to just stare at him, he was so pretty. But the other part of you, the majority of you, wanted to knock both officers unconscious and attempt to run away.

“I’m Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, this is Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid. We’re with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” The older man explained as both of them took a seat across from you.

The words practically went unnoticed by you, your mind had been more focused on the discomfort caused by the tight cuffs around your wrists. Your eyes met Hotchner's, and he could tell exactly what you were feeling.

Angry.

“Wanna take these cuffs off?” You request.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that until you cooperate with us and give us the information we need.”

“What information?”

Your eyes naturally rolled, gradually growing more annoyed by the second. Even with how frustrated you were, you weren’t going to cooperate easily. You were a mercenary, and the FBI was well aware you had only ever been motivated by payment.

It sounded selfish to everyone else. It was selfish, but to you, it was the only way to survive.

Hotch extracts papers and files from a manila folder, spreading them out onto the table in front of you. Your eyes watched his hands as he displayed each paper for you.

“For the past seven months, me and my team have been observing your every move.” Hotch’s eyes are glued to you. “Several times in these past months, you’ve been employed by Luca Ansaldo.”

The name has been drilled into your ears by this point.

Luca Ansaldo, a wealthy, ‘brillitant’ virologist and CEO of the virology company SynX. And, unbeknownst to you, the creator of the Lazarus Virus.

Ansaldo had employed you many times before, and with the pay being more than generous for a seemingly easy job, you didn’t think twice about accepting his offer.

But now, just hearing his name was enough to enrage you. Yet, you remain calm, returning Hotch’s eye contact. You barely even noticed Reid beside him, merely observing the interaction between you and Hotch.

“He paid me well for a simple job, is that what you wanted to hear?” You mutter.

You knew that wasn’t what they wanted to hear, but you also couldn’t tell what they wanted.

The past officers that had come in, aggressively interrogating you, never made it clear what exactly they wanted from you. All you could really understand was that they wanted his whereabouts, and you couldn’t tell them that. You didn’t even know.

“What jobs did he pay you for?” Hotch inquires.

“Easy jobs. I’ve done that plenty of times before for others, why does it matter now?”

Hotchner adjusts in his seat, probably finding it just as uncomfortable as you were in that moment.

“It’s important because we’re not currently after the other individuals you’ve worked for, we’re after Ansaldo.” He explains, sliding a document toward you.

Your eyes quickly scan the words on the paper, taking in all of its details.

“Under SynX, Ansaldo has managed to manufacture one of the deadliest viruses known to man, the Lazarus virus. You can see the results of his work walking in the streets.”

“Lazarus Virus?” You question. “Like, from the Bible?”

You clearly knew about the outbreak, every human did. You just had never been able to put a name to the virus responsible.

Reid took this question as an opportunity to share every bit of knowledge he had about the virus.

“Yes, actually. The name derives from Lazarus of Bethany, mentioned in the Gospel of John. The story claims Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, only four days after his death.” He hadn’t even noticed your eyes locked on him as he rambled. “We believe the virus attacks the brain stem, destroying the brain's basic functions. However, while mental capabilities deteriorate, physical capabilities are enhanced, explaining why they’re rather strong and violent. Those infected by the virus are called ‘Revenants’.”

You couldn’t help but be impressed at his ability to speak for so long without even losing his breath. He had spit out each word with urgency, as if he had been waiting to share this information with you.

“You seem to know a lot about the virus, why am I here?”

“We don’t know enough.” Hotch replies. “Without a sample of the virus, we won’t be able to produce an effective antidote. Ansaldo is currently the only man we know of that has any samples, and you know more about him than any of us. You may be our only chance at finding him before it’s too late.”

He leans forward, an even more intense stare accompanying his statement.

For a moment, for a brief moment, you allow yourself to absorb his words. It was as if a switch flipped in your brain, allowing yourself to prioritize others before yourself.

And again, this sounded so incredibly selfish. You could recognize that, of course. But you couldn’t blame yourself. And quite frankly, neither could Hotch or Reid.

The outbreak was and is devastating. Major cities were overrun and filled with chaos, with millions dead or missing. Trusting people wasn’t as common as it was years ago. Especially for you. You had been alone, fighting to survive, for years. It was all to protect yourself. You had the right to protect yourself, right?

“How much?” Hotch’s words bring your attention back to him, back to the situation you were in.

You weren’t sure if you misheard or misunderstood him, and it seemed as if Reid shared that same thought. His eyes widened as he snapped his head towards Hotch, questioning him with his eyes. Hotch, however, doesn’t even seem to notice Reid’s shock.

“What?” You stutter just a bit, clearly confused.

“How much do we need to pay you for your cooperation?” He repeats.

“You want to pay me to work for you?” You reply, skeptical about the offer.

Reid visibly shared the same sentiment. It was as if he couldn’t close his mouth. You didn't expect this, and neither did he.

“You are the closest connection we have to Ansaldo.” Hotch ignores the shocked faces of you and Reid, “If we have to pay you for your cooperation, then we are willing to do that.”

His expression shows that he’s serious. You consider the offer a bit longer before spitting out the first number you can think of.

“Two hundred thousand.”

You wait for any change in his expression, you wait for him to simply refuse. But he never does.

“We can arrange that.” He gives you a small nod before rising from his chair, Reid following. “I will assign an agent to keep an eye on you. You will be kept under supervision at all times as you work alongside my team. If you even attempt to betray our agreement, I promise you will not see a single dollar.”

“Wait.” You blurt out before they can even make their way to the door. “Can I choose what agent gets to follow me around?”

The way you word it makes it sound like a privilege, like it was an honor to have to watch over you. In reality, it most likely wasn’t.

The FBI considered you a dangerous, difficult mercenary. Asking you for help was a last resort, one they tried to avoid. But as they watched the virus spread across the country, unable to stop it, they knew they had no other choice.

“Do you have an agent in mind?” Hotch raises an eyebrow, confused by your question.

You nod in response, your eyes landing on Reid.

You couldn’t explain why, but his quiet, shy demeanor drew you to him. He wasn’t standoffish like the other officers and agents, he was actually quite the opposite of you.

Reid furrows his eyebrows. Neither he nor Hotch had expected the request; their looks expressed that. Hotch looks over at Reid, as if he were contemplating whether he could handle such a job. It was a silent conversation between the two; you were just an observer in that moment.

“Reid will watch over you as you work the case with us.” Hotch proclaims.

“Hotch, are you sure?” Reid whispers, just loud enough for you to hear him. He sounds nervous as he speaks, causing you to smirk.

“If she causes any problems for you, I will assign a different agent for the job.” Hotch responds, going for the door. His hand lands on the door knob, twisting it and pulling the door open with Reid behind him.

“Can you take these cuffs off me?”

Hotch and Reid turn their attention towards you once again before Reid digs in his pocket, pulling out a set of keys. Hotch watches as Reid walks over to you.

Your gaze remained fixed on Reid as he fumbled with the keys. You observed his shakey hands, finding all of it almost humorous.

When he finally managed to remove the cuffs, he let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding in.

You stand up from your seat, rubbing your wrists where the cuffs had previously been.

“Thank you so much.” You say with a teasing, playful tone.

His eyes never meet yours as he steps back, allowing you to stretch, glad to be free from the metal chair you were held down to.

“The team is gathering to discuss our next steps in the case. You’ll be joining us, since you’re working alongside us now.”

He explains the situation quickly as he leads you out of the room, still avoiding any eye contact.

“Exciting.” A smirk was still plastered on your face as you walked behind Reid.

While Reid was more nervous about the situation, and you clearly found it amusing, there was one thing the two of you had in common at the moment.

You had no idea what you were getting into.

. . .

pt. 2

a.n. : again sorry if the writing is bad, but i’m excited for this series to play out! it’s a concept i haven’t seen done before so i wanted to make something cool with it! i believe even if you aren’t a fan of resident evil, criminal minds x mercenary is still kinda cool. also, if you want to be on tag list im more than happy to add you!

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid angst #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #juqtier writes… 🐈

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selfloverrrrrr · 6 months ago

Note

Can you do Sukuna? I want to request him having a favorite maid who gets special privileges, but she has to fuck him in order for those privileges to remain special. For example, she gets better pay than the other maids who work for him. And then he falls in love with her later, making her his wife.

The Bonding

Warning: smut, heavy smut, unprotected sex, teasing, nipple play, edging....

( All characters are aged up/18+)

Masterlist

Minors Do Not Interact

Read the warnings carefully....if you don't like my stories block me not report

Sukuna was a wealthy and powerful man from heian era. He's well known for his cruel and calculating nature. He employed many maids to tend to his large estate, but there was one in particular who held a special place. I received special privileges, such as better pay and more comfortable living conditions, but these privileges came at a price.

In order to keep my special status, I was required to submit to Sukuna's sexual desires. He would often summon me to his chambers late at night, demanding me to service him in any way he wants. At first, I was repulsed by the idea of sleeping with him, but over time I grew to accept it as a necessary evil. I told myself that as long as I continue to please Sukuna, I would be able to keep my privileged position.

As the months passed, however, something unexpected happened. Sukuna began to develop genuine feelings for me. He found himself thinking about me all the time, and he grew to cherish the time they spent together. He even started to treat me with kindness and respect, rather than just as a sexual object.

One day, Sukuna decided to make his feelings known. He called me to his private room. I thought it was just like the other days. But when we were alone he took my hand and looked deep into my eyes, telling me how much he loved and valued me. I was shocked by the sudden declaration. but I loved him too. I never told it to anyone but I do love him too much. I couldn't deny the feelings that had been growing inside me as well. I told Sukuna that she loved him too.

He sits on the bed and I was sitting on his lap. We broke the kiss. Sukuna looked at me "should I?" He asked. "Please" I whispered. He pushed me on the bed and climbed over me. I was laying on the bed and Sukuna was laying on me. He looked at me and asked " do you want it?". "Yes..." I whispered. He smirked " Say it clearly please ". "Yes... yes please" I said. "Please what?" He asked still with that smirk on his face. " Please fuck me already..... I want you to fuck me.... please" I begged him and he gave me back a smirk and took off my top and bra. He looked at me and started sucking my boobs, squeezing it, playing with it as he want. I was a moaning mess. I took off his shirt. He got up and unbuckled his pant and underwear. His huge dick sprang out. I was starting at it without even noticing. My lust was increasing just seeing it. He smirked at me. He took off my bottoms and once again lay on top of me. He kissed me roughly. He lined himself with my entrance. Then smirk at me and pushed his whole length slowly. I scremed when it was fully inside. " it's okey... it's fine." He said and kissed my forehead. He started thursting in and out.

I was moaning his name. He was giving me pleasure. The pleasure I was hunting from months. His thurst became harder and harder. Faster and faster. One of his hand reached for my clit. Rubbing it. My legs were shaking. I was screaming, moaning with pleasure. In moment I came. Finally. Finally got my satisfaction. With a few more thursts he came inside me. He threw himself beside me.

From that day on, Sukuna and me were inseparable. We spent our days exploring the estate and our nights making love in Sukuna's luxurious bed. We would often engage in dirty talk and playful spanking, driving each other wild with desire.

As husband and wife, Sukuna and me were happier than we had ever been. We had found true love in each other's arms, and we knew that nothing would ever tear us apart. And as we lay in each other's arms, we knew that we would never again have to worry about the special privileges that I had once fought so hard to keep. We had become a true couple, and we would face the challenges of our lives together, hand in hand.

Give me your requests guys...

I love when you give me your requests 💕

#jjk #jjk smut #smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #tw noncon #fem reader #sukuna x you #sukuna smut #jjk sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #jjk ryomen #sukuna ryomen smut #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #ryomen x reader #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere

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this-insidious-dawn · 1 year ago

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This Insidious Dawn is a dark fantasy IF wherein you play as a vampire, employed under the clandestine League of the Third God to hunt down anything -- everything - that does not belong in this world. But you do not belong here either, Warden. Demo tba.

☼ SYNOPSIS

The League saved you. Rewrote your life- gave you a chance to be more than a bloodstarved vampyr. Or did they?

You remember nothing of your past before the League; nothing but blood and indescribable agony, nothing but the thrumming of your heart stilling- and then beginning again, stilted and wrong. That was over a decade ago, the memories now faint and the connection quivering. They've been replaced, overwritten by years of blades clashing, body aches, and hollow hunger.

You started out weak. Starving, skin-and-bones, desperate for any reprieve you could get your hands on. Now, you're strong, each hunt -- each cut - giving you just enough energy to keep your worn body going. Some people would call it cruel, to keep a sentient being on the edge of death. Most people, though, would say that you're a vampire, so you hardly count as sentient.

Regardless of the morality of it, the method was effective. You were one of -- no, the most - efficient Warden the League had to offer.

And then a hunt went wrong. And now you're dead. But- a vampire (no, not a vampire; a vampyr) can never truly die. So you're back. But is it really you?

☼ FEATURES

↠ Customize your Warden. Appearance, gender, pronouns, and personality are all up to your choices as the player.

↠ This is a psychological horror first and foremost. It will have themes of dehumanization and derealization, amongst others. CWs will be offered.

↠ A character-driven plot where your choices impact the story.

↠ A cast of four consisting of The Acolyte, The Commander, The Savior, and The Forgotten, any of which you can optionally romance no matter your Warden's gender.

☼ CAST

↠ THE ACOLYTE

As with any vampire, you are accompanied by an acolyte to keep you in check and ensure that your hunts go well- as well as to mend any Gorges that riftspawn might crawl out of. Constantine Nimecidus fills this role, in your case (ae/aer). Ae is sharp-tongued, with a chronic lack of patience towards the people and world around aer, and can come across as snappy or rude. In other instances still, aer sarcastic, dry, and often untimely humor can offer a quick relief from the tension of any situation- or make it several times worse. Despite aer casual, laidback nature in the face of most events, ae places utmost importance on aer job, and quickly becomes intense whenever ae feels as if ae or aer position are being in any way threatened. You've spent years going on hunts with aer at this point, but the connection has never transcended the necessary 'I save you, you save me' exchange. Ae seems wary of you.

Constantine is a bit shorter than most, standing at 5'3. Ae has broad shoulders and hips, and is thickset with both muscle and fat. Aer amber skin is dappled with symmetrical pale patches, especially prevalent around aer eyes and mouth, and the lack of pigmentation has bled into aer hair in some spots, giving the dark auburn eye-catching streaks of white. Said hair is curly and cut shorter along the sides than the back is, and ae spends an awful lot of time preening it. Aer eyes are a striking, slightly luminescent bronze, and aer pupils appear instead of black as molten gold, shifting slightly in color to match aer emotions at any given moment. Ae has full lips and slightly upturned, monolid eyes. Ae favors shades of brown, tan, and orange in aer outfit, and ae near-constantly dons a rich red capelet with fur trimming around the hood.

↠ THE COMMANDER

Ex-commander of the Serpent's Guard-turned vampire. You'd personally never had a run-in with Alvaros Vepir until just recently (he/him). He's gruff, jaded, and withdrawn- exactly what you'd expect out of the man who gave his life for his queen only to nearly die (again) for it. It's hard to say, though, how much of his time as the commander he truly remembers. Alvaros is a poet's dream, the hero in an epic-turned-tragedy. He keeps everybody at arm's length, never allowing them to learn more than what the stories and theatrics tell of him. This is especially true of you- the vampire who was sent to reign him in, turn him from a rogue vampyr into a soldier of the League. Despite his emotional avoidance of you, though, he seems quite interested in you. Maybe it's the fact you're one of the few to have bested him in combat. Maybe it's just that 'vampiric charm' that old legends tell about (but that never seems to work outside of fights). Maybe it's because he remembers you.

Alvaros is intimidating in every manner. He stands at 6'4, his whole body is lean and scarred, and the black sclerae encircling dark green irises certainly does him no favors in lessening the effect. Before you were dispatched to retrieve him, you couldn't have said what he looked like; as the commander, he'd worn the veil regular of high-ranking members of the Serpent's Ring, leaving nothing but the back of his head exposed. Now, you know of his face well enough that you could probably recognize him in a crowd. With fawn skin dotted by freckles, hooded eyes, and a distinctive hooked nose, Alvaros is exactly what one would expect of a native of southern Ghel- save for his hair. Instead of the expected brown or black, his hair is a muddy blonde, and it has slight waves that turn into full curls at the tips. He maintains it short, never reaching past his chin. His face is scarred (his everything is, really), with a particularly nasty gash reaching from his left eyebrow down to his right jaw. It just barely misses his right eye.

↠ THE SAVIOR

An acolyte? You think so, anyways. Suri Revlece is the woman who saved you (she/her). You don't know whether or not she's even with the League, but she certainly looks like an acolyte. You don't know what she was doing there, either, but she seems willing to answer any of your questions while you recover- as long as they aren't personal. She's kind enough, but seems a little...off. She's finicky, always looking over her shoulder. She's running from something, but she doesn't seem to know what. She appears to believe that she and you have some type of camaraderie, although you've never met. But there's something to be said for the sheer strength of her magic- you've never seen an acolyte's shimmer burn a riftspawn like that. Never seen one with an eye glowing that bright, either. She's an anomaly- one that you're sure the headman at your partner's spire would be more than glad to have amongst their ranks, but then the mere idea of it had her denying it with vehemence. It seems like she has a history with it.

Suri has a mesmerizing look to her. The deep brown of her skin, near-black of her hair, and dark garb are contrasted with bright pops of color. One eye is a brightly glowing orange, the pupil nearly white, and the other is a misty grey, its almond shape deformed by the burn scars warping the left side of her face. That dark hair, braided and reaching down to about her hips, is decorated by light brown and gold beads engraved with runes that seem to serve to channel her magic. Her frame is lanky and she's long-limbed, reaching just above what most would think of as an 'average height', at 5'8. Below a brown leather cloak, more runed jewelry decorates her wrists and fingers, and her hands are tattooed in shades of bronze. The burn upon her face is not the only such injury she has suffered; her palms are burnt the slightest bit, and similar scars wrap around her arms. She has a broad nose and thick heart-shaped lips, and light stubble sits above the top lip.

↠ THE FORGOTTEN

You don't know who they are anymore. Who are they? (he/they/she)

A shadowy form, the silhouette of a memory. There's something not quite right about them. What have they become?

☼ LINKS

Demo - tba

Other blogs - @azraels-bad-choices (main IF blog) and @a-firsthand-murder-ballad (other project)

#interactive fiction #writing #interactive novel #if wip #twine game #if intro #this insidious dawn if

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bitterrfruit · 2 months ago

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houndtooth [8]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 4.8k words

Your hunter isn’t as subtle as he thinks he is.

He’s not subtle, when his blackened lids droop heavy over his burrowing glare, shifting from disdain to a dark hunger; potent enough to taste, hot and salty. When he adjusts his position in his seat, mammoth thighs spread in egotism, as he bucks his pelvis and leans back to find greater comfort while he indulges in the sight of you. When he sucks his teeth in feigned contempt at your proposition, masquerading as a stoic hunter only interested in the kill – and not the kind that plays with his food.

The atmosphere between his body and yours has suddenly become heavy. Warm and dense. Weighed down by some mutual cognisance, the sudden awareness that you can read the animal instinct that runs through his mind, and he yours. You feel it in your chest.

It was a quick and sore distraction, at least, from the revelation of your husband’s true nature. You knew of his tendencies, you caught wind of his exploits. Had some vague understanding that it was illegal, that it operated in the shadows – but you had convinced yourself his money was plucked from deserving pockets. That his industry only stained white collars.

You’ve been blind. Too focused on the only little world he granted you, your glittering snowglobe, uncaring and uninterested in what he had to do to afford you. But, to give yourself grace, what could you have done?

Your husband was a smart man. Shrewd. Cunning. There were no feminine wiles you could have employed, no means to mould nor manipulate him, beyond a request for a newer sports-car or a softer mink coat. There was a prescribed window within which you could operate, only a few strings you could pull. To venture outside would have been to seek dire punishment.

And now he’s dead. Not smart enough to avoid that, was he?

Whatever love you once felt for him, whatever twisted desperation you had mistaken as affection, has soured into bile. Any fond memory now mutated into some depraved reproduction, ugly and horrid.

Now, you’re forced to face whatever pitiful life might await you. You’re forced to wonder whether or not he wrote you into his will, left anything in your name for you to survive on – and after his tirade of bitter abuses leading up to his unceremonious death, you sincerely doubt it.

What is there left for you?

You truly, truly, have nothing. Not even the faint optimism that you have at least experienced love and luxury in your short and bitter life. All has been tainted. Nothing sacred remains.

So what now is there left to do but to entertain your abductors? To oblige whatever use they have for you? The only alternative is to give up and await your execution. If it gets to that, you hope it’s quick.

Not ready to die yet, though, you decide to entertain him.

“What use, then,” you utter, barely louder than a whisper.

He leers at you through the shadowed pits of his mask. Dark eyes sharper than piercing bullets, they fire at you, warm the areas of your body that they linger on. Clouded and distant, plainly distracted.

You know what he’s distracted by. You could see, feel him undressing you through his glare alone.

He bounces his knee, crosses his arms. Impatient, is he?

Maybe he just needs you to offer one more time. Give him one more excuse.

Why are you considering it so heavily?

“Do you want to go home, Mia?” There’s a thickness in his tone. Not a sincere offer. You foretell a catch.

The image slithers back to you of that convulsing sentry, choking on his own foaming blood, pleading wordlessly for you to put him down. Just as vivid and squelching as when you had been confronted by it in the bowels of your mansion.

“There’s too much blood to clean up,” you breathe, staring absently into the floor.

“To England,” he clarifies through his jaw, “back to Nottingham.”

Your heart skips. Rush of air escapes your lungs. He notices, quickly, he tilts his head as though to analyse your reaction.

“You’d like that, eh?”

Tongue is too heavy. Thoughts indecipherable. Fly through your mind in a blinding, strobing picture show. You hadn’t been home since you were a teenager. Can’t even remember the name of the street you lived on, wouldn’t want to if you could.

“I…” you hesitate, “I don’t have a passport.”

“We can get you a passport.”

Through teeth. “How.”

“Doesn’t matter how,” he grumbles, a slight roll of his eyes. “We can.”

You bite the gummy inside of your lip, hoping you split the flesh; suckling at it for some comfort, maybe to pacify yourself for a moment of jittery contemplation.

“For what,” you ask eventually, voice shaky.

Fingers interwoven apathetically; he seems to ponder for a moment before he speaks.

“You’re an asset,” he grunts, tone cold. “A valuable one.”

You clench your jaw. “What, is it Victor’s money you want?”

He almost chuckles at that, a huff of disdain. “No. I want the man who helped him get it.”

“Who?”

He pauses, tense and fuming, leans forward.

“Vladimir Makarov.”

Him again.

The blood in your swollen head drains out through your neck at his mention. Fills your lungs, thick and dark, plugs your trachea and prevents you from sucking down another breath.

Ever-observant, he sees that, too. “Familiar, is he?”

A slow nod is the only answer you muster.

“How familiar?”

“Enough,” you croak.

He squints, dissatisfied. Leans back in his seat. “Gonna need more than that.”

“You already know who he is. You already know what he does.” You spit, but the quiver in your voice betrays you.

“There's only so much intel we can get by drone or spy,” he disputes, a severity woven through his words. You can see his fuse burning short. “You know him personally, don’t you?”

A second to breathe. Two. His questioning, his presence, is suffocating. You stare knives into the floor, wrestling with an amorphous terror that you fail to conceal behind your cracking veneer of bravery.

He shifts forward slowly, a prowl. Hunting. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t... I don’t know him well,” you breathe. “He worked with Victor. That’s all I know.”

“Careful, Mia,” he murmurs, bitter and aggravated. “Don’t lie to me.”

You swallow quietly. “He, um. He visited the house a lot.”

“For what.”

“Victor would have him over for, for meetings. Not just Vladimir, other men too. But he, uh, he made himself at home. I think he worked more closely with Victor than the others, though. Victor didn’t like him.”

“They didn’t get on?”

Cautiously shaking your head, you keep your eyes glued to him. “They were professional. I don’t... I don’t know the details. Victor never said so, um, but I could tell. He would always be in a shittier mood when they had to work together.”

Riley licks his teeth, crosses his arms as he chews on his next question. “What about you,” he grumbles. “What did you think of him.”

“He...” you hesitate, glower darting away from him, you stare into the fluorescent bar above him. “I didn’t like him either.”

“You spoken to him?”

He must be able to see your shakiness, your jittery disposition, as you bite words out like they’re too thick to fit in your mouth, burn your tongue. “I avoided it.”

“But you did.”

An anxious sigh escapes you. “Yes.”

“Civil?”

“I was polite,” you murmured. “I was always polite. I had to be.”

“What’d he think of you?”

You chew your tongue. Pick at your fingernails almost viciously enough to draw blood. “I don’t think he thought of me at all.”

Again, he bounces his knee. Fuse burns shorter. “Am I going to have to show you what happens when you lie, Mia?”

“No–” you squeak, hands landing flat on your knees as if you had been called to attention. “I – I’m sorry. I... he, uh. As far as I could tell he didn’t dislike me. He – he would’ve... he would’ve made it known if he disliked me.”

“How so?”

“He has a... a short temper.”

“He would’ve hurt you?”

Your jaw tightens, stare at him not breaking. “What do you want me to do,” you utter through your teeth. “Why are you asking me about him.”

He tilts his head, as though in thought. “I want a quid pro quo.”

“What’s the quo,” you shiver.

“You’re going to host your husband’s wake,” he insists, stern as if reminding you that you have no say in your fate. “And you’re going to invite him. All of them.”

You fall silent. Fall still. Heart thunders in your chest, it aches hot with exertion. You shake your head cautiously, a reflex. “No.”

Refusal hurtles from your throat with an intensity that startles you; by turn a plea and an avowal.

“No?” He snarls, a quirk of his head – you’re yet unsure if you had surprised him or infuriated him.

“No – I – I can’t,” you stammer, vigorously shaking your head in dispute. “I can’t.”

He scoffs. “You don’t have a choice.”

Hands grip the edge of the mattress you sit on, bunching the foam in claws, white knuckles, you hyperventilate so vigorously that you feel yourself spinning. “I can’t. They – you don’t understand. They’re–”

“You know what’ll happen to you,” He growls, suddenly seethingly aggravated. “If you don’t cooperate.”

Through sore tears you scowl, lips curling, betraying the thunderstorm of turmoil behind them – terror, anguish, fury.

“There is nothing, nothing you can do to me that could be worse than what they will do. Nothing,” you seethe, enervated voice shaky and pitiful. “They... without Victor, they’ll...”

“Think you’ll be spared anything here?”

Through a laboured breath, flared nostrils, a tear trickles into the corner of your mouth, salty on your tongue. “You’re not the one I’m scared of.”

“That’s a mistake,” he fumes, as he stands up from his seat – stalks towards you slow. Threatening. “I don’t keep prisoners, Mia. If you’re not useful, you’re deadweight.”

Looking down on you menacingly, he hangs his burly arms by his side. They twitch, he stretches out his fingers before clenching them into fists; a warning. A reminder of how they can hurt you. “I’ll kill you myself.”

Steadfast, you don’t shift as you glare up at him; boring into those dark eyes, pools of black tar in the darkness cast by his shadow.

“Then kill me,” you croak. “I’d be better off dead.”

Ghost lights himself a cigarette the second he barges out of your cell, catching glimpse of you through the miniscule steel-mesh window in the door. You lie down on the deteriorated mattress, curl up, face the wall like you can hide there.

Better off dead.

Maybe you’re right.

He’s well aware of what fate will befall you if he doesn’t put a bullet in your head. Even honourable soldiers will inevitably seek the warmth and comfort they can take from you. Will use you to sate their hunger after weeks, months, of fighting in the barren snow and washing off the indelible blood.

You think you’re safer here, cooped up in a locked cell, out of reach; than back in the anarchy of your Russian circle of warlords. Here you’re surrounded by the gun-wielding puppets of powerful governments. But their laws won’t protect you. Not here. Nothing will.

He’ll give you time to think it over. Let you come to your senses.

Because he’d prefer not to kill you. Not out of any particular compassion, he tells himself, not because he would find it difficult to do so. No, instead, because he had been the one to suggest your abduction at all. The others would have left you amongst the strewed corpses of your guards. Would’ve shot you dead if you screamed too loud. That likely would’ve been the more altruistic approach, but Ghost knew you were not an innocent bystander. Knew you’d serve a valuable purpose.

Now your value is running thin.

Yet as he saunters down the empty hallway, to the beating echoes of his boots on vinyl-coated concrete, the image of you persists in tormenting him. The glint of your lips, the sheen of your cheeks, damp with fear and sweat. The strain of the fine tendons in your neck as you draw in your careful breaths. The lilt of your depleted voice, hoarse, pleading.

Still he stares ahead as if he can see you there, standing winsomely in the tunnel; still he glowers at you with a ravening appetite, far beyond his control.

Could you read his mind?

He had seen you shift edgily. Lips part in apprehension. Knees press together. Fingernails dig into your thighs and inflict little red moons in their wake.

Could you feel his hunger?

He hopes you couldn’t. Hopes you can’t. Hates you for having any sway on him, for coaxing out whatever fucking animal sits behind his teeth and leers at you so shamelessly. Hates himself for losing his grip.

Swirling the bitter smoke in his empty mouth, letting it pour from his nostrils, he marches to the gear room to grab his Goretex snow jacket. Needs to get some air. Needs the winter dawn to cool the burning heat that swells in the back of his neck.

He’s out there for an hour. Silently thankful nobody bothers him, as he tucks himself against a wall near the back of the maze-like concrete compound. He sucks down three Russian cigarettes in his solitude, exerting every effort to focus on the war, the objectives, the strategies, the orders – and not you.

After a long while, once the encroaching sun licks the sky a deep shade of lilac from behind the black horizon, he eventually cools off. Whatever flare had overwhelmed him finally settling into a simmer he can for now keep a handle on.

So he heads to the Captain.

Not sure yet what he’ll report to him. Admit that he has failed to convince you? That the very thought of you has infected him like some encephalitic disease, eating away at his mind from the inside out?

He pushes down the rattling door handle and storms into Price’s makeshift office without knocking. Ghost doesn’t knock. He enters with impatience.

“Fuck – Simon,” Price barks, startled by the Lieutenant’s arrival. He stands at his desk, leaning over a fraying map. “Y’really are a fuckin’ ghost, eh?”

“She refused,” Ghost declares in a growl, curt and frustrated.

“’Course she did,” the Captain dismisses uninterestedly, turning to lean on the edge of the desk.

Crossing arms over his chest, Ghost licks his teeth. “She’ll change her mind,” he shrugs. “Give ‘er a couple days o’ this place, she’ll change it.”

“We don’t have days, Simon.”

“Then what’s your suggestion.”

Price lets out a crude chuckle. “Graves had a couple.”

Ghost grits his teeth. “What?”

“Y’know the yanks,” the Captain snorts, “definitely their area of expertise.”

“The fuck are you talking about.”

“He said he could convince her,” he shrugs.

Jaw clenches to the point of ache. “You know what that fuckin’ means, don’t you.”

Price curls his lips into a thin line under the shadow of his beard. The same sort of expression that always betrays his own reluctance to do what he calls the dirty work. To the Captain it’s rational. Any cruelty is allowed when the ends justify the means. Pretends he’s too moral for filth even when he finds such humour in it. No, he can orchestrate the savagery, shift the pawns around on the board, so long as he needn’t witness it.

“Frankly, Simon, I don’t give a shit what it means,” he grumbles, “if we get a spy out of her, doesn’t matter to me what it takes.”

“Not like you to abide rape and torture, captain,” Ghost seethes, venom slick and pointed in his throat.

“Mh, well, you made sure we had no other option when you shot her fucking husband.”

“Piss off. He wasn’t gonna give us anything and you know it.”

“You got cocky, Simon, that’s what happened,” the Captain chides, irritation flushing warm in his once jovial cheeks. “Happy to pull the trigger on our VIP but haven’t got the balls to beat some sense into his goddamn hooker.”

“She knows shit all about the Konnis,” Ghost protested, rage only burning hotter. “Torturing her is a waste of time.”

“Fuck’s gotten into you?” Price spits, “This sort of business is your M.O.”

“My M.O. is getting the fuckin’ job done without collateral. Graves is a dog. He’ll only make a fuckin’ mess.”

Price rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Then go clean it up.”

Ghost straightens his back, knuckles straining, fists trembling. “He’s got her now?”

“Yes, Jesus. We’re on a fucking deadline, remember?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Ghost snarls, immediately swivelling on his boot and ramming open the door with his forearm.

“You’d better have a backup plan, Simon.” Price barks after him, but his hoarse command is cut short but the deafening bang of the slamming door.

Cement melts beneath his boots as he thunders through the intestines of the compound. Wool of his balaclava traps the steam that he exhales with each ragged breath.

Stalks like a wolf. Dark red of shuddering blood pulses thick and hot into his vision; encroaches his periphery until the remaining pinpricks of acute sight turn to crosshairs. Knows his target, can smell him from here.

Can hear him, too. Hears that blustering, cocksure laughter reverberating through the clinical halls, muffled by the thick door that keeps you trapped at his leisure.

Ghost’s fury is rational. It always is. There’s always some detached, intellectual justification for his explosive reaction to whatever it is, slight or significant, that inflames him. This time, it’s imprudence. Stupidity. Arrogance. The stupid fucking privateer will lay ruin the meticulously considered strategy Ghost has been weaving since he caught you.

There won’t be even a dream of coerced espionage if you’re covered in bruises and bleeding from flesh wounds and violated orifices. If you’re too shaken to even utter a sensical word to the very men you’ll be wringing information from.

But Graves has no sense of subtlety. Blindly follows his depraved impulse like a spoiled little boy. The kind of disturbed kid that picked the legs off insects, would throw kittens into firepits just to hear them howl. He’d happily drop nuclear bombs on an entire city if it meant a confirmed kill of a single target. Ghost finds himself sordidly repulsed that Price is growing desperate enough to give the fucking dog a bone. To embolden him by allowing him to experiment with your suffering.

Can hear your noises now, too.

Not quite screaming, broken cries as though holes had been torn in your throat. Sore and wet. He sees the door to your cell, painted muted teal and chipping around the handle, scratches where keys had cut through the varnish.

His handgun now nestled in his palm, didn’t consciously notice that he had pulled it from where he had left it tucked in the back of his trousers. Par for the course that the dumb fuck had left the door unlocked. Done Ghost the favour of letting him hurl his boot into the door and kicking it open in a single blow.

You let out an anguished squeal following the thunderous whack of the door, as it flies open and slams into the cinderblock wall. Not the crashing door that made you scream, though – instead, the closed fist that had just been thrown into your cheek, narrowly missing your eye. Loud and vicious enough to be heard amongst the commotion, the tender crack of bone hitting bone.

His flaming eyes land on you.

In the centre of the cell, the arches of your bare feet graze the floor as you’re hung by a fist around your hair; held in a ponytail tight against your scalp, you dangle from it. Too close to the ground to stand on your own feet, too high to kneel. The red welts of your scratches scour the forearm of the man that suspends you, where you’ve tried to hold yourself up to spare your scalp from being torn from your skull like Velcro.

It’s not Graves that dangles you. Too tall. No, instead, it’s one of his shadows. A myrmidon, muscle to no doubt prevent you from kicking the Commander in the fucking head again. Too much of a pussy to be by himself in the same room as you. Even as he tortures you. Pathetic fuck.

The bootlicker that carries you is expendable. Disposable. Not Ghost’s comrade. It’s instinct as Ghost raises his gun. It’s reflex as he pulls the trigger, iron sights unconsciously aligned with the skull of the mercenary in black. He seizes before he drops, hot blood spitting in a geyser from the hole that the single bullet tore through his forehead.

You tumble down with him, erupt out a bonechilling scream of terror as you hold your arms over your head to protect yourself. You scurry, slipping in the blood as you attempt to crawl to the corner of the cell. Only then does he notice your cruel nudity, the rags of your soft negligée left in pink confetti where it had evidently been cut from you.

Ghost’s fury is quickly redirected to the Commander, then, who merely gawks in the moments it takes him to register the sudden series of events that had erupted before him. The consequences of his actions.

“What the fuck!” He roars, gesturing with open palms in confused horror at the twitching corpse of his henchman.

Ghost points the end of his gun at him, jutting it; not to aim, but to emphasise his anger. “You’re a reckless fucking idiot, you know that?”

“Jesus – what the fuck is wrong with you?” Graves rages, shaking out the fist he had used to pummel you, before wiping his forehead as though he had overexerted himself. “I was following your captain’s orders.”

“Yeah? Did the captain order you to fuckin’ strip her?”

“Oh fuck off, you know the playbook, Riley,” he barks, a furious vein bulging in his forehead as he spits out his curses. “You’re not some champion of morality because you leave her fucking clothes on.”

Therein lies the opportunity that Ghost savours so fondly. One that has him foaming at the mouth. An excuse. An excuse to lunge at the American mercenary, to hurl the butt of his handgun into the side of his head with a crack. Graves narrowly dodges the worst of the blow, instead the metal leaves a brutal scrape in his forehead.

So Ghost follows it with a launch of his calloused fist into his cheekbone, an uppercut under his ribs, a roundhouse into his ear. God, he missed it. Sure, he’s thrown a punch or two in his uniform, wearing those padded gloves, impeded by a bulky helmet and a painfully cumbersome tactical vest. But why bother, how can one justify old-fashioned combat when they’re holding a heaving automatic rifle?

It’s this he missed. Back to square one. He likes it raw. Meat hitting meat. Bone hitting bone. Bare, bruised knuckles pulverising rippling skin pulled tight over flesh, over and over, over and over. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Gun cast aside, he doesn’t care where it had vanished to. Nothing but a red blur as the two men entangled into a bloody, fuming knot on the floor of the cell. A flurry of fists and elbows and boots; Graves landed his fare share, no dismissing that MARSOC training. But he didn’t have the decades of resilience that Ghost had built, layer by layer, fractured bone by fractured bone. No, Ghost can eat strikes to the head like fucking pudding.

One final blow to Graves’s pig head ricochets the back of his skull off the solid floor with a whack, and he is swiftly decommissioned. Splutters blood from between his teeth and blinks vaguely at the ceiling. Ghost could keep going, fantasises about it – he’d find an abundance of pleasure in beating him to death. But, unfortunately, they need the Commander and his army of over-armed shadows. And, despite how much he yearned to, killing him over the abuse of a single prisoner would be, frankly – humiliating. An overreaction. A reflection of his lack of control.

But Ghost has control. Tightens his leash, fastens his muzzle, as he pushes himself to stand with an aching hand on his knee. Maintains a violent glower down his nose at the American on the floor, who takes his time to recover. The beaten man grimaces, holding the back of his fist to his nose, smearing the dark blood that had poured from it.

“Fuckin’ asshole,” he grunts; Ghost fights the urge to throw a kick into his ribcage.

But instead he rolls his head to relieve the tension, hears the vertebrae in his neck crack with the stretch. With a clench of his jaw, a wipe of his brow, he returns his menacing glare to the American. Through a growl, he orders; “Get out.”

Watches in huffing silence as he takes his time to stand, using the wall to get himself up and leaving a bloody print on the white paint. Once up, though, he does his best to conceal his injury. Elbows past Ghost as he marches towards the cell door, hurling it open and storming into the hall.

“Oi–” Ghost barks, as he lurches towards the corpse of the shadow bundled in the centre of the cell. Hoists it up, heavy and dense, he heaves it over his shoulder. Feels the hot blood poor from its bullet hole down his back. “Don’t forget this.”

With a crude throw he tosses the cadaver into the hallway – it skids across the linoleum, leaving slippery smears of blood along the speckled blue vinyl before it bumps into the furthest wall.

He grunts as he slams the heavy door, it crashes closed with an obnoxiously loud bang; before he’s left in the throbbing, hot silence. He takes a second to collect himself, to soften his ravaging breathing, to let the blood and sweat dry on his burning skin.

As he turns, though, he notices the black pile of wool on the floor, amongst the splatters of blood and black skids of rubber bootsoles.

His mask. Must’ve lost it in the fight.

And then he hears a click, and a quiet, squeaking breath – from you. In the frenzy he had almost forgotten you were there, a spectator to all of it, the catalyst of his savagery. There you are. Back pressed up against the walls, knees tucked tightly to your bare chest.

In your velvet hands sits his gun.

You barely wrap your fingers around the handle, instead holding it like it’s a small animal, like you might coo at it to pacify it. It’s as if you hadn’t noticed him, your dripping eyes fixated keenly on the cold metal, balanced in your shaky grip.

He can’t explain, nor justify, nor understand his confidence that you won’t aim the weapon at him. Instead, he concernedly anticipates that you might turn it on yourself. He steps towards you, languid but assertive, until he is standing over you.

Holds out a careful hand, gestures with his fingers. “Give me the gun.”

Your head raises only slightly, level with his knees, you stare blankly with a pained grimace as if you had forgotten who he was. Not as though you knew him at all, did you?

But your red eyes trail up his figure, meticulously inspecting, until they eventually land on his face.

And your features soften.

That worried strain, the tense muscles of your face ease, brows curling into some sort of pitying daze. He can’t read anything beyond that, can’t tell what you might be thinking as your eyes flit between his features like you’re scanning him, hunting for some realisation or deeper understanding.

But you won’t find anything, little thing. There’s nothing there.

His face is just as hardened and scarred, just as obscuring, just as frightening as the skull-painted mask that has long annexed his jaded identity.

You blink at him, one of your pretty eyes nearly swallowed by the mauve swell resulting from a fist to the socket. You reach upward, gun in hand, you present it to him. Clever girl.

He takes it, tucks it into the back of his trousers. Chews on words he feels compelled to say to you, they’re dense and swollen in his mouth. Thank you. I’m sorry. Let me get you some clothes.

But he swallows them. Goes to pluck his mask off the floor, flicking off the dust, before he tugs it over his head. Adjusts the thick wool over his nose, tucks it under his jaw.

Your stare returns to the floor. You wrap your arms around your shins.

“I’ll get you some water,” he grunts, short and murmuring, as he turns towards the door and leaves in bitter silence.

He locks it behind him.

#call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost cod #bitterfruit fics #bitten-fruit

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lamemaster · 3 months ago

Text

The MOVs

AN: I remember making this entire scenario up with @animatorweirdo and this has lived in my head ever since...it's been years I think. RIP Argorn you would've loved this.

Genre: Fluff

Summary: A society of mortals in Valinor

Pairing: Mentioned Maedhros x Reader

You knock twice on the looming wooden door, mimicking the rhythm of Varda's ancient hymn. Glancing around nervously, you wait. A sliver of light appears as the door creaks open, revealing a glimpse of the man within.

“Password,” a gruff voice whispers.

“Eonwe for president,” you reply softly.

The door swings open wider, pulling you inside.

“Dramatic as ever,” you grin, embracing your friend. Tuor of Huor was the only one who knew the secret to a perfect hug in the land of Aman.

You both turn to nod gratefully at your elven escort, the incomparable Beleg Cuthalion. Trusted with guarding the Mortals' secret meeting place in Valinor, he was a master of blending into the crowd. He disappeared into the alley without a backward glance.

Inside, a warm hearth, steaming tea, and tempting snacks greeted you. Bilbo was already eyeing the food with interest.

Bilbo, Frodo, Gimli, Tuor, and the recent additions of Dior, Earendil, Elrond, and yourself comprised the Mortals of Valinor Society,MOVS, a secret that continued to baffle the Elves. Peredhel, the newest member, added an intriguing element to their exclusive group.

"What support could you need when you have me?" Maedhros asked, leaning over a counter, trying not to overshare his disapproval of the society that seemed to have his spouse, your attention every other week. He followed you around like a sulking cat. Making his discontent clear.

Ignoring his prying questions, you reign in your smug smile wrapping yourself in a warm scarf, “I know I have you,” you stand on your toes pecking his cheek, “it’s nice to have…my kind. Just to talk, you know.” You try explaining without giving up the meaning behind the meetings.

The meetings started with normal gossip away from elven hearing. This soon morphed into an evening full of dirty jokes, card games, unfiltered messy dances, anecdotes, or the simple pleasure of relishing the ardent, unsettling ire these meetings seem to stir in the hearts of the elven population of Valinor.

So, the challenge came to be. Mortals against the immortals. In their home field.

There have been tries of thwarting the meetings, of spying, and figuring out the secrecy behind the doors. But the MOVS, equipped with quite the team of players had been quick to employ their own elven player. Beleg Cuthalion, the only elf with the patience to hold on to the secrecy and never pry into the matters of mortals.

A reliable ally, who had for now been the reason behind the winning streak behind the mortals. His motives- simple, the smile on Tuor’s face that mimicked Turin’s. And that had been enough for your trusted elf.

Breaking away from Tuor’s hug, you wander into the room filled with the hearty aroma of good food. And today’s object of interest is coveted by the looming figures of Dior and Gimli. “That cannot be,” the half-elven man exclaimed.

“It is not possible in that position,” the Peredhel and dwarven master debate over the crudely drawn porn that you truly were not proud of.

All the while you catch Tuor’s fleeting jest- “The man sighed and replied ‘My left arm is stronger than my right arm’ ” To which Elrond stared back at him confused while Bilbo snickered next to a blushing Frodo.

A mischievous glint sparkled in your eyes as you observed the heated debate. "Gentlemen, gentlemen," you interjected, your voice cutting through the tension, "any thoughts on the last week’s fest?"

"They would not stop singing!" Earendil exclaimed animatedly, his face flushed with a mix of exasperation and amusement. "For two damn days, it was like a chorus of larks had taken up residence in my halls!"

Frodo nodded vigorously, his face mirroring Earendil's exasperation. "I believe the verse was too dense for musical notes," he added, shaking his head.

And the hall of MOVS erupted into chaos.

#the silmarillion #tuor #dior eluchil #elrond #bilbo #frodo #gimli #mortals of valinor #maedhros x reader #silmarillion imagine #fluff #mvp Beleg Cuthalion

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nackrosor · 1 year ago

Text

~"On My Terms"~

Sub!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x dom!Reader

warnings/tags: 18+, smut, p*rn without plot, mªsturbation (male receiving), sub/bottom Ghost, sub/dom dynamic, edging, orgasm delay, post-orgasm torture, established relationship, change of power dynamics, kinkyyy

summary: for once, you want to be the one in control.

word count: 4,1k

Simon’s hand is warm on your bare shoulder, his thumb gently rubbing it, drawing patterns on your skin.

His dark tired eyes are set on the tv screen, his back resting against the bedpost, arm draped around your body holding you close beside him. He's relaxing on the mattress after a long day on the field.

He has no wounds, is not ill, and is not ailing in any particular area; he is simply physically fatigued.

His exhaustion is evident from the way his head is inclined to the side as it lays on the wooden board, or from the way his long trunk-like legs stretch straight ahead, stiff, on the mattress.He hasn't even taken off his shoes yet, and he's been lying in the same position for about 30 minutes since returning home. He hasn't said anything to you since he marched in, not even when you offered to make him something to eat; he simply shook his head and beckoned you closer with a flick of his hand. And you immediately joined him on the bed, letting him pull you closer to his side, as if your presence and the warmth of your body would help him relax, as if you were the only thing he needed right now.

You've been staring at the passing images on the television with a passive gaze the entire time, your head resting on his firm chest, one of your arms loosely wrapped around his abdomen in a cosy side-hug.

From the moment you recognised the first signs of his fatigue, a thought has been pestering your mind, one that - truth be told - has recently become an unshakable idea of yours. You've been looking forward to a night like this. Waiting for him to be in such a tired state so that you could more easily… well… make him… or rather, be…

You shiver a little against him as you clear your throat; your abrupt movement causes him to take a deeper breath and tighten his arm around you, but he doesn't say anything.

You're losing your composure by simply fantasising about such an idea. You can't take it anymore. This is your opportunity. Your golden chance to finally satisfy that urge, that craving you've been putting off for as long as you and Simon have been together. Yes, because... having someone like Ghost as a lover doesn't really afford someone like you - obviously smaller in stature and weaker in strength - as much freedom in bed as you'd like. It's not that you're dissatisfied; in that aspect, you've never been more satisfied or cared for. And you can't really blame him; it's not his fault he can effortlessly manhandle you or make you lose your mind with a simple touch or a look most of the time. You're content with being on the receiving end of the action. You love how dominant he is, how he employs his strength to make you feel utterly powerless or protected and safe, depending on the circumstances at hand. He is in command at all times and in all aspects of his life. It's part of the job, part of his history. He never lets go, and he most likely can't... This thought is what has been holding you back the most, what has prompted you to hide and suppress this other side of you; a side that longs to take control from time to time, a side that yearns to make such a dominating man feel powerless, to make him beg, whimper, and utterly surrender to you... The idea of it excites you so much that you need to... you must...

"Are you feeling cold?"

The startling sound of his raspy voice makes you jump as though you've been jolted awake from a rousing dream, and you lift your head to meet his gaze.

"Huh?"

Simon’s gaze narrows imperceptibly at your wild-eyed look and he reluctantly lets go of your shoulder as you draw away from his side.

"You were shivering…"

"Oh, uhm…"

You hurriedly run your hand through your hair, your gaze darting about the room as you try to regain your composure. He's almost caught you... No, he has caught you thinking about him, even if he is unaware of it. He has no idea that your body was simply reacting to the fantasy you were enacting in your mind.

Your eyes return to his, and you meet his inquisitive look. He's probably wondering why you're taking so long to answer such a simple question, or why you're staring at him as if he holds the ultimate answer to the meaning of life.

It's now or never , you tell yourself, clenching your jaw as you make your decision.

Silently, maintaining eye contact, you sit up on your knees and slowly position yourself on top of him, straddling his lap. You hold your breath while looking down at his face, anticipating his reaction.

Simon holds your gaze, his expression enigmatic, his body immobile aside from a light tremble you felt as soon as your thighs wrapped around his. Your eyes are drawn to his hands as he raises them to grasp your hips. A whispery chuckle escapes his lips.

"I see… You do seek warmth..." His voice is low, almost a purr, and tinged with humour. “Come here…”

He pulls on your hips to propel you closer, but you instantly stop him. Your palms seize his wrists and tear them away from your body, pinning them to the mattress.

"No."

Your gestures and stern tone cause him to raise an eyebrow in both stupor and amusement. You and he both know you can't keep him still; he can easily remove his hands from your grip if he wants to, but... he doesn't. For the time being, at least. He appears to be intrigued enough by your peculiar behaviour to allow you to have your way.

"Someone feels bold tonight..." he remarks with a languid smile, his eyes still locked on yours, making your confidence falter as usual.

“What’s on your mind, kitten?”

You take a deep breath, hoping to ease the turmoil growing within you, while your gaze wanders hungrily over his figure. If this crazy fantasy of yours is just meant to last a few moments, you want to be sure you commit the mouthwatering image of him pinned under your weight in your mind. His fitting grey t-shirt embraces every muscle, accentuating his huge figure even further, while his cameo trousers, free of the belt he earlier tore away, are raised at the inseam, doing nothing to conceal the large package hidden beneath.

Your gaze slowly returns to his face, and you meet his delighted expression once more. He raises both brows, expecting you to talk .

"I've been thinking about this for a while..." You quietly declare, then bite your lower lip as warmth floods your cheeks. It's difficult to express such a deeply rooted desire, especially in words. However, your craving for it outweighs any embarrassment you may feel at coming clean.

"I want to be in control for once..."

Your vulnerable admission hangs in the air. His face is inscrutable while he stares up at you with that damned lazy smile of his. Then, with ease, he releases one of his hands from your grip and gently brushes his knuckles over the side of your neck, sending a chill down your spine.

"You want to take control, huh?" His voice contains a mixture of mockery and sincere devotion. It's as if he wants to commend you for your unexpected display of bravery while also taunting you for believing you could pull it off.

"And what are you going to do to me?”

As he humours you, his tone is condescending, amused, and mocking - it's rather irritating.

You grab his hand again and firmly press it back down on the mattress. This time, you trap both of his wrists beneath your knees so he can't free them as easily. He could still grab your legs and push you away or swap positions, but that would take a lot more energy than he seems to have right now.

Simon appears to be genuinely impressed by your actions, which gives you the confidence you need to take it a step further.

"I want to touch you..." you reply matter-of-factly, slipping your hand between your bodies and towards his bulge, your gaze set on his. "Please you... on my terms."

"Your terms..."

Ghost's gaze leaves yours for the first time since the game began, drifting down to your hand. He watches as you hook your finger over the hem of his trousers then slowly unzip his fly. The next moment, you're touching him from above the fabric of his boxers and he lets out a raspy groan.

"Yes, my terms..." you emphasise, your eyes piercing into his while your hand teases him. "Which means you only have to keep laying there and let me do the rest..." you add in a sultry whisper. You're slowly growing confident in your actions, fact that has not gone unnoticed by Simon.

He looks up at you, his eyes glinting with mischievous excitement. He lets out another quiet groan but it doesn't seem like he's going to say anything more. He keeps on lying on the bed, making no effort to move or to pin you down. He lacks the energy to switch roles and have his way with you.

He's letting you touch him and hold him still. Apparently, your little display is enough to impress him and pique his interest. Perhaps he's intrigued about what you have in mind or how far you'd go to get what you want. And since he appears to be willing to indulge you for the time being, you take full advantage of this opportunity and press your hand harder on him, starting to stroke your palm up and down - the fabric of his boxers creates even more friction between your palm and his sensitive skin.

You bend forward just enough to bring your face closer to his. Your eyes roam over his sharp, beautiful features before returning to meet his.

"You're so tired tonight... Aren't you, babe?" you ask softly, your tone mockingly condescending. "I'll take care of you..."

Ghost is growing more and more excited, as evidenced by the way his chest starts to rise and fall more rapidly, but especially by the way he's tensing and growing under your touch.

"I'm tired, yes... but..." He responds slowly, letting his words linger in the air for a few moments before continuing. His intense gaze is locked on yours.

"You don't want to take care of me. You want to use me. Your way."

His words send a shockwave through your body. He can see right through you, right through your actions! Yes, it is true. You want to take advantage of his exhausted state and do whatever you want with him. Just as he does with you the rest of the time to make you feel oh, so good.

You're stunned and you struggle to regain control of yourself for a moment, but then you abruptly take him in your hand and squeeze his erection. You're rewarded right away with a flex of his thighs and a breathless groan.

"Would that be so bad?" you ask, your tone clear and urgent. Your intense arousal is becoming frustrating. You must satiate it.

"Say it." you command, your lustful gaze fixed on his. Both you and Simon are taken aback by the authoritative tone of your voice. "I want you to say it."

You notice his gaze drifting down towards your hand, his eyes gleaming with eagerness. His pupils dilate, almost as if he's mesmerised by your actions and demeanour, which are so different from what he's used to.

“...You're... so... commanding..."

His voice is still filled with humour, yet he now sounds hesitant to speak, as if he wants more of your actions but doesn't want to give you any satisfaction of him asking for more - as if he's toying with you, daring you to make the next move.

"Say it, Simon." Your voice is now louder and more stern.

He maintains eye contact, just as he does when he is in charge. He still wants to act as if he's the one in control, as if he's allowing you to talk to him and touch him like that... But you both know it's different this time. You can feel his resolve waver, the shift in power dynamics taking its toll on him, drawing him into your web. It is just a matter of time. You're not going to give up now. He will be the one to yield.

Your hand travels up his erection, wrapping around the tip and gripping it firmly once again. You can hear him take a strong intake of air through his nose this time.

“What do you want me to say, huh kitten?”

His voice comes out a bit strained despite him attempting to hide it with his teasing tone.

Your free hand swiftly moves to his face, grabbing and locking his jaw. Before you grasp his glans again, you make sure his attention is on you. You brush the pad of your thumb over the slit and when you watch his brows furrow and facial muscles twitch, even if only for a split second, your eyes light up with excitement. You can also feel your skin moisten at the contact. Your teeth pop out to bite your bottom lip and keep a grin at bay. He's already leaking precum, which only confirms that he's enjoying this new dynamic.

"Tell me you want to be used." You command again, your voice barely above a whisper but with a clear demanding edge in it.

You keep your gaze fixed on his, engaging him in a battle of dominance. You must prove to him that you are not afraid, that you have no hesitation about taking charge.

You can feel his jaw clench under your grip, hot air flowing from his nostrils directly onto your tightened hand. His eyes travel over your determined expression, seemingly searching for something... something that isn't there. No, not today.

For a moment, he does not appear as powerful and in control as he usually does. He's doing everything he can to fight back, remain dominant and in charge, but something in his mind is clearly breaking apart.

He sighs and looks up at you. Your heart skips a beat as your eyes meet again.

He simply utters two words in a low, husky voice:

“Do it.”

You can't even remember the last time you felt a rush this intense.

“Use me.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat, and a shiver goes down your spine. Hearing him surrend in your fantasy is one thing; hearing him submit in real life is a whole different story. A completely unexpected sense of euphoria pervades you - one you were definitely unprepared for - and nearly knocks you out.

Simon stares up at you, no longer seeking control. On the contrary, his gaze appears docile, as if he’s under your spell, waiting for you to speak or do anything.

You've got him just where you wanted him.

A grin creeps onto your face as you keep staring down at him, teeth sinking in your bottom lip out of excitement and anticipation. You don’t have to restrain yourself anymore. He has just given you permission to use him…

...which is exactly what you intend to do.

Without a second thought, you pull both his trousers and boxers down his hips, just enough to have wiggle room for your hands so you may touch him fully and play with him without any restriction.

Then, your hands grab the hem of his tee and roll it up his torso until it gets stuck under his armpits. A wicked idea crosses your mind, and a rush of arousal surges through your body. You lean close, only a few inches away from his face; your hot breath mixes with his as your lips almost touch.

"You're not going to move, right babe?" You question him teasingly, your gaze roaming over his face, taking in every detail of his raptured look.

"Whatever I do, you'll stay still, yeah?"

When you see him nod faintly in response, your stomach flips and your grin widens.

"Mmm, good boy," you coo quietly before leaning in to trace the outline of his parted lips with the tip of your tongue. He immediately responds, craning his neck forward to press his mouth on yours, but you pull away just as quickly with a mischievous sparkle in your eyes. The groan of protest that erupts from him is the sweetest sound you've ever heard, and it goes straight to your core.

“I said, stay still.”

The hoarseness in your voice emphasises your authoritative tone.

You notice his jaw clenching and loosening a few times, his chest slowly rising as he takes a big breath, possibly in an effort to restrain himself. He's genuinely trying to hold back for you, to let you have your way... You can't keep a low satisfied chuckle from escaping you.

"Open your mouth for me…"

Simon only hesitates for a moment, his gaze drawn to your hand, which is still wrapped around the rolled fabric of his tee. Perhaps he immediately realises your intentions, or perhaps he doesn't, wondering what your little wicked mind has concocted, yet he obeys your direction and opens his mouth, much to your delight.

Your motions are slow and deliberate as you raise your hand and place the tense fabric between his teeth, tugging it to see how far it will stretch.

You lean back to admire your work and bask in the sight of him, sprayed out in front of you, his arms and hands bound to the mattress and under your weight, his mouth clogged with his own tee, the fabric of which digs slightly into the skin of his chest, tightly stretched as it is.

Your hands reach out to touch him, attracted to his body as if by a magnet. You glide your fingers over his broad shoulders, muscular chest, and chiselled abs... until your palms wrap again around his hard cock, eliciting a muffled sound from him.

You make sure his eyes are locked with yours before you start moving your hands, rubbing them up and down, stroking, squeezing, pressing hard onto his sensitive flesh. Your pace is sluggish at first, but you quickly pick up the tempo, without even giving him time to adjust to your moves. A series of unintelligible guttural sounds rumble out of his throat, all muddled by his shirt, the fabric of which you notice with glee is starting to soak up his saliva.

"You're loving this, aren't you?" You taunt him affectionately, your voice a velvet caress in contrast to his stifled humming.

Simon doesn't respond. He seems to be completely transfixed by your actions. You've never seen him so helplessly aroused by your touch; you've never seen him so completely devoted to your will.

You lean down and tease the tip of his cock with the pad of your tongue, and the sudden spasm of his hips that repays you causes you to giggle out loud.

You feel so giddy, so euphoric and completely turned on by what's happening. Your panties also dampen as a result of your own arousal, blood pouring to your core and making it throb with desire. You rub your groin over his thighs, seeking for some kind of friction. A gratified moan escapes you at the contact.

His biceps flex a bit as though he's about to pull his arms out from beneath you, in order to touch you. You press harder on him to prevent him from moving, then halt in your actions to glare playfully down at him.

"Hey, we agreed on it! No moving..." You chastise him mockingly, one hand going over his tee to firmly yank at it.

Simon huffs loudly from his nostrils, clearly frustrated, yet he freezes and stares obediently up at you.

You hold his gaze, keeping your hand at the base of his erection completely still but securely wrapped around it. You wait a few moments to test his patience; you half expect him to grumble in objection, but when he doesn't, you offer him a saccharine smile and lean down again. Your tongue slides around his glans more vigorously this time, explicitly aiming to please him. And you immediately hear him moaning in appreciation. You watch him as his eyelids flutter closed and the back of his head sinks into the pillow. The scene makes your stomach flutter and your core throb, but it doesn't stop you.

Wrapping your other palm around him, you resume stroking his length with vigorous, precise movements, never ceasing to work on him with your tongue. You can feel him ache in your hands, as he gets closer to his climax.

You look up to see his face contorting in ecstasy, his teeth digging into the fabric of his tee, saliva streaming down his chin. You're certain that this vision of him will haunt your fondest dreams and fantasies from now on.

He looks to be ready to experience the best orgasm of his life...

You almost feel bad for what you're about to do, yet you can't stop yourself.

Your hands abruptly come to a halt. The tip of your tongue teases him with a couple more flimsy licks before you take that contact away from him as well.

A deep, loud groan of outrage thunders out of his throat, slipping past the fabric obstructing his mouth. His eyes strike you with their intensity as they shoot wide open and dart towards you like lightning. His piercing gaze makes you quiver with both fear and excitement.

Without uttering a single word, you start grazing his length with your fingertips in an almost tickling caress, following his veins pattern, your other hand still wrapped firmly around the base of his cock. He groans once again, his hips shaking as tiny huffs of breath escape his nose. He looks like he's about to break free and take charge, but as soon as your teasing caress reaches the tip of his erection and brushes his slit, he absolutely loses it.

His hips buck up sharply, causing you to lose your grip on him, his loud grunts making you jump. You watch enraptured, your eyes wide open and your stomach flipping, as his cock throbs vehemently, spasming on its own as cum pours down its length bountifully.

You've never seen something more arousing. You almost reach your own climax only by witnessing the scene.

His body is still quivering, his breathing heavily pronounced by the frenzied movements of his chest, his eyes squeezed shut; you savour the spectacle for a few moments longer before leaning back in and stroking his cock again.

Another sharp shudder of his body instantly rewards your touch. Simon gasps, eyes fly back open, breathing coming in short, staggered bursts. He tightens his grip on the sheets, a low groan arising from his throat. Somehow, craning his neck and raising his shoulders, he manages to free his mouth; the damp fabric of his tee drops heavily on his chest.

"You… little… minx…" He utters in a coarse tone, fairly stuttering due to his shortness of breath.

You giggle amusedly, your hands hastening their torture and causing him to twist in pain.

You struggle against his frantic movements, trying everything you can to keep him down and still. This time, however, you can't put up with his brute force as he rips his arms free from under your weight.

A loud yelp escapes your throat as in the blink of an eye you find yourself lying down on the bed, back slammed into the mattress, hands pinned at either side of your head, thighs squeezed firmly between his knees.

Your stupefied gaze meets his menacing look, and before you can stop yourself, you burst out in a hysterical laugh.

Simon raises his brow and shakes his head at you, but you notice the angle of his mouth twitching as he fights back a smile.

"You had a lot of fun, huh?"

You nod quickly in answer, seemingly unable to stop laughing long enough to talk.

"Well..." he trails off as he raises your arms and wraps his hand around both of your wrists, holding them down firmly over your head. His free hand sweeps quickly across your face, his soft touch clashing with the severity of his features and the frustrated edge in his tone. As he leans down to hover his lips just barely over yours, he buries his fingers in your hair, threading soothingly into your roots; your hot breaths merge together and you both stare deeply into the other's eyes.

Your voice chokes in your throat as soon as you feel his hand clasp your hair in a tight, almost painful hold.

"Guess who's about to have a lot of fun now?"