#losing yourself to the bloodshed of war

[hoomanbeaning]

three thousand years of longing (2022) / rafael alberti's an anthology of spanish poetry: from the beginnings to the present day

[ryoflix]

sukuna dealing with his kids throwing tantrums | f. reader, s/h prns., crack 'n fluff, estb. rl, ؛ ଓ

it starts — as it always does — with the alarm blaring too late and the sky already too bright. you’re half-dressed and half-panicking in the kitchen, burning toast, when the chaos trickles in like a slow poison. your daughter, in her prim little school uniform, is standing in the hallway with her arms crossed and murder in her eyes.

“mommy,” she says, deadly serious, “this is wrong.”

you blink blearily, crumbs clinging to your lips. “what’s wrong, baby?”

“my hair.” she juts her chin out. “i want elsa braid, not stupid braid.”

you slowly put the butter knife down like you’re defusing a bomb. “sweetheart,” you say gently, because you’ve been through this before, “the elsa braid needs fifteen minutes and three youtube tutorials, minimum. we're already late.”

but it’s too late. her lip quivers, and then —

“i don’t wanna look ugly—!!”

you reel back like you’ve been shot.

meanwhile, your son stomps into the living room, backpack thudding against the floor like a warning shot. “i’m not taking this,” he announces, dramatically waving the new spiderman water bottle you bought two days ago.

you raise an eyebrow. “what’s wrong with spiderman?”

“he’s cringe.”

you gape at him, betrayal sinking into your bones. “you picked it out.”

he scowls. “i didn’t know then.”

then — like it’s been decades since he was an innocent, naive fool.

you’re about to open your mouth to argue, when —

“what the hell is going on,” comes the gravelly voice of your husband from the hallway, towel slung over his shoulder, hair still dripping from the world's fastest shower. he takes one look at you, at the crying daughter, at the fuming son, and his expression shifts into something grim.

he’s seen battlefields easier to navigate than this.

“okay. that’s it.” he claps his massive hands together. “timeout. everyone. now.”

your daughter wails harder.

your son throws the water bottle at the sofa with a cry of betrayal.

you drag yourself to sit on the floor, back against the wall, head going thunk against the plaster.

sukuna stands in the middle of the living room, tattooed arms crossed, radiating exhausted menace. you can literally see the vein ticking in his forehead. he bends down — painfully, stiffly — to pick up the water bottle, like it personally offended his ancestors. you rub your temples and mutter, “how are they this dramatic? they’re four.”

“your genes,” sukuna grunts.

you throw a burnt piece of toast at him.

the twins, meanwhile, have escalated to greek tragedy levels. your daughter is on the floor sobbing about how “no one understands the importance of princesses,” and your son is delivering a shaky, heartfelt speech about how “kids who carry superhero bottles never make it to NASA.”

there is snot. there are tears. someone’s backpack is hurled into the shoe rack. sukuna, towering like a demon king over the chaos, sighs so hard his chest visibly deflates.

“this is it,” he mutters. “this is how i die. stress-induced heart failure. death by parenting.”

you, from your spot on the floor, offer a solemn sigh.

and still — and still — despite the hellfire and the bloodshed and the wailing, despite the way you and sukuna look at each other with the hollow-eyed gaze of soldiers in a losing war — you know you’ll both try again.

because that’s the thing about parenting; you never actually surrender. not even when you probably should.

sukuna crouches, big frame awkward and heavy on the floor, as if he's about to negotiate a hostage situation. you sit there, toast forgotten, watching him attempt the very thing you hammered into him years ago — talking it out instead of bulldozing through emotions like a steamroller.

he huffs once, settling himself in front of your daughter first.

“listen, kid,” he says, voice a little gruff but steady, “your mom's been up since early today. she’s tired. you’re tired. i’m really tired.”

your daughter hiccups once, teary-eyed, looking at him like she’s balancing the weight of the world on her tiny shoulders.

“sometimes,” he continues, scratching the side of his jaw thoughtfully, “we have to save the fancy stuff for another day. just for now. just until everyone’s feeling good again. yeah?”

there’s a tense pause. then, with the solemnity of a queen making a decree, your daughter nods, tiny hands wiping at her snotty cheeks with the corner of her skirt.

“okay, daddy,” she whispers.

sukuna ruffles her hair, gruff but gentle. "good girl. we’ll do the elsa thing this weekend, real fancy."

your heart actually squeezes at the sight. but of course, peace never lasts long in the sukuna household. the boy is still off to the side, scowling at his spiderman water bottle like it's committed high treason against his dignity. sukuna sighs, dragging a hand down his face.

then — he switches tactics.

“alright, little man,” he says, tone shifting like he's about to tell a legendary tale. “you know peter parker, right?”

the boy looks up from his pout, suspicious. “yeah…”

“you think he was cool when he got bit by that spider?”

“…yeah.”

“wrong.” sukuna leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a forbidden secret. “he was a total dork. couldn’t talk to girls. got bullied. wore lame clothes. probably carried way cringier stuff than a water bottle.”

your son’s mouth falls open slightly, betrayal written across his tiny face.

“you’re saying peter parker was… a loser?”

“at first, yeah,” sukuna shrugs, like he’s handing down gospel. “but you know what made him spider-man?”

the boy shakes his head, eyes wide.

“he didn’t care about looking cool. he cared about doing the right thing. even if people laughed at him sometimes.”

the boy glances down at the bottle, gnawing his lip in thought.

“so,” sukuna finishes, tapping the bottle with one thick finger, “you think nasa’s gonna care what bottle you used when you become a big-time astronaut?”

“no…”

“right. because you’re gonna be too busy being the best. and spiderman? he’d be proud of you for carrying that.”

there’s a long, serious silence. then, the boy nods once — short and decisive — and hugs the bottle to his chest with the kind of conviction usually reserved for olympic torch bearers.

“okay,” he says, voice small but firm. “i’ll carry it.”

sukuna claps him on the back (lightly, by his standards, which still almost knocks his kid forward a step).

“that’s my boy.”

you, from your post against the wall, whistle low under your breath, impressed. “look at you. mr. gentle parenting.”

sukuna snorts, standing up with a grunt, his knees popping like rice krispies. “if you tell anyone i gave a canon compliant marvel speech to fix a tantrum,” he says, pointing a finger at you, “i’m leaving this house.”

you grin, hauling yourself up too. "i'm telling everyone."

the twins, now calm and a little red-eyed, scamper to grab their shoes, bickering over who gets the front seat in the car. sukuna watches them go, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly.

"think parenting’s easier when you’re a villain," he mutters.

"probably," you say, pressing a quick kiss to his arm. "but then you wouldn’t get to be their hero."

he grumbles under his breath, but you catch the faintest smile curling on his lips as he stalks after his kids, spiderman bottle swinging from his son's hand like a badge of honor.

[swordgrace]

𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

༺ aemond targaryen x fem!reader.

synopsis: in aemond targaryen’s eyes, you have far exceeded anything that he could’ve imagined. during a moment of solace, you indulge in the prince’s growing affections.

———————————————————————————

༺ FORMAT: one-shot — not requested.

༺ WORD COUNT: 7.1K.

༺ WARNINGS: SMUT, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v sex (unprotected), multiple positions, biting, scratching, switch!aemond, fingering (f!receiving), groping, lots of kissing, hair pulling, vulnerable aemond, melancholy aftercare, slight power imbalance, possessive aemond, talk of insecurities, begging, etc.

༺ AUTHOR’S NOTE: finally ,,, an aemond fic! I am currently looking for requests for this account, and hopefully this is a good showcase in terms of getting people interested! This was so fun to write and helped me get into the Aemond headspace, I so look forward to sharing more of my work with all of you!

𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐊 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 the skies over King’s Landing, bringing with it a sense of wariness and discomfort. Rumors and whispers grew of an approaching war between Rhaenyra Targaryen and King Aegon Targaryen — a war between kin that would surely plunge the realm into a great darkness.

Bloodshed and the mere thought of violence caused you to shiver, goosebumps prickling along the length of your spine. The evening was a touch colder, the air bitter and misty with the first inklings of a nighttime deluge. Raindrops smashed into the courtyard, against the castle walls in a steady sheet.

Sworn to serve Lady Alicent Hightower, the dowager Queen, she had dismissed you quite suddenly, citing that she preferred to be left alone this evening. You found it intriguing that Ser Criston Cole so vigilantly guarded the former Queen’s chambers with wandering eyes, but it was none of your business.

The halls of the Red Keep were warm with the glow of torchlight amongst the illumination of the moon, clouds bringing down rain and the low rumble of thunder. You were prepared to make the venture down to the Servant’s Quarters, until you were stopped by a guard somewhere down the corridor.

“My Lady,” One of the Kingsguard, Ser Cargyll, addressed you nobly, even if you were just a handmaiden. “The Prince Aemond is searching for you. He is requesting your presence.”

Prince Aemond — a name not unfamiliar to you.

You felt the subtle hitch within the depths of your throat at the mention of Aemond Targaryen. The Prince was rather acquainted with you, in ways that many would consider uncouth and sinful, but it was a budding relationship. If anything, you found him to be a being of mystique and repression, in your experience.

Under the guise of mere duty, you nodded, curtsying before Ser Cargyll. “Thank you, Ser. I will make my way to his chambers.” You kept your voice hushed, ensuring an air of respect for those who slumbered within the Keep’s walls.

Carrying bundles of fresh linens within your arms, you made your way to the Prince’s quarters, a path that you were somewhat familiar with. Your encounters with Aemond weren’t often, but whenever they did occur, it filled you with a certain thrill and exhilaration. You never imagined yourself to be desirable, the object of a Prince’s infatuations, yet here you were.

A sharp clap of thunder caused you to gasp, nearly losing your footing as you traversed through the darkened corridors, passing by the occasional fellow servant or patrolling knight. Something about this night felt unusual — as if there was an ominous presence lingering around the corner.

Thunderstorms had a horrible habit of making you incredibly paranoid — tonight was no different, it seemed. With a deliberate pace, you ascended the grand flight of steps toward Aemond’s chambers, noticing the lack of protection outside. The Prince wasn’t fond of being hovered over, a notion that you could understand.

The set of ornate, mahogany doors were equipped with iron knobs fashioned into the heads of dragons — quite fitting, considering his heritage. You knocked thrice, stepping back as you waited for the Prince himself, or his summons.

With bated breath, you wrung your digits into the silk and linens clutched within your arms, awaiting the Prince to allow you inside. The suspense was nearly unbearable — sometimes he called you inside, and other times, he greeted you himself with a sly curl of his mouth and that glittering, violet eye of his.

To your delight, the door creaked open, groaning in protest as Aemond stood within the gap, regal and svelte in his leather tunic and fine regalia. His hand perched along the edge of the door, lips tilting into that familiar countenance of his — cunning yet tinged with faint hints of amusement.

“My Lady,” Aemond’s voice was a lull, like the purr of a great cat as he beckoned you inside. He cared little for prying eyes, allowing you to step into the warmth of his open chambers before he latched the door behind him. “You came rather swiftly.” He stated — a mere observation, but it was most accurate.

“Is this not an urgent matter?” To keep appearances, you sometimes asked redundant questions — but Aemond enjoyed them nonetheless. He let out a brief hum, violet hue raking over you as it had several times before. There was something reverent there, a silent appreciation that happened to scream if someone looked close enough.

With a brief hum of amusement, Aemond ogled you, head canting slightly to one side. Blackfyre sat soundly atop his hip, bound in the finest sheath and belt that hung atop his narrow waist. “I suppose not,” He reached out, gently swiping his fingers across your jaw. “I merely wanted to see you.”

Warmth fluttered within your breast, spreading like ivy across the rest of your body. The bulk of the heat settled within your features as you struggled to maintain your composure. “And I you, my Prince.” It was enough to make Aemond’s stare sparkle. “Any word on what will come of the growing conflict?”

Aemond stepped toward the large table, scattered in maps and scrolls, the largest of it being a cartographic description of Westeros. Coins were scattered atop it, meant to resemble garrisons of their forces. “Not yet.” He replied, circling the table before he looked at you. “It is hard to plan for a war that you’ve no counsel in.”

From what Aemond had told you during previous trysts, he was not on the small council — and his brother, the King, seemed more content on drinking and letting others run his kingdom for him. A piece of Aemond spited Aegon for this, for his lack of propriety and sense of duty.

The Prince’s woes weren’t unfamiliar to you. In fact, he had placed his head within your lap and recounted the multitude of misfortunes that had befallen him on many occasions before he had any desire to touch you. Perhaps it was this gesture that had given your budding relationship such a firm foundation.

War was on the horizon, and Aegon hadn’t the slightest clue of what to do — which left Aemond to stew and plot away, to strategize where there wasn’t any inkling of it. It would always fall upon him, the more responsible sibling.

You trailed after him, curious to see such a large map of the continent. If anything, you were more perplexed by the different kingdoms and sigils on coins than the war. “You mean to strategize without the King?” You inquired, noticing the scoff that emerged from Aemond.

“It is nothing new. I only wish to serve the King and my house.” He replied, expression becoming pensive before he sank down into the cushioned armchair, the one placed before his sea of maps and books. Candles danced atop the table, listless and bright.

Aemond was a learned individual, with a thirst for books and tomes, alongside the blade. You admired his desire for more, his desire for knowledge. There was a stark duality to Aemond that you had caught glimpses of during the course of your endeavors — from sharp and cold, like steel, to a hint of warmth.

The Prince’s chambers were spacious, surrounded by an ocean of quiet, with a high terrace and an open wall. You watched as the rain fell, providing a gentle ambiance to your surroundings. A flash of lightning split the sky, and the thunderous gloom of the night raged on.

With a soft exhale, you approached the terrace, lined in a thick bannister and a row of columns. If you extended your hand out far enough, you could catch the rain, feeling the chill of the droplets glide across your palm. It was soothing, enough to ease the heat that had made permanent residence within your skin.

In silent rapture, Aemond watched you carefully, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The glow of moonlight framed your features in silver, accompanied by the twinge of orange — it made you look like a goddess, a beauty incarnate standing before him. His fingers tensed into the arm of his chair, desire beginning to fester inside of him.

Initially, he thought little of you — the lowborn girl that dutifully served his mother, yet the night you’d found him strewn about in his quarters, wounded and wistful, he’d changed his mind. Aemond fell swiftly, and he fell hard — many nights were spent with you in his bed, his head within your lap. It inevitably transformed into desire and the first blossoming of affection.

“Thunderstorms used to terrify me as a child,” You broke the silence, recoiling until your palm was pressed close to your chest. “Now, they seem to make everything ominous, as if there is a lingering dread.” You let out a chuckle, seemingly embarrassed. “It isn’t much different than being afraid.”

Aemond tucked a hand beneath his chin, leaning some of his weight against it as he listened to you. “What do you fear, my Lady?” He questioned, as if attempting to pick you apart, crawl beneath your flesh. You enticed him, evoked a sense of intrigue that he seldom felt in the presence of noble women.

A rather heavy question, but you decided to answer honestly, depositing the stack of linens onto the lounge in front of you. “Being locked away in a cage, perhaps the darkness.” You trailed off. “War.” You grimaced, gaze flickering toward the map on his table yet again.

You always feared war more than anything — it always brought worse things with it. Bloodshed, famine, death, the feeling of no sanctuary or peace.

With a soft huff, Aemond’s violet eye flickered away from you and to his map, surveying his growing plan for any imperfections. He remained quiet for a moment, and decided that he had little desire to talk to you on the topic of war — not when there were plenty of other things he could do.

“War is inevitable, like so many other things in life,” Aemond’s voice carried an indiscernible edge to it. After a brief pause, he continued. “I would keep you safe.” Sometimes, you had difficulty detecting sincerity with the Prince, but you could see it now, even if it was subtle.

If it was meant to be a flattering or sentimental statement, it happened to work, prompting you to dip your head. Sheepishness settled into your features, causing you to tether your hands together. “You honor me, my Prince. I did not know that the life of a handmaiden meant something to you.”

At last, his head angled toward you, lilac hue dancing with light as he leaned back within his chair, the wood groaning in protest. “Come here.” He waved you forward with a flick of his fingers, desiring to feel your warmth, be close to you. Aemond’s lust for you was subtle, but when it sparked to life, it burned like a dragon’s fire.

Your heartbeat fluttered like the wings of a bird, stirring beneath your breast as you obeyed the Prince’s command. Stepping closer, you felt Aemond’s hand trace the swell of your hip, coaxing you into his lap. Without a word, he rested his cheek against your sternum, feeling your fingers rake through his silken tresses.

“Your life is worth a great deal.” Aemond stated, breath fanning out across your collarbone. The Prince savored the sensation of your soft flesh beneath him, heart loud enough to ring within his ears as he pressed close to your chest. Wordlessly, he planted a kiss against the column of your throat.

A shiver rolled down your spine, a sensation that left you aching for more. You never imagined yourself becoming the object of the Prince’s affections, enough for him to state that your life had meaning beyond the station of a servant. “Then it is a mutual feeling.” You uttered, nails lightly scraping against the nape of his neck.

Aemond had often been deprived of affection — even in his dealings with whores, it was originally Aegon’s design, his will enforced. There was no shared connection with a woman seeking coin and a boy, barely thirteen. He preferred you above all else, warm and tender within his grasp, with no desire to use him to further your station.

He used to believe that the only solace he could find was in himself — until he began seeking you out.

What originally began as an arrangement of convenience, purely lust and instinct, had now spiraled into something more. He shared his past with you, treated you to the inner machinations of his splintered family, and in rare instances, became quite vulnerable. Sentiments be damned, Aemond was beginning to feel affectionate towards you.

The growing connection he shared with you, albeit unorthodox and unexpected, outweighed any previous experience he had. You were his — a precious creature that he intended on savoring forever, if he could. Not many would approve of his hunger for a lowborn girl, but Aemond cared little for it.

Above all, known or unknown, he wanted your love.

Aemond’s lilac eye drifted to your visage, drinking you in as he had many times before. The way you cradled his skull within your hand, your other palm planted firmly against his chest — it was intoxicating. He sank closer, finding comfort in your warmth.

He listened to your heart — the way it excitedly galloped for him, pounded within his ear like the deep lull of a drum. The Prince kissed your collarbone, shifting some of your robes away to reveal the soft expanse of your skin. Perhaps, he hadn’t made it known, but you belonged to him — it would stay that way.

A slight chill caused you to press closer, seeking the warmth of the Dragon Prince. Rain continued to pour outside, with thunder rattling the black, cloudy skies, as powerful as a dragon’s cry. Your hand found his shoulder, digits gently massaging into the broad, sinewy muscle of his clothed shoulder.

The sharp ridge of his nose brushed along your neck, lips following suit as he planted several deliberate kisses against your jugular; underneath your jaw. “Cold?” Aemond inquired, able to feel the icy bite of your flesh as it brushed against his. He felt you shudder — but he wondered if that was from something else.

“Slightly, my Prince.” You confessed, though your body’s physical responses were from his lips, in-tandem with the misty chill from the thunderstorm. The flicker of candlelight danced across his features — narrow and defined, beautiful beyond comparison.

“Hm,” Aemond hummed, dragging his lips around the curve of your jawline, pressing another kiss beneath your ear. His scent filled your nose — spiced herbs, smoke and leather, intermingled with that of a dragon. “Shall I remedy this misfortune?” He uttered, his voice crackling with desire.

He nearly smirked at the sound of your breath hitching within your throat — a delicious response to his shameless flirtation. Aemond’s hand crawled along the length of your leg, grabbing at the end of your robes before slipping underneath. His narrow digits danced along your calf, before finding the pliant meat of your thigh.

“Aemond,” You whispered, shifting within his lap as the Prince continued to kiss your neck. The garment you wore was shoddy and somewhat ill-fitting, and you longed to have it removed. You pressed a kiss against his brow, the one that had the beginnings of a scar. “Please.”

The sensation of your lips against his scar nearly drove him into a frenzy — it did the last time you coupled. Aemond let out a brief huff, detaching his mouth from your throat as he hungrily sought your lips. The kiss was overflowing with desire, his hand slithering against your inner thigh.

His slender digits found the apex between your thighs, swiping over the slick heat of your cunt. It was feather-light and tantalizing, meant to make you squirm, a promise of more to come throughout your night together. You whimpered, feeling his thumb ghost around your clit, splitting past your folds.

You reciprocated the kiss with a flurry of passion, tilting your hips forward toward Aemond’s hand. The playful curve of his mouth was tangible as you kissed him again, reaching to cup his face. The pad of your thumb traced along his cheekbone, feeling his teeth graze along your lower lip.

Aemond shivered beneath your palm, finding the sensation of it to be foreign, yet comforting all the same. He hadn’t removed his eyepatch before, during your previous trysts — the thought of you seeing it somewhat unnerved him. It was often used for intimidation, to terrify others into subservience, but it wasn’t like that with you.

As you pulled your head back just slightly, you pressed a tender kiss against Aemond’s jaw, and then against his cheek — another secured itself atop his eyepatch. You felt the Prince’s breath hitch, a subtle noise that left you wanting more.

His hand stilled between your legs, the other holding just underneath your breast. “It would be unwise to remove it.” Aemond uttered, voice as smooth as silk, and just as tantalizing. There was something forlorn about him, as if he were afraid of you glimpsing upon his face.

“I would never insist upon it, Aemond. Just know that I would never pass judgment,” You replied, tucking several strands of pale, silky hair aside. “You are still just as handsome, just as perfect.” Your soft-spoken reassurance made him flustered, yet he was unwilling to reveal that side of himself.

Admittedly, he considered taking it off then, but he decided against it, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. Your hand drifted to the front of his tunic, lined in an impressive array of metallic buttons, bearing the Targaryen sigil. Aemond found your sentiments to be sweet — just like the rest of you.

Wordlessly, the one-eyed Prince coaxed you to your feet, bringing you toward the roaring hearth, beside the light of a crackling fire. The ground beneath you was covered in the layered pelts of various game, from stags to the thick hide of a bear, cushioned enough to provide a safe landing for the both of you.

Aemond towered over you, svelte and broad-shouldered, hand coming to cup your chin as he kissed you. It was slow and unusually sweet, but much to your disappointment, it was short-lived. His hands moved to the front of your robes, tugging at the rugged laces to loosen the bodice.

He watched you hawkishly, enraptured as the both of you maneuvered the shoddy fabric aside. You pulled it over your head, tossing the garment somewhere behind you. It landed on the stone floor with an unceremonious thud, leaving you bare before the Prince.

It was an exchange, one that Aemond silently complied with as he peeled aside his own tunic, lips twitching into a smirk as you pushed away the leather and fine linen of his undershirt. He was all sinewy muscle and narrow limbs, with a pale musculature that seemed to glow whenever the light touched it.

The both of you gazed at one another, your breathing significantly more labored than his own. Your excitement was palpable, the anticipation stirring within your stomach as arousal pooled between your legs. Aemond hungrily consumed your mouth in a blistering kiss, hands grabbing at your hips and chest.

You reached for his shoulders, arms tossing themselves around the back of his neck, digits raking through his hair. Aemond’s tongue greedily slipped past your parted lips, allowing you to taste him. A low hum of approval rumbled within his throat as you submitted to him, chest blossoming with warmth.

It was all tongue and teeth and want — a dance that finally gave way to carnal desire and primitive instincts. You felt Aemond’s hand grope at your haunch, feeling your pliant flesh as he nipped at your lower lip. The flame of desire glistened within his lilac hue.

“Lie down,” Aemond uttered, his voice becoming a touch gravelly, saturated with lust. He watched as you obeyed, sinking down onto the furs with a flustered expression. He stood over you, reveling in the sight of your body, kissed by fire, legs pulled up at the knee. “You are perfect.”

Perfect — you shuddered, stomach churning with liquid heat as you propped yourself back upon your elbows, palms idly running across the soft furs. Aemond sank down, pressing a hot, needy kiss to your lips before he knelt between your thighs, mouth hungrily returning to your throat.

“Aemond,” You moaned, the noise soft and simpering as he assaulted your neck in passionate kisses. Teeth and tongue worked together, leaving behind a handful of marks, some glaringly obvious. He continued his descent, kissing your collarbone, and then your breast. “Please keep going.” A breathy whine left you, then.

His lips twitched into a smirk as he planted a series of hot kisses around your breast, the other palm preoccupied with groping and kneading into the soft flesh there. Aemond felt your body arch into him, knees squeezing at his narrow hips.

With a stroke of his tongue, the Prince began to suck at the peak of your breast, nose brushing along your sternum. The heat from the flame crawled across your body, leaving you feverishly hot. Aemond’s actions did little to soothe it, igniting the fire within your belly.

Your hands flew toward his crown of pale tresses, digits digging in toward the nape of his neck. The furs brushed against your back as you reclined, stealing glimpses at Aemond, who methodically and reverently worked his way along your body.

“Ao sytilībagon naejot nyke,” Aemond purred, sinking his teeth into the sensitive flesh below your breast, as if to ensure his point was made. That singular lilac hue caught your heady gaze, prompting him to continue his descent. He abandoned your breast with a lasting kiss, mouth traveling along your stomach and hips. “Ñuhon.”

Listening to Aemond’s enchanting High Valyrian made you shudder, allowing it to encompass you. His voice was nothing more than a lascivious purr, meant to entice and tempt you — you were beyond elated to oblige. You watched with doe-like eyes as Aemond kissed your waist, and then your thighs.

His incendiary stare never faltered, and as he pushed his shoulders between your legs, he held it throughout. Aemond listened to the delicious hitch within your throat, the way you preemptively curled your nails into his shoulders — it was intoxicating.

In an unexpected maneuver, Aemond gingerly abandoned the fine leather of his eyepatch, revealing the glistening, sapphire eye, marred-over with an age-old scar. You were dazzled, perplexed by his beauty and the vibrant gleam of the jewel that was permanently socketed into his eye.

As a display of reassurance, your fingers crept from his shoulder to his face, gingerly tracing around his countenance, from eyebrow to cheekbone. Aemond’s subtle exhale of delight signaled his approval, and without warning, he raked his tongue across your cunt.

Your lips fell apart, unable to smother the pleasured whine that escaped you. His tongue raked hot embers across your aching core, delivering a series of deliberate strokes that were sure to make you squirm. Aemond preferred to savor you, consuming every drop of your nectar as if it were the finest of wines.

Those dextrous, spindly hands of his found the pliant flesh of your thighs, hooking underneath to provide a place of rest for your legs. He squeezed slightly, signaling his presence there as he pressed forward. His mouth greedily lapped at your cunt, gliding from the hood of your clit to your entrance.

“Aemond!” A wanton moan tore past your lips, back beginning to arch into his ministrations. The Prince slowed, sharp nose brushing against your mouth as he dipped forward, tongue briefly pushing inside of you. The subtle sensation made you whine, nails dragging themselves across his shoulder.

You were perfect — flesh velveteen beneath his palms, physique begging for more, your pleasure coming to fruition. You were at his mercy, but fortunately, Aemond was feeling most gracious this evening. The echo of the thunderstorm shook the walls a time or two, but it all became atmospheric, simply background noise.

With one hand fisted within his platinum tresses, the other scratched haplessly at his shoulder, nails leaving behind reddish crescents as he flicked his tongue across your clit. The sensation was fleeting, but he sought to drag it out, lips greedily pursing around the pearl of your cunt.

Another breathy moan left you, stomach pooling with a rush of molten heat. It oozed between your legs as your arousal fell upon the Prince’s tongue, much to his delight. He did not waste a drop, mouth traveling wherever he pleased, lapping at every inch of your cunt.

His throat echoed with a low growl, hands grabbing at your thighs. He traced his tongue around your clit, teasing you with feather-light jolts of bliss. You let out a whine, occasionally writhing atop the furs, head lolled back in a display of pure ecstasy.

Aemond’s subtle groan of delight reverberated throughout him whenever you tugged on his tresses, forcing him further into the warm embrace between your thighs. He pressed a string of kisses along your clit, as if he were worshiping you. He enjoyed your greed — if anything, he wanted to indulge you.

The warm lick of the hearth danced across your flesh, seeping into your very bones. Perspiration dotted your brow, jaw tight as Aemond ogled you from between your legs, like a svelte predator, poised for the kill. “You’re perfect, Aemond.” You exhaled, noticing the subtle twinkle in his lilac eye.

That familiar cheshire smirk of his returned; your sweetly-spoken compliments and shower of praise clearly satiated Aemond. He kissed your thigh, breath hot as it fanned across your aching core. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.” His voice was cajoling, playful as he nipped at your hip.

You squirmed, becoming desperate for a release, one that your Prince seemed to dangle before your eyes like a carrot on a stick. “Please,” You moaned, digits tightening within his tresses, a subtle signal to continue. “Please, Aemond!” With such an urgent plea from a sweet mouth, Aemond couldn’t resist you.

It seemed that begging would get you places — Aemond thoroughly savored every second of it. Your lust mirrored his own, perhaps subdued, but it was a raging desire nonetheless. He placed another string of kisses against your inner thighs, gazing at you with an incendiary fondness.

Sluggishly, he descended to your cunt once more, dragging the flat of his tongue along your slit in one broad stroke. With a shiver, your hips rolled forward, eased into submission by Aemond’s hands, which happened to lock you into place as he swarmed forward.

He drank you in, tongue greedily flicking between your weeping core and clit, until he began to apply that same pressure as before. His thin lips pursed around the pearl of your cunt, suckling on the clutch of sensitive nerves until it drove you mad, back arching from the furs.

By the Seven, the things Aemond did to you.

There was a fervor in his ministrations, a ravenous hunger that threatened to tear you asunder. His tongue lapped at your core, interchanging with those brief moments of his lips latched around your clit. You whimpered, thighs pressing on either side of his head.

“Aemond,” You sighed with passion, fisting his silky tresses until you tugged him closer, burying his face within the warmth of your cunt. Aemond didn’t seem to mind, treating you with another barrage of suckling and kisses until you were spent. “Fuck.”

Your unholy mouth made Aemond shudder, groping at your thighs as he brought you to climax. Your release was bittersweet upon his tongue, the most sinful taste imaginable — yet he never claimed to be a pious man. He worked tirelessly to clean you up, cock aching within the confines of his leather trousers.

As you rode the pleasurable high of your release, your body unfurled, the tension within your stomach coming to a halt. A molten bliss wept between your legs, soothed by the cool lick of Aemond’s tongue. Your tryst was far from finished — you had more left to give.

In a coiled, poised fashion, Aemond moved from between your legs, prepared to untie the strings of his trousers and sink himself into you, but you stopped him, placing your palms against the plane of his chest. His musculature was lean and narrow, almost spider-like.

Aemond did not make a sound, watching as you rocked up onto your knees, thighs quivering as you eased him down onto his back — the same position you had been trapped in moments prior. He was enraptured, lilac eye glued to you as if you were heaven sent, a goddess coming to claim him for yourself.

You tossed one leg over him, thighs straddling those spindly hips of his, palms dragging across his shoulders, his chest, his abdomen — wherever you could reach. Aemond shivered beneath the intensity of your embrace, lips quirked into the ghost of a smirk, a look of perplexity to mask his desire to submit to you.

“Tell me you want this,” You whispered, nails lightly raking themselves toward his breeches, not daring to go any further until Aemond offered you his consent on the matter. He was often on top of you, domineering and incredibly energetic, but this was different — for him, and for you. “Say the word and you can have me elsewhere.”

The subtle bob of his throat wasn’t easy to spot, masked by shadow, one half of his countenance basked in the glow of the firelight. His sparkling sapphire gazed at you for an eternity, the other drifting across your supple physique, seated atop him as if you’d mounted a stallion.

His hands came to rest atop your thighs, splayed out, possessively groping your pliant flesh. “I want you,” Aemond uttered, his voice a delicious purr, an octave full of an unrestrained lust. “In whatever way that is.” He quite enjoyed this position — he liked seeing you in all of your beauty, bared before him.

With a gentle smile, your digits began to unravel the ties of his trousers, gracing across his hip bones. It was enough to make him shudder, even if the action was barely noticeable. Together, you and Aemond removed the rest of his clothing — and there he was.

He was a beautiful creature, all lanky musculature and pale flesh, stringy and angular. Everything about him was sharp, like the edge of a blade. Aemond was charming, enchanting to you whether he realized it or not. It was enough to prompt you to lean forward, pressing a string of kisses along his collarbone.

“My Prince,” You murmured into his skin, your nose nuzzling underneath the sharp slope of his jaw. You kissed him there, listening to the hitch in his throat. Aemond hummed, lips curling into something of a perplexed line as his hands wandered about your frame, ensuring to touch and caress every curve, every part of you. “My Prince.”

Aemond turned his head, the movement precise and not at all coincidental. His lips captured yours in a feverish kiss, his cock eagerly pressing against your slick cunt. You gasped, feeling the length of it tempt you as he had several times before, but this time, he grabbed your chin, ogling you with his lilac hue.

He wanted to watch your face as you sank yourself onto him, briefly grabbing his cock in order to guide it to your aching slit. The pleasure that blossomed across your countenance was a sight to behold, and you were met with the familiar tilt of his mouth, a fire smoldering within his gaze as he bucked upwards.

His cock speared you with a suddenness, causing you to moan as you adjusted yourself, rocking up onto your knees. Aemond’s palms held your thighs, and he was more than willing to do some of the work, unwilling to let you tire yourself.

It was mesmerizing to see you on top of him like this, breasts full and lovely, softly jostling with each movement. Your flesh was velveteen, pure perfection cast in the sienna glow of the hearth. The fire was dying, but the lust between you and Aemond was far from extinguished.

Your palms fell flat atop his abdomen, finding your purchase there as you began to ride him. It was sluggish and erratic, at first — you let out a soft moan whenever Aemond moved too, using his strength to meet you halfway. His hips lurched forward, cock thrusting into your cunt several times over.

A string of wanton whines and moans escaped you in droves, feeling his grasp on your thighs tighten. He was quite enamored with you, especially like this — there was no sweeter feeling. He continued to buck up into you whenever he could, sheathing himself inside of you, possessing you from below.

Aemond’s visage contorted into one of shared satisfaction, shifting from indiscernible to pleasurable. He sat up just enough to be within reach of you, hips pushing up to meet the downward fall of your body, his cock buried deep inside of you.

“Aemond,” You exhaled, tossing your arms around his shoulders, feeling one of his hands wander from your thigh to your waist, colliding into you with a passionate fervor. The pace you set was sporadic and needy, wanton with desire as you rode him, your movements attempting to temper themselves. “Kiss me.”

That breathy plea of yours was enough to make Aemond submit, lips claiming yours again in an achingly slow, heated kiss. The feeling of your tight cunt around him, slick and warm, made him groan. He was desperate to keep a rhythmic pace, if that were even possible.

Flesh collided against flesh, and you felt Aemond’s mouth pry itself away from yours, creeping toward the column of your throat. He kissed your jugular, face buried within the hollow between your neck and shoulder. You continued your conquest, rocking up and down along his length, nails digging into his shoulder.

Aemond coaxed you backward, wanting you on your back for the final moments of your coupling. You were swift, slumped back down within the furs as the Prince seized your haunch, spreading your legs by bullying himself between them as he had before.

His thrusts became a touch rougher, chasing after a release as he began to rut into you, cock reaching the threshold as he filled your cunt. Strands of pale hair fell around his face, brow glistening with a thin layer of perspiration.

You gasped, back arching as you hitched one leg around his hips, grabbing at his biceps. Aemond’s pace intensified, turning into something carnal and primal, need outweighing sensibility. Lewd noises filled his chamber — the clash of flesh, the sound of your entangled panting and groans of ecstasy.

Wordlessly, he sought your mouth, kissing you with a blistering force that made your head spin with delirium. You reciprocated with passion, feeling his tongue split past your lips, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. Your teeth snagged across his lower lip, enough to make Aemond’s throat echo with a faint growl.

Between the tangle of teeth and tongue, bodies becoming one, you rolled your hips in-tandem with Aemond’s sharp, brutal thrusts. “Don’t stop.” You whispered, wanting him to chase after his release, feeling the pleasurable pulsations between your thighs.

Aemond let out a soft grunt, cock burying itself within you over and over again, precum slathering your insides. The sensation of your cunt around him was perfection — he wanted more of you, all of you. You felt his hand snake around your throat, cupping beneath your jaw as he squeezed just enough to make you whine.

He was relentless, pounding into you with an obvious desperation that only furthered your desire for him. You gripped his shoulders, bringing yourself as close as you could, any sliver of distance beginning to dissipate, eclipsed by conjoined bodies and shared bliss.

At last, his countenance contorted into one of complete and utter pleasure, pale brows furrowed in concentration, violet-colored eye closing for just a moment. His cock throbbed inside of you, brazenly spilling himself wherever he saw fit. He pulled out halfway through, painting your thighs in a sticky sheen of glistening seed.

With a huff of finality, Aemond kissed your jaw, removing himself from you long enough to retrieve one of the many blankets draped across the foot of his bed. You watched him in rapturous silence, the way his physique moved, sinewy muscle highlighted by the flicker of a fading fire.

You cleaned yourself up, feeling Aemond return as he draped the blanket within your lap. As the hearth began to die, the chill of his chambers became evident, thunder rattling overhead, accompanied by the onslaught of a cold deluge. He rekindled the flame, wordlessly slinking down to curl next to you.

Strewn beside the fire, Aemond’s head came to rest atop your sternum, arm draped across your midsection. You held him, kept him close — it provided a sense of vulnerability that made you truly believe that he was yours. You stroked his hair, surprised that he hadn’t asked for you to leave.

“Whenever you wish for me to depart, say the word, my Prince.” You uttered, feeling him tighten his hold upon you. Aemond gazed listlessly into the flames, lilac hue half-lidded as you continued to caress the crown of his head. He didn’t want to go anywhere.

“No,” Aemond’s command was sharp and punctuated, despite the softness of his tone, something that demanded you yield to him. “I want you here.” He uttered, shivering when your other hand traced along what expanse of his spine you could reach.

Prepared to make your vigil beside Aemond, you settled, leaning into him just as he careened into you. The silence was eerily comforting, lulled by the atmospheric backdrop of the thunderstorm. You always enjoyed the aftermath — you enjoyed holding Aemond, most of all. It made you feel cherished in a different way, one that others might not have understood.

You shifted forward, burying your lips atop the pale crown of Aemond’s skull, letting it linger beyond the boundaries of chastity. He exhaled, body fully curled against yours, half of him reclining against you, the other half left to soak in the crackling warmth of the fire.

As your digits tenderly traced the muscle of his forearm, Aemond finally broke the silence once more, happy to let you stroke his hair. “I have always been different, teased and ridiculed,” He lamented, a twinge of melancholy within his voice. “Underestimated, most of all.”

It was a rare glimpse into the window of Aemond’s being — the man that craved love and affection, longed to be thought of as important. After Storm’s End, his mother had cast her frustrations and scorn down upon him, condescending and detached.

A gentle exhale escaped him as you stroked along the angular slope of his jaw, turning his head away from the fire and toward you. You looked down upon him, this man capable of ruthlessness and cunning, and saw the threads of a shattered youth — of someone who longed to feel a tender touch.

“Those who’ve attempted to slight me have always fallen so short of the mark,” Aemond uttered, a vague reference to the Velaryon boy that he had wrongfully slaughtered. He had some regrets about that one, but he hoped that it would cement his strength — he was the rider of Vhagar, and even then, it never felt like enough. “Hm.”

He seemed incredibly comfortable like this, pressed into your warmth, his cheek nestling against your collarbone. You continued to trace along the smooth plane of his musculature, allowing your digits to finally brush underneath his scarred, sapphire eye.

“You feel cold,” You hummed, noticing the way in which he absentmindedly leaned into your palm, allowing you to fully cup his face. “You are strong, Aemond — resilient and cunning. It is not my place to speak of your family, but I’ve come to know you, and I know that you are stronger than all of them.”

Bristling underneath the sweetly-spoken purr of your praises, Aemond kept his arm draped around you, the other coming to rest underneath your breast. The pad of his thumb graced your silky flesh, and he wanted to stay like this forever, if he could.

Aemond regarded you with a forlorn intensity, one that still danced with a subtle frustration, intermingled with his growing sense of possessiveness towards you. He kissed your palm, and then placed a kiss against your chest, ear pressed to the beating swell of your heart.

“I do not feel different with you,” Aemond uttered, able to listen to the little flutter within your chest, the steady gallop of your heart. “I do not want that to change.” His tone became solemn, and you simply coaxed him closer, allowing him to use the crook of your elbow as a place to rest, fingers raking through his hair.

“It won’t change, my Prince.” Your reassurance was gentle, as saccharine as the finest honey. Aemond’s hum was one of contentment as he crawled forward, head resting against your shoulder instead, allowing him to better hold onto you just as you held him.

Silence passed between you, accompanied by the brief crackle of dried tinder atop the logs, the light of burning embers dancing before you both. He kissed your jaw again, the slope of his nose brushing around your neck as he peered towards the flames.

Again, you felt your breath hitch when Aemond held tightly to you, lifting his head just enough to gaze down upon you. Your countenance was captivating — beautiful beyond compare, awestruck of his appearance. His lilac hue flickered across your face, drinking in the doe-like look you had before he hummed.

The ghost of an indiscernible expression fluttered across his features — incredibly subtle, yet present nonetheless. “I certainly hope not.” He murmured, lips molding themselves to yours, and then to the corner of your mouth before he resumed his former position.

You kissed the top of his head once more, cradling him as you would something fragile. You knew that Aemond’s insecurities resurfaced often, but now, they seemed far more prevalent. Regardless, your affection for him wouldn’t waver — you worried that he wouldn’t feel the same for you, however.

Unbeknownst to you, Aemond already possessed you, body and soul — and that was more dangerous than any blade or any dragon.

copyright @ swordgrace / please do not post or translate my works onto other platforms.

[cruel-hiraeth]

It’s hard to focus when Zoro trains.

But you join him in the crow’s nest anyway, seeking solace in the comfort of his quiet company. You don’t often share words, but you do share space—share the same, balmy air to breathe, sea salt coating your tongues.

And that’s enough, you think. I could live a content life like this.

Your eyes drift, though.

From your book, your notepad, your camera—any distraction that you may have in front of you. Because, well, how could you not look?

He’s half nude, body carved from stone, a figure that would make even the gods jealous. From the expanse of his back to the heft of his pecs to the cut of his abs, he’s the picture of physical perfection, sweat trickling down his firm, tawny flesh in rivulets.

It’s hard to focus on one thing when Zoro trains.

But, more often than not, your gaze seem to hone in on his hands.

(Once, you pressed your palm to his, heel to heel, after sharing too much sake. Your skin was warm from both the alcohol and the proximity. His cheeks were flushed, too—a shade of pink that reminded you of the blooming sakura in Wano. His hand dwarfed yours, and made your fingers look puny like a child’s.)

Whether he’s holding dumbbells or—as he is now—his katana, you marvel at both the strength and dexterity of his calloused palms, the way they curl around the hilt with assuredness, never wavering, white-knuckled. Each of his digits must maintain their poise, suspending the blade in its grip, absolute control the difference between life and death.

His past missteps are obvious: gnarled scars cut across the expanse of his body, his hands no exception. As battle-worn as the rest of his flesh, his hands tell a story: of purpose; of betrayal; of bloodshed; of hope. They are implements of war; they have wrought injury and death, wrath and ruin.

But they are also shockingly gentle.

A door held open to let you pass through. A palm on your shoulder to let you know he’s there. An overfull cup of sake passed without a spill…

You lose yourself in thoughts of Zoro, Zoro, Zoro. So much so that you fail to notice the swordsman’s not-so-subtle glances in your direction. He stifles a chuckle at the dreamy expression on your face, and returns to his training.

He may not be able to decipher the longing behind your watch, but your attention is always welcome, as far as he’s concerned.

[mechncheese]

I’m thinking of making a fanfiction focusing on Thundercracker through his life, and mostly inspired by your Au!

Would you read the fic if I finish it?

I wanted to know if you could tell me more of the fallout of Thundercracker with the decepticons?

YES ABSOLUTELY I WOULD LOVE TO READ A THUNDERCRACKER-CENTRIC FIC !

Here's more about my Science AU TC and his fallout with the Decepticons, it's basically the rundown of what I had in mind for him but you're free to alter or change it as you please !

It's no secret to any of the Decepticons that Thundercracker wasn't really fitting in. He did his job well enough but between him, Starscream and Skywarp, he was the weakest link. He never socialized well with the others and he usually kept to himself or within his trine. The trick to surviving in the Decepticons was not drawing attention to yourself and remaining as small as possible. When talking, it always seems like his mind wandered elsewhere and when the war was escalating, the reality was setting in for Thundercracker that this was his life. To cope, Thundercracker would sneak away during routine patrols to look for datapads in abandoned buildings or in rubble. He started a collection and he invested himself in reading whenever he had the free time. Eventually, he also started writing, inspired by the contents of what he's read. It started as diary entries at first but his writing gradually became works of fiction, fantasies of running away, or a world where his life didn't revolve around destruction and bloodshed. That's when he started getting bolder and speaking up against his given orders when he would usually be complacent. Starscream lashed out at him a couple times for it and Skywarp warned him that this kind of behavior is how bots get killed. This was war after all, not some fairytale, and they needed soldiers not dreamers. During a meeting with the seekers and Megatron, Thundercracker had refused Megatron's orders and even challenged his ideas. This escalated from arguing, to shouting, to violence. Thundercracker and Megatron fought against each other and it quickly drew an audience. Of course, Thundercracker lost but not without doing some decent damage to Megatron. Thundercracker ended up losing an arm from the fight and ran off, defecting from the Decepticons entirely.

[ghostheartfelt]

*:･｡☆ warnings: heavy gore, torture, hurt/comfort, whump, s/a towards reader, men being gross, gunshot wounds, stab wounds, blood and violence, branding (torture method), waterboarding (torture method), reader (thaye) is a badass, first kiss, dismemberment of fingers, eye trauma, protective!ghost, implications of smut/sex, aftermaths of torture. (there is probably a lot i missed, but idc lol all the other shit should b enough warning!!) 〔☆〕 desc: you and the 141 are deployed to austria with the intel of a drug boss known as rolmuth who is harboring romanian soldiers to the east coast to smuggle illegal mercenary personnel into america. what happens when a rapid snowstorm picks up and you (callsign 'thaye') are separated from the others then further captured and interrogated alongside your lieutenant?

—✩ PHANTOM TOUCH ✩—

word count —15.6k

a/n: sorry for my inactivity! the entire time i was workin on this shit... let me tell you.. this is 51 pages on google docs LMAO so i hope the length and word count makes this fat fucking hurt/comfort one shot worth it.

VIENNA, AUSTRIA.

“Move, move, move!” Price yells.

Snow fell and blanketed the ground beneath you, you were dressed in white camouflage tactical gear. 

Your movements were slower as you trudged yourself through the snow, you turned in every direction searching for your captain. 

Your lieutenant. 

Anybody. 

Rapid snowy winds smacked you in the face, nearly forcing your eyes shut as you traveled through the gusts. 

“Soap?!” You shout, planting your feet below into the patches of snow, 

Your arms raise to cover your face. 

“Fuck!” 

“Thaye!” A voice echoed through the snow that encased you in a blanket of long silence. 

Snow nestled into the ground below—everything around you seems to just slow down.

You traipse yourself heavily through the thickness around you as you snap a clip into your M4 carbine, swinging it behind you like it had been previously.

Thump.

Your head droops down and you feel your heart drop into your stomach seeing the body of one of the men you were deployed with face up.

His head four inches deep in the snow and his right eye completely destroyed, his chest marred with several bullet wounds.

The root of his nose is fractured to the point where it’s flattened into what’s left of his skull. 

You swallow the knot in your throat that might have also been barf trying to make its way out of you, kneeling down to peel the soldier’s dog tags off of his corpse.

Hudson “Scooter” Wheeler. 

It makes you smile slightly, your thumb dragging over the metal tag to wipe off the thickness of blood that had coated the carving of his name.

“I’m sorry, Wheeler.” 

The loss of fallen soldiers leave footprints and engravings on one’s heart that never allows them to be the same, again. 

You wished sometimes you could just be without the worry about who you have to lose and who you have to save. 

Restless nights followed by mornings and afternoons full of nothing but unpromised resolutions. You nearly felt as if insanity would be a better route than going through the pain of losing the people you stood side by side with, enduring the effects of grief, bloodshed, and war.

Although there were moments of bonding and camaraderie that were forced to turn into utter gore and distrust due to the change of the objective that deemed those to turn against one another in hopes of survival and success. 

Pride; a fickle sense that could drive an individual to the depths of madness and create a staked claim to prove more power then they own or deserve.

You didn’t understand it. Nor did you want to. 

You were left in a society where the drabness of gray ruled the world and pain of loss clenched to the soldier’s  hearts almost desperately. 

And yet that perpetual colour of gray; a colour so dull but so compelling, it still lights the depths of hell you lived in by merely a petite dose.

Your mouth had begun to feel tacky with your muscles stiffening as the weather conditions intensify by every fleeting moment. 

Inside your combat boots, you feel your feet begin to grow numb; similar to the feeling of stepping on fresh-cut grass and grazing dull needles. 

Now, you wonder what hypothermia would feel like. You weren’t used to this sort of weather. 

Even under your white half-face balaclava, you felt your lips and their absence of moisture. 

Still, you trekked forward, squinting eyes searching for any sign of life around you.  

Your face lights up at the sight of a shadow-like movement through the blistering storm and rapid winds once you wipe off the frost lingering on your goggles. 

They moved closer—it seemed to be one person. 

There’s a tree to your left—your legs manage to jerk themselves through the snow until you're beside it.

You cautiously lower your body into the snowpack below you, clutching your rifle in your grip while your eyes fixate on the moving figure ahead of you. 

Your finger grazes over the trigger of your carbine rifle.

A leg comes before the torso, then the face. 

The skull mask.

Ghost.

Relief washes over you immediately—raising to your knees.

“Lieutenant!” You call. 

His head immediately snaps in your direction, and the time spent staring at each other seemed everlasting, though in reality it was just a few seconds before his large hand was squeezing your shoulder and he was right in front of you.

“Thought we lost’ya,” Ghost rasps.

“What’s the sitrep?” 

“Enemy force has ordnance on standby—Price ordered all units to the West Safehouse,” he says.

You nod softly. 

“Why’d you hang back?” 

His eyes widen under his balaclava and you open your mouth to speak—Ghost tugs you by your vest, pulling you to the side.

“Gh—“

There’s a person behind him.

Sounds muffle around you, complete silence surrounding you as Ghost’s head is slammed with the butt of a rifle. 

Your hands reach down to pull your handgun from off of your hip, pointing it towards his attacker, squeezing on the trigger and unhesitantly dropping him to the ground before he can double back and finish him off.

No words leave your mouth as you turn in one quick jerk, the barrel of a L1A1 being aimed between your eyes. 

Not even seconds later was the thick handle of a bowie knife met with the back of your head. 

Immediately, your body meets with the snow, and you feel the coldness of the snow over your mask. 

You struggle to pick up your head, pain surging in the back of your head enough to blur your vision. 

Keeping your eyes open was a challenge—they constantly blink shut as you watch the enemy force yell at each other, manhandling Ghost by ripping his weapon sling off of him and dragging him by his fur-lined parka. 

His body was dragged up into a Humvee and roughly thrown in before you were picked up by your ankles and wrists and tossed right on top of him.

Your head slumps against Ghost’s bicep as you're washed up by incapacity, your mind fogging against your will. Enervation holds you captive and sweeps you off your feet. 

You’re met with blackness, next, yet the only thing you could think of was your failure to protect your superior.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

You awoke to the sounds of struggling—something teetering on the floor. 

It takes a moment for you to come to your senses and stir from unconsciousness, eyes fluttering open to take in your surroundings.

The ever-present smell of waste and deteriorated flesh smacks you with reminiscence, the overbearing cold, the taste of grime, blood, and bile in your mouth. 

When you go to move your hands, they’re immobile; binded by thick ropes that with your state of exhaustion and physical weakness, would be impossible to escape from. 

Your heavy head manages to shift for oneself to observe the room—your gear was purloined, leaving you in your cargos and a tank-top.  

Below you, the ground was concrete and stained with blood that led to the large metal door that had a closed hatch. 

Vaguely, you recall in short and brief flashes why you were there, your eyes shutting for a few moments before opening once again.

Ghost.

Where was Ghost?

“Lieutenant,” you cough. “Ghost, wh—“ 

“‘M here, kid.” Ghost wheezes. “To’yr left.” 

Your head turns, stopping at the sight of his mask on the concrete, blood smeared across the maw of the skull, over the eye socket. 

“Ghost, are you injured?” 

“No.” 

Slowly, your eyes trace up the ground beneath you until Ghost’s boots are in view. 

His soles skid against the ground as he attempts to drag the dentist chair he’s strapped in. “Fuck!”

You shift in your wooden seat in an attempt to reach your hand down to pull up the velcro flaps of your cargos. You couldn’t reach.

Ghost’s boots stop skidding against the floor as the metal door’s rusted hinges creak, the door being flung open to welcome a man inside—three other men were behind him holding military grade rifles with drum magazines.

The man inside the room raises his hand, offering departure in the Hindi language, to which his men shut the door behind him.

His arms were wrapped behind his back, the sound of his heavy boots echoing off of the thick stone walls. 

He walks around the room for a while, allowing you to raise your head to take in who he was.

A European man that’s approximately 184 centimeters with long pushed back shaggy dark hair; his eyebrows arched, a bushy beard. 

On his cheek, a nasty deep laceration scar that reaches the end of his eyebrow. Under his left eye, another scar reaches the bridge of his nose. 

The man is inches from your face, now, a tilt in his head. 

“We see how long it takes to break you, Sergeant.”  His eyes crinkled as his lips upturned in a depraved smile. 

He lifts himself from his bent position, grips the crest rail of the chair, and pulls you farther from Ghost.

“Who is your commanding officer?” He asks, feet spread apart as he looks down at you to assert his dominance.

“Fuck you.” You bite back.

The man’s hand roughly takes hold of your chin, tilting your head up towards the dangling ceiling light. 

“I eat boys like you for breakfast.” 

Ghost chuckles beside you.

His eyes narrow as he releases a choked scoff, his head swinging back before bursting into laughter.

“My drug ring reigns across the entire country—my men swarm all city.” 

His accent is thick, though his English  isn’t terrible. 

“It is either you tell me now and you and friend die quick, or you die slow of bleeding until we find on our own.” 

“Good fuckin’ luck,” Ghost grunts.

You swallow thickly, groaning as the man pulls your head back by the scalp of your hair. 

You purse your lips as you collect saliva from the walls of your mouth, spitting just above the man’s eyebrow and watching as the gob runs down over his eye.

He snarls, dragging an open hand down his face. Using that same hand, the male flexes his hand into a fist and socks you in the jaw. 

“Hey!” Ghost shouts. 

You hear it pop and you immediately outstretch your neck and slam your forehead into the bridge of his nose, arms jerking in an attempt to escape your restraints. “You motherfucker!”

He lets out a groan, his head flinging back as blood streams down his nostrils, his hand trembling over his nose.

“Bitch! Madarchod! Bevakooph veshya…” He hisses through clenched teeth. “Broke my nose!” 

His palm smacks you across the face so hard, a pinkish red hue starts blossoming across your cheek. He repeats it again, then again, and again. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself as numbness circles inside the flesh of your cheek, a similar feeling to those static electricity globes that you’d get for your twelfth birthday and press all five of your fingertips against.

“Hey! This is between you an’ me, a’right?” Your lieutenant gives a sharp nod, trying to reason with the man. 

He stares at Ghost for a few moments, squeezing his fingers in his fist before leaving the room, the door slamming loudly behind him.

You take the moment to actually look at Ghost, your eyes taking in his features entirely.

From his long and messy dirty blonde undercut, to his shade and stubble. 

To his bruised and bloodied lips and the thick scar running from his top lip to the underside of his chin.

To his thick and beautiful eyebrows, the scar on the start of his left eyebrow, running down to the bridge of his nose.

To his deep and all familiar brown eyes—long and light eyelashes accompanying their shape.

To the scar that spread out from the right inner corner of his lip and across his cheek as if it was the engravings of a smile line.

There were several scars littered across the male’s face; each one of vast distinction from the other. 

Once again, the door thrusts open and the man returns, cotton wads up his nostrils with another male by his side, pushing in a rolling mayo stand with different tools and items you assumed were torture devices.

“Hey! Hey! What’re y’doing?” Ghost jerks in his seat, his eyebrows furrowing as the man picks up a syringe, flicking the glass and squeezing out a droplet of the liquid inside. “What th’fuck is that?”

“You will have your answer soon enough,” he simply replies. 

“Agarwal—blade.”

The second man grabs the rotary tool from off the tray, a saw blade in the other. 

Your hands tug against their bindings enough to chafe your wrists, it feels as if your skin is being shredded with a cheese grater. 

“Paip rinch, ab.”  The taller man holds out his arm, to which the man who was now identified as Agarwal hands him a pipe wrench.

“English, asshole.” You grunt.

He slings it over his shoulder and slowly walks towards Ghost as he whistles. 

Ghost’s eyes don’t avert from his gaze, even as the pipe wrench drops from off his shoulder to clatter on the floor, hanging from his wrist and dragging along the ground.

“Who…is…your…superior?” His voice is grim, each word coming out as he takes a step.

Using the hook jaw of the wrench, he lifts Ghost’s chin.

“Piss off,” the blonde huffs.

Not even seconds later does the man swing the wrench around and belt it into his stomach. Ghost lets out a wheeze, his body lurching over in reaction to the sudden pain coursing through him. 

“No!” You yell. 

“Who.” He asks again with spite in his tone—he was demanding, it no longer was a question in his favor.

“You’ll know who when he comes’a knockin’ ‘n blows lead thru th’lot of ya.” Ghost says with a slight raise in his head.

The wrench is swung back into his stomach, causing Ghost to hurl and expel vomit onto his boots.

“Leave him the fuck alone!” You kick yourself forward a bit using your boots. Agarwal’s hands grip the slat of the chair and pull you back towards the tray.

“No, no,” he nearly coos, yanking your head back by the thinner group of hairs on the nape of your neck. 

You clench your jaw and subside, lifting yourself up with your hips to help avoid the pain.

His eye’s strain, beads of sweat rolling down the end strands of his hair regardless of how cold it was inside of the formidable room.

“Get me my player,” the bearded man says as he trails his 12” redwood handle knife across Ghost’s jawline.

Agarwal’s hand releases your hair to your relief and he leaves the room. 

“Disgusting—“ the male snarls. “Making mess of my floor.”

Your eyes narrow as you watch a pool of blood start to form as he slashes Ghost’s cheek, a groan spilling from your lieutenant’s throat.

“Fuck you ‘n y’r floor,” Ghost coughs. 

He drops the wrench to the floor, then uses a rag that was hanging out of his pocket to swipe off the blood from the knife’s blade.

Two men walk in, one pushing in a record player and the other holding a tactical vest and a book.

Your vest and your book.

His name patch reads “Gamble”, the one who throws your vest and the book onto the floor. 

“Rolmuth, the woman—she has had access to our radio frequency and has been writing down our shipment codes and locations.” 

Ghost’s head raises, his pupils shrunken as he takes in the sight of the morse code book. 

The man holding the knife cracks his head in your direction before proceeding towards you.

“Thaye…” he susurrated.

You don’t flinch when his arms raise to swing the knife over towards your temple, a maniacal laugh escaping through the barriers of Rolmuth’s teeth. 

The knife lowers to release one of your hands, though before you can reach for anything, he slams your arm backward against the back leg of the chair, the feeling of your bones snapping beneath your skin causes you to let out a sharp, excruciating cry as your now-broken arm falls limp to your side.

“Thaye!” Ghost shouts. “Fuckin’ bastard…” 

“How?!” Rolmuth yelled through his teeth, lips drawn back in a snarl as he nearly foamed out of his mouth. 

His fist meets with your cheek and your eyes squeeze together in grimace to the pain as he punches you again. 

Ghost calls out your name and you can hear the metal of his chair scrape and grind against the ground. 

You feel your cheek begin to swell, the tender flesh on your face blooming into purple and blue bruises.

He walks to the record player and takes a record out of its sleeve that was resting on the shelf of the small table the player was brought in on. It has wheels on it—similar to the mayo tray.

Rolmuth blows on the record, though the sleeve looks too clean to hold any dust, then places the record on the platter. After pressing play, he drops the tone arm down.

The record scratching sends chills up and down your spine before the music almost beautifully fills the room.

Why does the sun go on shining?

You watch Rolmuth pick up a pair of pliers.

Why does the sea rush to shore?

You wonder if he’s going to try to rip out your teeth.

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world,

He clasps them around one of your fingers on your broken arm.

Fuck.

The cold metal around your finger makes you nearly want to cry.

‘Cause you don’t love me anymore?

He was going to rip off your finger.

“Who is your captain?” His hand squeezes the pliers, applying pressure to your singular finger. 

“Go…to hell—“ 

A scream rips itself from your throat as you feel your sinew and flesh tear, the pliers tearing your finger from off your bone.

“Tha’s enough!” Ghost jerks and flails in his seat, there’s a sip of panic in his voice. “Get th’fuck off of her!” 

Why do the birds go on singing? 

Rolmuth wriggled the rest of your finger off, your eyes daring to skim down to look at the bone sticking out from your knuckle. 

Blood spews out of the gore, coating your entire hand and dripping from the crevices of your skin into your lap, staining your cargos, turning their white color into several distinct shades of red.

Rolmuth sets the finger—your finger down lightly on the standing metal tray besides you. 

Why do the stars glow above?

A penetrating ringing fills your ears; one so loud it felt like it’d be the cause of your tears instead of the pain surging through the entire left side of your body.

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?

You’re in shock, unable to speak. Your jaw is locked, your teeth are clenched so hard it feels as if you might shatter your teeth. 

It ended when I lost your love. 

Ghost’s voice echoes in the back of your mind, when he calls out your name, you’re pulled out of your trance. You jerk your slumping head up.

You want to call out his name, but it seems like your throat is swallowing every little word that is being screamed inside of your head. 

The room is spinning and you can’t feel your arm, you can’t feel the finger move that was just severed from your hand.

“Look at me, look at me, love…” your lieutenant simpers. 

Your eyes search the room until they land on Ghost’s, he sounds far away. You feel your eyes widen as cold metal wraps around another finger once again. 

Why does my heart go on beating?

Rolmuth’s lips close in near your ear as he tugs lightly at your middle finger. 

“You don’ want to lose this finger, do you?” You feel the man’s hot breath run up the side of your face and brush past your ear.

“Who…is…your...captain?” 

Why do these eyes of mine cry?

Every nerve in your body seized, your spine stiffening with every urge to kill the man standing beside you. 

Ghost coughs up blood; internal bleeding. 

“I’ll fu…cking…skin you…” you croak, your words finally becoming coherent.

He laughs. Rolmuth’s single arm raises in a humorous gesture of surrender. 

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?

Your eyes squeeze shut, though shoot open at the rush of heat, the pliers applying clutched pressure to your finger before Rolmuth started ripping off the second finger, wiggling it until it broke off skin and sinew. 

It ended when you said “goodbye.” 

“Look at me, Thaye.” Ghost’s voice sounds desperate, so you offer him a short glance as your jaw slacks and your body retracts.

Your strained eyes snapping to the bearded man as he places down your middle finger on top of your pointer finger.

A gag surfaces in your throat and your body twitches as you watch your finger fall and roll almost as if it’s the most natural thing. 

Ghost yells your name again.

You finally focus on him, your eyes welling up, reddening and puffing against your will.

“Jus’ look at me, angel,” Ghost’s silked voice calms you, although in a manner you can’t hear him as well as you want to. 

Every muscle and ligament inside of you feels tense and stuck.

Why does my heart go on beating?

You had three fingers on your left hand—three fingers.

Thumb, pinkie, ring. Thumb, pinkie, ring. Thumb, pinkie, ring.

“Y’ll kill her, she’s losin’ too much blood—she’s goddamn delirious!”  

Gamble’s fist barrels into the side of Ghost’s head, you hear a feral groan leave his gullet.

At least I can still put a wedding ring on my left hand. You thought.

Those three fingers trembled and twitched, it was the only movement on the left side of your body besides for your left eye—is he going to take one of my eyes? Your head is swarming with thoughts.

“Ghost…” you slur, still locked onto the blonde’s eyes. 

“I know, love,” he says as gently as he physically can. “So proud of’y…” 

His speech comes out as a garble, but you’re still able to understand him. 

“‘M gon’ get us outta here…alive, a’right?” 

Your head slumps at the attempt of a nod. 

“Save y’r energy, lovie.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Agarwal grips Ghost’s earlobe, pulling him closer. You’re not able to cognize his words, but you’re aware of the vexation in his countenance. 

You flinch once Rolmuth drops the pliers on the metal tray. He removes his latex gloves that were blanketed in your gore and throws them onto your lap. 

“Clean them up—she still is of use to me.” His voice grows more distant as he leaves the room.

Gamble injects Ghost with a syringe that was hanging off of his waist, casting him with drowsiness, his eyes struggling to keep open before he’s blacked out.

“What did you do—…what did y’do to him?” Your eyebrows stitch together. “What did you do?!” 

They unstrap his arms from the chair, then his ankles.

“Answer me goddamnit...” You seethe, tears warping in your eyes.   

“Shut the bitch up,” Gamble nudges Agarwal in the shoulder before he pushes Ghost further out of his restraints, his body still and unconscious allowing the scarred man to bind his wrists with zip ties. 

Agarwal simply nods and paces toward you. The stock of his gun smashed into your jaw before you could react.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

DAY TWO.

The woman in the doorway was bedraggled; tired eyes and shrunken tear-stained cheeks. 

There’s a light illuminating from the pulled-back curtains—a light so bright it could dry the shining tears that spill out scarlet fluid over the eyes of the miserable.

You feel only patient while waiting for the morning sun to rise over the horizon line of the ocean side.

It’s deteriorating yet caliginous frame of murky grey stone and vast sorrow of an arched entrance sat in disposition from harrowing memories filled with bloodshed, grief, and war.

Your face relaxes at the distinctly ravishing but delicate overcasted ray of light shot down from the amidst along the ruins, the melancholy ambiance nearly sent chills down your spine.

Heavenly cries of forgotten mothers begging for forgiveness of their past sins, children's playful and beatific screams, although it was nothing unknown to you.

Screams were usually followed by split rib cages and bullet wounds—tears, blood, those screams and sweat, you went through it all just for it to lie unheard and forgotten.

You searched the odd and seemingly afterlife-like realm with your eyes, you could only wonder where you were, and why you were there.

Why the flowy white dress draped over your body oscillated with the wind in a gorgeous motion.

You're lifting your head out of the water now. 

The taste of salt seems so thick, heavy. Like you could drown in it. Like you could get drunk off of it.

The waves crashing onto shore sound so loud atop the eerie silence, their white crests phasing through your body as if your presence was unknown to them.

You loved the ocean because as opposed to the ones who were supposed to; the ocean loved you and was never afraid to come too close, even at your worst.

As you move farther from shore, the water slowly travels up your body, submerging your frame. 

You close your eyes as your head is the last thing the water consumes. You feel the water bubbles tickle your skin and elevate themselves up to the surface. 

It doesn’t take long for that familiar burn inside your lungs and that familiar feeling of being gagged by the water to swarm your senses.

Your head jerks up and you let out a loud gasp as you fade into consciousness, slipping into colored imagery instead of just monochrome. 

Waking up felt like hell; your mouth was dry and most of your limbs felt unresponsive. 

Only when you see Ghost curled up on his side, laying on the floor in front of you, are you able to register where you are and what’s going on.

His knees bucked up into his abdomen  with his hands zip tied behind his back and his face battered and bruised. 

Specks of dried blood ran from his scalp down his face reaching his compression undershirt. 

He was asleep.

There was a gentle rise and fall with his chest—you could still hear his labored breaths from where you were. 

It felt colder. 

Your eyes wander down to your left hand that was wrapped in bandages that were stained red, your two fingers missing and replaced with nubs that were uneven from each other.

If your arm wasn’t broken, you could use it to break the leg of the chair and wield  it against the next person to walk through that large metal door that made you wonder if it was life or death upon you.

If your fingers weren’t missing, you could use them to untangle your restraints on your other hand.

You could barely move your wrist—the pain that swells your entire arm makes it nearly impossible.

Ghost stirs on the floor, his body curling into itself further before his legs straighten out. 

“Lieutenant,” you mumble. “What did they do to you…?” 

His eyes flicker to yours. 

“‘M alive, aren’t I?” Ghost says.

His voice is so hoarse and weak—he sounds dehydrated.

“You are.” 

Your eyes close a moment to allow yourself to breathe in the air around you.

The single door breaking up the dull room that held them hostage creaks open on rusted hinges allowing Rolmuth to enter.

Two different men from the day prior push in the same record player and the same rolling metal tray that was stained with your blood. 

“Rise and shine,” one says, his boot meeting harshly with the lower section of Ghost’s back.

 The blonde’s eyes stay intent on the movements of Rolmuth as he lifts up different record sleeves to read their names. He slides one out and places it on the platter.

That familiar sizzle fills the room before the gentle hum of the music begins.

A short gasp leaves your mouth as Rolmuth kicks down your chair by the back stile, your head immediately jerking forward before it slams down onto the cement floor.

He dismisses the two of his men.

Rolmuth’s hand levitates over the tray and he grasps an old tan hand towel, draping it over your face.

You can hear the buckle of Ghost’s pants tink lightly on the floor as he jerks himself. “Fuckin’ bastard!” He yells.

I don’t want to set the world on fire. 

It was going to be okay, you told yourself. You trained for this. Truthfully, you were one of the best swimmers on the task force. You can hold your breath—but if that rag manages to cave in, you’ll most likely panic and lose focus.

I…just want to start a flame in your heart.

“Are you ready for talk, now?” Rolmuth arches over you. 

In my heart, I have but one desire…

Your voice muffled, you call him something along the lines of an asshole and a prick, which is quickly silenced by the pressure of water that smacks you in the face.

And that one is you, no other will do…

Ghost watches the man pour a jerry can of water over your face. His breath hitching in his throat watching your body twist and turn trying to evade from the water. 

I’ve lost all ambition for worldly acclaim

Your body arches up in protest, head jerking side to side as if it would make it any more easier on you.

I just want to be the one you love…

Focus on the music, you tell yourself. You can barely hear your own voice. 

And with your admission…that you feel the same,

Rolmuth’s smile is ear to ear as he continues tipping the canister over your cloth-covered face.

I’ll have reached the goal I’m dreaming of, believe me…

You violently thrust your body, panic surging  through you as you feel water invade and swallow your lungs. 

I don’t want to set the world on fire…

Involuntarily you gasp and choke in more water, you feel your eyes roll to the back of your head.  

I…just want to start…a flame in your heart.

Your throat was burning like scolding lava, your heart throbbing inside your chest threatening to rupture. You don’t dare to make noise. 

You’re gagging, gasping, sputtering. That you can’t handle. But you don’t let yourself cry. Not like this.

I don’t want to set the world on fire, honey,

The music is starting to garble. 

Why is it starting to sound so distorted? You ask yourself. 

I…—you too—uch.  

“Stop, y’ll fuckin’ kill her! Bloody tosser!” Ghost grits his teeth before spitting out words.

Now that you have the chance to think about it, that song reminds you of someone.

I just want to start…

Your grandfather—you’d sit on that circular crocheted rug and listen to that song as him and your grandmother baked apple fritter.

A great big flame…

He loved that woman more than life itself; when she’d started to get sick with bone cancer, he helped her bathe, he helped her eat, get dressed. 

Down in your heart.

Your mother told you about how he had asked her doctor to keep the fact that she only had three weeks left to live just between them. 

You see, way down inside me,

She was still happy. So happy. He wanted to spend those last three weeks with her. He retired from his job and took her to all the places she’d talked about visiting. 

Darling, I have only one desire. 

She passed away, and he spent every day doing all her favorite things. He watered her plants, he baked. He listened to her favorite songs. 

And that one desire is you, 

He adopted a puppy—a beautiful Australian Shepherd which he named after her. Your mom would say that your grandma’s being was reincarnated into that dog. 

And I know nobody else ain’t going to do. 

Would that happen to you too? Who would you want to belong to? What kind of dog would you be? 

A deafening ringing fills your ears, you finally stop fighting. Breathing.

“She’s not movin—“ Ghost wheezes. “She’s not fuckin’ movin’!” 

He was trained for this. He couldn’t break. He couldn’t.

“Enough!” The blonde yells again.

They could crack him, but they can’t break him. They wouldn’t kill her. 

Rolmuth finally puts down the canister and removes the rag from off your face, his body bends over to lift your chair back up. 

Your body twitching, struggling to release the water clogged in your gullet

“Wake up, bitch,” he snaps and his open palm cracks against your cheek. Your eyes shoot open.

Your mouth opens, your strained and bloodshot eyes widen with horror as you vomit out water, sputtering between your lips as you hack and gag. 

The taste of bile is sickening to your empty stomach. 

Ghost calls out your name, catching your attention as you stabilize from your state of stupor. 

“So proud of’ya, Thaye,” he groans. “Y’r strong, ‘lright? We’ll kill these bastards, all of’em.” 

You can hardly spare the man a small nod before your chin is grabbed by Rolmuth’s uncut nails—blood and dirt caked underneath them.

“You tell who you are work for, I consider sparing life.”  Rolmuth runs a blade across your cheek, increasing the pressure slightly to slit your skin—a feeling similar to a paper cut. You moan in pain. “Your friend I can not speak for.”

Blood trickles down from the incise, slowly flaring through your cut and pushing from the barriers beneath your top layer of skin. 

“F…uck…—“ your silenced by sudden metal on your tongue, scraping gently like a threat. 

“I will carve out ur pretty little tongue, cut it in bits, and feed it to you.” Rolmuth coos. “Would you that, yes?” 

“Y’sick fuck, get th’fuck away from ‘er!” Ghost attempts to jerk himself up, the bonding on his ankles not allowing him to, his bruised ribs protesting in pain as he lets out a sharp breath.

Your eyes burn into his, your neck flinching as he slowly pushes the blade farther down your throat, his hand prying your mouth open. 

He chuckles lowly, small “ah’s” leaving him as he slowly opens your mouth farther to allow the tip of the knife farther down. You salivate, drool racing down your chin and over the creep’s knuckles. 

Ghost’s eyes divert from your face to the man’s hands. Disgust laced in his features. 

He swallowed thickly, he could feel his skin boiling. He wasn’t angry. 

Pissed.

He was incensed. 

More than that. 

“G..host…” your slightly muffled voice trembles.

His gaze fixes back on yours, watching as your left eye twitches at each of Rolmuth’s motions. 

“I know, love…J’s look at me, ‘lright? J’s look at me.” 

It presses onto the skin of your tongue, it’s curved edge digging into the fragile skin and tissue causing the metallic taste of iron to taint your sense of taste.

You still bore into your lieutenant’s gaze.

Saliva and blood dribbles down your neck, the sight no doubtedly arousing the male in front of you—his tongue leapt out to slowly trace along his bottom lip.

You might drown in your own saliva at this rate.

Your lieutenant purses his dry and cracked lips, but he doesn’t look away. 

He takes the blade out of your mouth, rubbing it against the cloth of his pants to clean it. 

Rolmuth raises the knife and pierces your thigh, the feeling of cold metal hitting you first along with the shock, the sound of cloth tearing.

“I want names!” The man hollered, spit landing on your face just below your eyes.

Ghost watches your pupils shrink, his own eyes widening and slowly shifting to your thigh. 

An intense tingling sensation swarms your entire leg, then a heat. A heat that felt unbearable. 

Ghost searches for your eyes again, his mouth moving, though you can’t hear anything he says.

He broke through skin and sinew, twisting the knife inside of the laceration.

“Talk, bitch!” Rolmuth’s eyes darken. 

It takes a few moments for the pain to surface, and when it does, it’s scorching. Your jaw slacks open as your eyebrows pinch together, a shrill whimper escaping you. 

“Don’ look, don’t.” Ghost pleads with you. Even he was struggling not to look at your thigh.

It didn’t take eyes to tell there was blood bubbling from the wound and dripping down your pants and trembling leg. 

A narrow vertical split across the midsection of the flesh of your thigh. Your eyes didn’t leave Ghost’s.

Was his hair bleached? It seemed like such an unnatural shade of blonde. Brunette underneath. He must bleach it himself.

Rolmuth gave it one more twist, releasing a thin, raw, scream from your throat. 

Tears stung the corners of your eyes, but you wouldn’t let them get the satisfaction of that from you. Especially not you. 

“They’ll b’ere soon, Thaye.” Your lieutenant says.

“You are weak,” Rolmuth spits. “You will break.” 

He rolls his shoulders before gripping your pointer finger and holding a jab saw above it.

Your eyes flicker to Rolmuth’s and Ghost calls your name. 

“I want a name!” Rolmuth’s scream makes your head spin. 

“Fuck y—“ your voice is replaced with a high pitched cry followed by gasps and whimpers as Rolmuth’s new blade carved through sinew and bone. He lifts up your finger against the blade and with one swift movement, your finger falls onto the floor. 

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you, y’bastard!” Ghost’s lips twitching in pain mixed in with a whole lot of anger. 

Your body jumps up, an animalistic noise escaping your throat as you swing your head back and wince loudly, the pain in your thigh 

“Name! Or I take another!” Rolmuth yells just inches from your face. 

You couldn’t handle it—your vision is swarmed by black spots and your head is killing you. Your body is in so much pain you feel so much, but so little all at the same time. 

When your eyes roll to the back of your head and lolls, you can faintly hear the man yell ‘shit’ before you’re unable to comprehend what is happening.

Everything fades into a subtle blackness, and the last thing you hear is Ghost yelling your name. Screaming your name. 

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

DAY 4

You wake up to the sound of loud groaning and thumping. 

It takes you a few moments to register that you’re awake and you can actually move. 

So you do—you upheave your head and take in the light spilling in the room from between the iron barred vent. 

It stings your eyes, blotchiness surrounding your peripheral before you’re able to adjust to the light. 

Ghost is on the floor taking blunt forces into his lower abdomen—the blonde sputters out a cough as his entire body jerks at the contact. 

The man grips the neckline of Ghost’s shirt, lifting his head from off the ground as thick red paste runs down his split and swollen lips.

His legs lift themselves up in an attempt to propel his body up and out of the man’s grasp, but he falls flat as his neck is slammed back onto the cement. 

Before Ghost can gasp for air the moment his neck is released, a closed fist slams into his cheekbone, knocking the wind out of him. 

“Stop,” you rasp. “Let’im go…”

Ghost is twitching on the floor, blood spilling from his mouth. His entire face is caked in red flakes and black and blue blemishes—the entire left side of his face is fattened with knots.

“No…” you snarl.

The man whirls his head and glares at you, an amused expression of disbelief stamped onto his face.

“No?” He says cockily.

The man paces towards you and cuts off your bindings, bundles your hair in his fist and drags you over towards Ghost, you whine and raise your unbroken arm to try and pry his hands off, but he only tugs harder. 

He pulls your hair up until you're positioned on your knees, chin raised up and neck tilted.

You hear a click, it wasn’t a gun. 

He unsheathed a pocket knife. It was a fairly decent size. You were tired of seeing knives.

Ghost watches the man’s hand lower to your abdomen, fingers pirouetting across your delicate skin, it sends a shivering fear throughout your entire body like electricity. 

“Please…” you meekly whisper, attempting to pull yourself away, your body is so weak from lack of use. Your voice came out as a croak. 

His other hand holds a knife that teases the neckline of your shirt. 

Ghost thrashes against the floor attempting to wrestle out of his bindings. “I’ll skin you,” Ghost’s voice is hoarse.

“How would you feel If I just…” His fingers trace along the scars on your stomach. “Touch her, ever so lightly…Right in front of you?” The man snickers.

You yelp as his knife cuts a thin line down your blood-stained neckline until your cleavage is exposed. 

Tears surface the corners of your eyes. 

No, no, no, no…

“Keep y’r eyes on me,” Ghost whispers weakly. “That’s it, love.”

You feel your shirt tear entirely down the middle and fall down your arms, pooling around your wrists. 

Your vision blurs and your mouth starts to feel dry, teeth chattering in unison with your trembling lips. 

When the knife rests over the center gore of your bra, your breath hitches in your throat and tears bead down your cheeks. 

The blade slices through the cloth and immediately your hand rises to cover your nude chest.

Ghost’s eyes stay locked with yours, one half-closed from being beaten beyond his control.

You feel his facial hair scrub raw against your skin, sipping in your fear and vulnerability.

“Team Delta en route for seaside, Corbin, what’s your report?” 

His radio.

The man pauses and takes his hand off the midline of your ribcage to grab his radio.

“Delta, this is Pooch on standby—hostages are stable, the woman is awake.” 

You release a choked sob, causing the man to release the talk button and bash it against the side of your face, sending you straight onto the floor. 

“Thaye…” Ghost croons.

You clutch your chest with your one hand as you feel the right side of your face swell. 

“It’ll ‘b over soon,” you tremble, releasing a shaken breath. “They’ll find..us…”

“Shut the fuck up,” his voice is slicked with spite. “Both of you.” 

“Pooch, this is Delta, rog that. Don’t kill our intel—0-7, signing off.” It crackles.

You lift your head and turn it slightly, blinking causes the pain on your cheekbone to burn like acid. 

“Go to h—“ the radio is bashed into your face again causing your vision to swim and make your head stumble. 

The sound of blood trickling and hitting the floor fills your ears, your left palm flattens against the cold floor. Missing fingers wrapped to keep you alive, not because they care.

He punches the radio into your right eye. You keep your head down in submission.

“You wanna act tough? Get treated like you're tough!” He yells.

His hand tugs your head back—you can see your own blood splattered against the communicator before you’re met with the same fate.

Ghost watches as the man beats the right side of your face in with the butt of the radio until it’s practically unrecognizable—caked and blistered. Bruising and swelling so tender on your skin. 

He can’t do anything.

He can only watch. 

You whimper and cry, hissing through your tears while your jaw clenched, the radio mercilessly landing on the same spot allowing more blood to cascade from the wound. 

The last hit is the hardest, sending your numbing cheek staggering back down onto the ground, you wheeze. 

If Ghost’s hands weren’t tied behind his back, the man standing above the two of you would be a mangled corpse. He knew that. 

Your breaths are shallow and rasped. It feels like hell to breathe—to move your face. Crimson just pools beneath you as Pooch flicks off your gore from his communicator.

He grunts in disgust as specks splatter onto the ‘cleaner’ side of your face. Like water spots on a windowpane or glass shower door. 

When you hear the door slam behind you, it makes you flinch. 

Your body has broken into tremors now, maybe it’s not tremors—but your spasming. 

And your hand is still covering your scar-ridden chest, but you feel like you might pass out again. 

Ghost’s own breaths are ragged—you wonder if lunderneath all the blood on your face if you’d look just like him. 

“Sleep,” he rasps. “I’ll watch ya.” 

You relax as much as you possibly can, your single eye twitching shut in favor of your other one. 

All you’ve had these past four days was sleep, yet it didn’t replenish. It didn’t make you feel any less tired or exhausted. 

With your bones feeling brittle and sore, it was hard to shift yourself into the mindset of falling asleep, but you tried. 

You felt Ghost scoot himself towards you, possibly just to shield your unclad chest and give you a taste of comfort. 

Your eyelids feel heavy with pain and fatigue, your body stilling as you allow yourself to sleep.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

DAY 5

Your hands are tied above your head, a gag set between your teeth which you gnaw at in an attempt to drag it down to hang around your neck.

Ghost is a few feet away from you—both of you hanging on metal piping with rope around your wrists. 

Ghost’s boots were on the floor, he was too tall to hang like you, where you could swing your feet. Did they take your shoes? 

You watch the steel poker ignite in the industrial furnace; the end of it glowing all shades of red, yellow, and orange. 

It was two different tools Rolmuth was holding, now. They had two different symbols on each one that you were unfamiliar with. He was choosing.

Rolmuth spun the branding irons with his thumbs and pointers, chuckling dryly to himself as he approached Ghost, setting one of them back inside the boiler.

His boots were so loud, they echoed off the walls of the room they were in—It looked like some sort of boiler room, but you weren’t too sure. 

You two must’ve been in a warehouse of some sort. 

Rolmuth has to look up to look your lieutenant in the eyes. 

When they’d woken you up, they threw you a gray tank top, so you weren’t as exposed as you were before. 

The Hindi man pulls down Ghost’s gag. 

“460 degrees of heat on metal…” he says as he lifts the hem of Ghost’s shirt. “You talk, I spare you more scar.” 

“Go fuck y’self, y’manky twat…”  the blonde snapped.

An open mouthed yell left Ghost’s throat as the metal is lanced firmly over the middle of his stomach, tugging at his flesh and skin.

Ghost’s eyes squeeze shut as loud whimpers escape from him, ragged winces. 

“Stop!” you cry.

God, you’d never heard him in so much pain. You never thought you’d ever hear him scream in agony, in physical pain. 

You're forced to watch the smoke trailing up the rod, Ghost’s back arching in tormentation. 

“You piece of shit!” You twist and turn your body causing the rope to shred through layers of your skin. 

His muscles tense and his knuckles go white from how hard he’s gripping the pipelines holding him up. 

Rolmuth removes the metal from Ghost’s skin—it could be described as a flesh eating parasite; the way that his skin sticks to the rod as if it’s desperate for that contact.

A hitched gasp manages to make its way past his lips as he feels a tinge of relief, his body twitching and pained moans and hisses filling your ears.  

You jerk your body weight down, kicking your bare feet until you feel the metal start to dent. 

Rolmuth sets the iron back onto the furnace over a rack, he’s bending over to adjust the heat, the fire is roaring.

You tug your arms down and you let out a strained whine at the feeling of your wrists starting to bleed.

When the metal gives in above you, it creaks and drops you down.

You slide down the metal and Rolmuth’s body swings up from fidgeting with furnace levers and knobs. 

His arms are immediately reaching for his gun while you lift your legs up and kick the heels of your feet into his shoulder blades, hard. 

Rolmuth’s head slams back into the brick base of the furnace, he lets out a groan, his form dragging down and slumping against the floor.

Your body lands harshly on the ground, an excruciating response coming from the back of your head.

Black spots cloud your vision as you slowly try to regain your composure. Your vision is blurring, everything sounds far away and echoed. 

The gun slides across the floor.

Your jaw clenches as you pick up your heavy head, your eye searching for the gun regardless of the pounding that distracted you.

When you spot the muzzle, you lurch yourself forward and reach, finger grazing the trigger guard before your pulled back by your hair, earning a yelp to leave you.

Your lungs refuse to cooperate in your chest as your scalp is nearly torn from your head. 

Rolmuth growls with clenched teeth, pulling you away from the gun and towards him as he kneels himself over you.

This was the first time you were able to get a decent look at his face—if it weren’t for your messed up eye—but you only can see the rage dispersed over his face as his hands gather around your throat.

He slams your neck down, adding onto the pain thrusting through the back of your head.

“Bitch!” Rolmuth snarls.

You suck in your gag, causing panic and adrenaline to rush through your entire body as your binded hands thrash and attempt to push him off of you. 

You duck yourself, bend your leg and kick it against his ankle to heave yourself up with all your weight upwards. 

He exclaims in his native tongue, some of which you can only recognize as insults and swears.

Ghost calls your name weakly.

Rolmuth’s hands slip from your throat allowing you to breathe and sit yourself on top of him, you tug your body and maneuver yourself until you're behind the man, pulling the knot of your bindings against his throat and crossing them over. 

His neck lifts to try and give himself access to air, though you tug and hold his waist steady between your knees. 

You yell with your clenched teeth, the fabric between your lips making the muscles in your jaw ache. 

Him wheezing beneath you, fingernails clawing at your split and abused hands before he shifts.

“Thaye!” Your lieutenant hollers.

Rolmuth’s hands reach down to his vest to pull another gun, aiming it at your foot and pulling the trigger causing you to let out an agonizing scream, pain racking your entire body. 

The bullet shoots clean through, you knew that for sure. It was too close. 

Your grip on his neck loosens so you can slap the gun out of his grip.

In three quick motions, Rolmuth’s back atop you with his hands grasping your hair again, dragging you towards the furnace until your face is close enough to feel the heat radiate onto your face.

You feel the thickness of gore engulf your foot and drip down your toes onto the floor. 

Your grunting, muffled, and loud breaths make your head pound as the man squeezes your jaw and forces your neck towards the mouth of the forge. 

“No…” you snarl with bared lips, kicking your legs regardless of the pain, throwing yourself towards him to keep yourself as far from the flames as you could.

Rolmuth laughs dryly accompanying his guttural breaths, his body stretching yet keeping a firm hold on your mandible as he takes hold of one of the branding rods. 

“No!” Your eye widens and your hands reach up to push his face away from you.

“Fuck!” He growls, shaking his face to keep your hands off as he pulls the iron out of the furnace.

He wastes no time pressing it into your side regardless of the thin tank covering your skin, and the cloth does absolutely nothing in regards to the sudden gut wrenching sensation that makes it feel like your entire body was drenched in gasoline and set on fire with a blowtorch. 

Your cry is deafening to the ears and the smell of burning charred flesh is quick to fill your nostrils. You feel and you hear your skin bubble up, sizzle, then pop, then stick to the metal and entangle itself around the start of the handle taking the appearance of something similar to chewed bubblegum. 

Even trembling and shaking, you manage to find a way to position your hands so you can plant your thumbs into his eyes and use some of the only fingers you have left to press them into his eyes, causing the man to yell. 

Still, your screams aren’t matchable as your fingernails gouge into his sockets and claw at his eyelids, shredding through flesh easily as blood began to dribble down his face and over his lips like tears. You still manage to scream louder in anger than the man can in pain. 

Your fingers shove deeper into the grooves of his eye sockets, the organs are pushed so far back that blood sprays across your face and he finally releases the rod.

It clangs to the floor, and he starts sobbing in his native tongue, convulsing hands reaching up towards his red-painted face as you pull your gag out.

“Go to hell,” You seethe wobbly as you lift yourself and steer yourself behind him, taking Rolmuth by the nape of his neck and forcing himself inside the mouth, against the grills inside the furnace. 

He shrieks and cries, moving erratically as his face is engulfed by the fire. Slowly, yet quickly, his skin is shredded by the blazes and the bottom rows of his teeth are exposed. 

It takes him a while to stop making noise before you pull his head out and throw his twitching body onto the ground, then you finally allow yourself to lean against a boiler tank and take pressure off your injured foot.

You propel yourself off the tank by your palms and drag yourself regardless of your ankle to the edge of the furnace, turning yourself around to scrape the rope against the brick.

A gasp releases from your throat at the sudden relief around your wrists, the rope falling to the ground. 

“Ghost?” You lift your head. 

“‘M here.” He replies. 

“I don’t know if I can get up.”

“I know you can,” Ghost urges. “Find…” he sputters up blistering coughs. 

“…Fin’a knife, ‘n get me outta these binds, yea?” He huffs. “‘N I’ll do the rest.”

Your eye blinks as you grip the ankle of Rolmuth’s corpse, pulling him toward you to start flipping up his vest and pant pockets.

He didn’t have a knife on him. 

Got to be fucking kidding me.

A door is swung open, a singular set of footsteps stepping into the room.

Your eye searches for a weapon—anything that can deal enough damage.

A metal fire poker is hanging off the wall to your right, so you swing your elbows back and lift yourself up by the palms of your hands.

As quick as you can, you hoist yourself up by using the support of a metal deaerator, your arm sliding against it as you limp and throw yourself towards the wall creating a subtle thud. 

“What the fuck…?” A man’s voice murmurs.

You silently curse to yourself under your breath as you grab the fire poker off the nails that were being used to hold it up.

Using the heel of your injured foot, you shuffle against some shelving, looking between the gaps for the man inside the room. 

He’s holding a Fennec, nothing you haven't dealt with before. 

He’s twenty seconds to your left, carefully skimming along the floor with his eyes down the sights of his gun.

You pinch a metal screw off of one of the shelves and toss it into the corner closest to you to lead him your way. 

“Fuck,” the younger male jumps slightly. He looked young and lanky, at least from his physique.

When you hear his boots start to rub against the floor, you lift your head slightly to watch him turn towards your direction. 

Your fingers and nubs flex on the thin metal, it’s hard to gain a clear grip.

The man comes around the corner of the shelves, the sounds of his tactical gear shuffling alerting you when he gets closer until his helmet is in sight.

You immediately thrust the fire poker into the gap below his collarbone and into his scapula, dampening the fabric of his undershirt in that area as it rips. 

Out of panic and shock, his finger grips the trigger and you have to jerk him away before any of his bullets are able to hit you.

“Please!” The boy pleads, gun dropping to hang around his neck as he grips the caps of your shoulders. You only glare at him before plunging the fire poker further into that same spot until it tears and mauls through his back, sticking out on the other end.

He’s gasping out, but it’s almost like no air is exhaling, mouth held agape as his grip on your shoulders releases. 

You shout and cry out at every thrust until the hole carved into his skin is able to suck in the hooked tip. 

The male’s head falls and you allow his body to slump down and forward, the metal rod holding his stilled body up. 

You heave dryly and press a palm on the wall to support yourself, your foot is killing you—literally.

The blown out flesh and puckered skin walls made you want to barf. You could stick a finger through your foot and feel your pulsating muscles just hug around your finger. 

You lean down and unclip the knife holster from the gun belt, unsheathing it then hobbling around the shelving towards Ghost who was still hanging from the pipes. 

“Okay, okay…” you breathe sharply, struggling to lift yourself up onto the brick platform of the furnace, nearly stumbling off before you catch your footing. 

“Keep still,” you say, arching your hand to start cutting at his bondings until he’s dropped onto the floor.

Ghost lets out a loud groan, his arms clutching his ribs. They’d broken one of his ribs, maybe multiple. You both were in bad shape.

It takes him a moment to get himself off the floor as you seat yourself and scoot off of the hearth. 

He grabs both of the hand guns that had been dropped onto the floor, holding one out to you.

You unclip the magazine, then snap it back into the chamber at the sight of one missing bullet. 

It was the same one that Rolmuth used to shoot your foot. 

Ghost’s hand rests on your cheek, gently. “Y’did good, ‘lright?” He spoke with a lilt. 

“Can y’walk?” 

“A little.” You nod. “Fuckers took my shoes…” 

He lets his hand fall to check his magazine, then he nods. “‘Don’t know if I can carry ya with m’ribs.” 

“It’s okay, just don’t wait for me.” You reply.

His eyebrows furrow. “Bloody hell, Thaye, I ain’t leavin ya.” 

“I know but—“ 

“No.” 

Ghost’s half-lidded eyes glare at you, giving you all the warning to stop.

“Stay behind me.” 

He starts walking towards the door, slowly peeking it before leaving with you behind him.

Walking hurt—even while you only applied pressure to the heel on your injured foot, the muscles contracted and the pain was torturous. 

One man entered the hallway holding a box from another room, which Ghost took care of by shooting a single bullet between his eyes.

The box had opened and dropped glass equipment, alerting four others who had been lingering in the room he came from.

They yell and communicate in their native tongue, one sticking his head out of the door threshold to aim his rifle.

Ghost fires his pistol and the man swings his head back into the room, still opening fire into the hallway.

“Fuck!” You hiss, dodging the bullets and moving quickly behind a filing cabinet, lowering yourself down. 

Ghost’s back presses against a door to your right, pulling himself out of cover to fire at the man.

Two bullets miss and the third causes his head to fling back and smear blood as his body arches and falls down to the floor.

You lift your head and aim your pistol, gasping when your throat is suddenly hooked back from behind you. 

When the combatant turns you around and attempts to make a slash at your throat, you manage to extract yourself by gripping his wrist and snapping his elbow out of place, the sounds of bones snapping as he yells.

His knife drops from his hand and you scramble to pick it up from the floor.

You groan as his boot digs into your bandaged hand before you're able to pick it up, then his hand grips your neck to lift you up.

He wraps his arms around you and squeezes you, locking his wrists over each other at your back. You clench your teeth and jerk violently in his grasp.

Ghost is fighting four other men, locking them in the crook of his elbow and smashing their skulls between the doors.

The man holding you in position crushes you in his grasp even with his broken arm. He tries dragging you into another room.

“Let me the fuck go,” you gasp, causing the man to laugh. 

“You will regret ever trying to leave your room,” he utters. 

You breathe a moment, heart pounding through your chest as you swing your head into the side of his neck and sink your teeth into his skin with all the strength in your jaw. 

Crimson liquid seeps into your mouth and down the front of your neck as you yank out the flesh of his throat. You spit out the skin and blood, wiping your mouth and tongue against the skin of your arm as the man’s grasp loosens

His shoulder blades and chest are glistening in red, gore spurting out of the torn spot in his throat as his body stumbles and he’s gargling on his own blood trying to speak.

“Fuck you…” You shutter weakly, eyes slowly skimming down to the knife lodged inside your waist. 

Shit.

He must’ve stabbed you before lifting you up, your adrenaline pumping so fiercely you couldn’t feel it until now.

You stumble on your feet slightly, shaking hands lowering to wrap around the handle and pull it out of the slit.

The runnel of red paste turns into a thick stream down as it drenches your tank top. 

You lift your head slowly and throw the knife overhead across the hallway, hitting a man who’s pointing a handgun at the back of Ghost’s head. 

It’s blade spades into the back of his skull and makes his body wriggle down onto the floor.

“Ghost…!” You gasp and press your open palm over your soaking top and open laceration. 

Ghost steps over both legs of a bloodied man before shooting him dead and advancing towards you.

“Shite…” He huffs, gently removing your hand and placing it back after gaining a clear inspection.

His hands grip the hem of his shirt and roughly tear at the fabric creating a long strip, then he moves your hand aside again to tightly secure it around your wound. 

You hiss and groan, hand gripping his shoulder as he tugs and pulls at your body while tying the knot of the fabric. 

“I’s ‘lright.” Ghost mollifies as he scoops his arm underneath your armpit.

It offers you some support as he guides you both out towards a staircase.

It wasn’t a warehouse—you and Ghost were just in a basement that was turned into a meth lab. 

Boxes and boxes full of lab equipment scattered along the floors. 

You’d never seen such a big basement, one with torture chambers and stonework rooms. 

Hell, in the corner of the room with all the steel liquid tanks and chemical barrels. 

A woman is in bright blue hazmat coveralls and a chemical mask standing on top of a metal stool. 

Ghost raises his pistol and you lower it slightly with your palm, his eyes glaring at you with his head kept facing forward. 

“You can’t miss, we don’t know what corrosives are in these tanks. Is it worth it?” You keep your voice low, personal between the two of you.

He doesn’t reply, instead he looks forward, then squeezes the trigger and picks the woman off by shooting her in the side of her neck.

You swallow thickly as her body spasms on the ground, the stool getting caught in her ankle as crimson fluid rises and bubbles inside of her mouth. 

Ghost guides the two of you up the cobble stairs, one hand dragging up the wall and the other across your lieutenant’s wingspan.

Your eyes flash at the sudden two objects being thrown down the stairs, the sudden silence as they roll down step…after step…after step before Ghost is swinging you up into arms and yelling.

He’s breaching himself through the door, into open fire before the staircase you had come up from explodes into the emitting heat compressed air and blasts behind the two of you sending you both flying forward. 

Smoke engulfs the room, giving both you and Ghost coverage to get behind cover.

You're pulled by the back of your shirt behind a deep freezer, bullets flying and hitting the metal.

“Fuckin’ pricks got us pinned!” His head lifts over to fire at three of the men who have ballistic shields covering those firing LMGs behind. “‘N I’ve got four left.”

You can’t see through the thick smoke—you can’t breathe while wheezing into the crook of your elbow. “Seven,” you inform him. 

“Cover me,” Ghost grabs your arm for a moment, letting go and serving around the freezer. 

You follow behind him with a raised pistol, shooting off at any glares you're able to see through the fumes.

Six…Five…

A man steps out from cover behind a wine cabinet, but before he can fire his rifle, you pop him in the eye.

Four…

Ghost quickly crouches down and shimmies the rifle out of the corpse’s grip, grabbing at a magazine and stuffing it into his vest he’d managed to keep.

You groan and push over a bookshelf behind Ghost once you’re both out of the smoke. He takes aim and opens fire at three men, blowing holes in their chests before he rams into the fourth with a loud yell and slams down the stock of his assault rifle into his face until his teeth and nose are finely pressed into the persian rug.

You finish off two more who try to walk through the threshold of the room, turning your head over your shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Two…

You jerk yourself away before you get slugged by a riot shield, ascending yourself and shoving your firearm past the barriers of his lips from behind. You pull the trigger and his head flings as the bullet rings out and creates a sizable hole in the back of his head.

One…

Before his body hits the tile, you take hold of his riot shield and deflect the hail of gunfire from the individual who came emerging from the threshold corner.

You walk forward until his clip is empty to drive the shield into his vest-covered chest, stunning him so you can push it aside and fire your last shot into the underside of his jaw. 

Zero.

Bullets continue spraying throughout the entirety of the house while you make sure you don’t pass out from the amount of blood you’ve lost.

You grab the TAQ-V from off the floor and click a new magazine into it, shoving a spare into your back pocket before pushing into the same room as Ghost.

He’s piling bodies on the floor, wrestling for dominance over a knife. 

You fastdraw another handgun you’d grabbed off of one of the bodies and shoot the man in his knee cap to allow Ghost to gain the upper hand and pierce the man’s temple with the weapon. 

“Thanks,” he says gruffly. 

You nod softly, inhaling sharply as you feel wet blood pool around your uninjured foot. 

They took your shoes for no reason, like they had a use for them.

Maybe it allows you to move around more quietly, but it still disturbed you that they took the time to even peel off your socks. 

“What intel did y’know that we didn’t?” His chest is against yours, head craning down to keep the conversation between the two of you.

“Lieutenant, we don’t…” You pause a moment, your head spinning. 

Hunger, thirst, the cold, the blood loss. There was so much holding you hostage and you weren’t even able to comprehend how you were still standing—limping.

“Well, Seargant?” His voice is low, still holding the same husky British drawl.

“We don’t have the time for this, for now—“ Ghost shoves you aside before you can finish, raising the muzzle of his rifle to open fire on the men entering the room.

“Fuckin’ riot shields!” He pulls you behind a flipped over tattered blue couch that had already gone through its fair share of bullets.

A bullet flies and hits the side of the couch a hair’s breadth from your face. 

“Goddammit,” he curses while replacing the magazine in his gun.

The men brandishing shields push further.

When one reaches close enough, you run in front of the shield and grab the sides before he crashes into you. 

You turn him until his body is vulnerable to Ghost, your teeth ground into each other.

“Ghost!” You yell to catch his attention, head snapping in your direction to fire a single round into the back of his head.

You throw the body off of yourself and yank the riot shield to cover yourself, ducking your head as you recoil your fist and punch one of the men baring LMGs hard twice in the jaw.

You thrust the shield into the next, throwing it into his abdomen as he topples, finishing him off by shooting him down in the chest.

One turns with his M4 raised, but you turn your gun around and bash the stock into the base of his chest, then again into his cheek, swiping your leg across the floor and knocking him down then picking his head up and slamming it down on a thick shard of glass sticking upwards to finish him off. 

Ghost drops the last body, finishing off a magazine into his vest and throwing the weapon aside. You toss him another one, which he catches with ease.

“We’ll force upstairs, look f’r our shit, ‘n leave.” He says as he picks up a frag grenade from off a vest.

“There should be Skimobiles somewhere around here, the ones they were using in the FFO,” you nod.

“A’right,” he groans while rolling his shoulders. “On my mark.” 

He trudges past bodies until he’s at the threshold of the staircase, stepping up slowly with the grenade in one hand and his gun in his other.

You follow behind leisurely, eye down the scope of your rifle. 

He pulls the clip and tosses it up, arm stretching behind to press his hand against your shoulder blade. 

“Oh shit—grenade!” A man yells from upstairs before detonation. 

“Go!” Ghost immediately backs up off the wall and skips over two steps into the corridor, prefiring as he loops around a wall.

There’s already bodies and limbs splayed across the room from the combatants who were hit by the frag.

Your back rubs against the wall as you lean to shoot down the hallway, whirring bullets firing past you.

After a few back and forths between staying flat against the wall and leaning to fire off your gun, bodies drop and you’re able to progress down the hall. 

Ghost is somewhere on the opposite side of the house, you still hear heavy gunfire.

You pause at the sight of another man at the end of the hallway and you recognize him immediately.

The look in his eyes and the scruffiness of his face made your lips stretch in almost the most feral look.

Corbin, that was his name. Callsign ‘Pooch’.

Anger burns in the depths of your lungs and stomach as you grip the wall for support, lunging yourself forward to lift your feet over each body that was littered across the hallway floors.

Sweat ran down the sides of your face and splotched down around the neck of your shirt with the blood.

You watch his face twist into a wolfish grin as he slings his gun over his shoulder and walks towards you. 

“Alright, sweetheart.” He purrs. 

White noise fills your ears.

All you can see through the glossy shine of your eyes is the man who humiliated you in front of your superior. 

All you can see through the blinding red rage is the man who beat Ghost and cracked his ribs, forcing you to watch him retract and twitch at every fleeting fist. 

Even the hail of gunfire is silent in your ears as you drag your injured foot. Everything sounds underwater, everything feels dull.

His fist intersects and meets with your cheekbone causing your head to shift to the left and your body to stumble where you stand. 

You grip his wrist and divert his second punch by lifting your arm and thrusting your knee roughly into his thigh to tamper his movements.

He groans, with grim chuckles following after. “I’m going to enjoy every last second of this,” he coos.

Your body shivers in disgust as you slide your fingers down to your waist, priming the knife stuffed beneath the hem of your shirt. “Go fuck yourself…” you hiss.

His eyes flicker down to your hand and his boot immediately connects with the middle of your torso, sending you across the floor with a loud thud.

Pooch steps between your legs and lifts your upper body by the neckline of your shirt, his knuckles slamming down to beat on your already swollen face. 

Drool and blood pour from your mouth, a strangled gasp leaving you at every punch before he releases you harshly back down onto the floor. 

Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, the pressure and swelling in your face and head being all too much for you.

A boot is savagely kicked into the lower pit of your abdomen, making you gag on air.

“Get the fuck up.” Pooch spits. 

You clutch your stomach and turn, slowly feeling for the knife, then quickly lifting the edge trimming of your tank top and grasping the handle, pulling it out and sweeping your leg around and behind his ankles to knock him off to the side.

He yells out swears as you level yourself over him, his legs kicking out to make your chest rest on the soles of his boots. 

Both of your hands grasp the handle of the knife making it easier on your lack of fingers. His hands grip your forearms as you cry out and try forcing the knife down on him.

He kicks his legs up and backwards, upending you over him and sending the knife flying. 

You hiss and give yourself no time to recover, flipping on your stomach and army crawling with your forearms to grab the knife.

He topples atop your body, planting a piercing slap across your face before reaching for the knife and propelling it downwards into you.

Before you’re able to block, the knife breaks through the skin in your stomach, your hand managing to grab his wrist before he’s able to gut you open.

You seethe and let out a sharp whine followed by a croaked cry, your other hand circling his wrist in an attempt to push him away. 

Quickly, you roll your body off to the side and let go of him, causing the knife to pierce into the wood flooring as you grip a console table to succor yourself up.

Corbin abandons the knife and flings himself upwards, swinging his gun into his arms. 

“I’m done playing games.” 

You advance on him, grabbing the rifle and pushing it into his chest before he can aim it at you.

One of your hands grip the upper hand guard while the other grips the bolt and holds the muzzle up.

You yank his body over towards the window behind you, turning your body then grabbing the man by the back of his hair and smashing his head through the glass.

It shatters from contact and leaves cuts and shards in his skin, a loud yell clawing its way from his throat.   

His finger grips the trigger and bullets roll out into the floor as you pull his head back.

You pull the rifle sling from off his shoulder, tossing it aside and disarming him from the X12 tucked into the back of his pants.

He growls at every tug of his scalp as you shoot him in the back of the leg and force him onto his knees.

A loud wail echoes the hallway from the man below you.

 “Shut your fucking mouth,” you snap.

“You don’t get to scream.”

“You don’t get to cry and whine like a little bitch.”

There’s no remorse in your voice, no sense of mercy for the man being held on his knees and whimpering.

You smack the magazine onto the base of his nose, blood dripping it’s way down his nostrils as a struggling noise spills from his lips.

“You…fucking….” he chokes on his own words. 

His entire body violently trembles at the tortured scream he releases as you squeeze the trigger again, shooting Pooch in his shoulder then proceeding to stick your thumb into the ravage wound harshly.

“Bitch! Fucking bitch!” He strains and pants like a dehydrated dog trying to jerk away from you.

You replace your finger with your foot, lowering his back against the floor as you press your toe into the bullet hole.

Another scream tears out of him as you blow another hole into the other side—his chest convulses.

Blood seeps from his mouth, you hold the grip of the handgun with both hands and sob out loud as you empty the entire magazine into his head until his face is unrecognizable to the amount of bullet holes.

You keep pulling the trigger, even as the gun starts to click announcing its out of ammunition.

The entire floor below you is covered in gore; flesh, messings of brains, blood, skin. 

So much.

Your body snaps around as a hand abruptly drapes over your shoulder, your arm raising the gun ready to bash it into the skull of the next man to try and touch you.

“Thaye, Thaye—y’got him! Thaye, he’s dead!”

Someone calls your name trying to snap you of out haze.

Ghost—your eyes soften with glistening tears as he calmly disarms you after deflecting the hit with his forearm, tossing the handgun aside so he can push you into his chest by the back of your neck.

“‘S over, sweet girl.” Ghost says with intonation. “Can’t hurt ya anymore.”

Your eyes are wide with terror, hands bundling your lieutenant’s shirt as you exhale a shaky mewl.

It’s him who releases you first, handing you your custom rifle and radio.

His balaclava is back on his face, along with the skull mask.

“Y’r vest ‘n boots are in the room I came from,” Ghost jerks his head.

You nod softly and shamble towards the doorway in the direction he’d pointed out.

You pause.

A little boy walks out of the threshold—he’s holding a gun far bigger than his head.

Your eyes widen slightly. “Did these men take you from your family?” 

You turn your head over your shoulder to call for Ghost, the sound of a bullet whirring filling your ears.

Ghost wastes no time pulling out his handgun and shooting the little boy in the head before running towards you.

Your right shoulder is screaming at you as time seems to slow down to a crawl. You hear Ghost yell behind you and the gunshot ringing as the little boy falls back and you do too, hitting the ground hard.

The masked man is on his knees in front of you within seconds, lifting your head into his lap.

“Thaye! Thaye, don’t y’fuckin’ die, not now…” He growls, applying pressure down onto your shoulder with both of his gloved hands.

Your lips slant in a tired manner, eyelids feeling heavy. His bloody hand kneads your cheek, smearing gore along your already dirtied skin.

“Fuck! Fuck!” he curses loudly. “Stay awake, love, please…”

God, he was hurting, it hurt to have your head against the burns on his stomach, but he wouldn’t let you die.

“Babygirl,” he says weakly. 

All you can see is an uncleanable amount of red seep and cover your shirt.

Your lungs clutch together inside your chest, labored breaths escaping you with a strained noise.

“I know…I know—keep those gorgeous eyes on me, sweetheart.” He inhales a shaky breath, flipping up your blood-crusted hairs from sticking to your forehead.

You whisper an apology, catching his attention as you grip his waist. Ghost’s eyebrows furrow.

“Don’t. Don’t say sorry,” he says. “You did this, you saved our lives, love.” 

“‘M just finishin’ the job, ‘lright?” His split and bloody lips find a place on your temple, planting a raw and long kiss to your throbbing skin.

“…’least I got to see your face before—“ 

Ghost holds you, squeezing your hand as a slight warning. “Don’t talk like that.” 

It was a demand. 

“That an—“ you spur into a coughing fit, blood spraying onto the man’s vest. “…Order, Lieutenant?” 

“Spare y’r energy,” he huffs. 

“Simon—“ you slur.

“Stop.” He snarls.

Your ragged breaths start to stray, causing panic to surge through the man above you.

“No,” he growls, squeezing your smaller hand in his a bit tighter than before. “Don’t, Thaye,” he says through clenched teeth.

Your body falls limp in his lap, the grasp loosening on his shirt making his heart pound through his chest, a painful pounding that felt similar to acid reflux.

“No!” Ghost yells, desperately palming at your tangled hair in panic. “Fuckin’ massacre,” he exhales shallowly.

One arm scoops beneath the back of your knees, the other across your shoulder blades with his hand holding your arm. 

A loud strained groan claws it’s way from his gullet at the sudden pain inside his ribs as he lifts himself up and off the floor. 

His muscles tighten inside his body, a burning sensation in his abdomen as he clutches you close to his chest, feeling your blood seep into his shirt.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

The gentle rhythmic beeping and steady flow of air through your nostrils was something that felt unreal and forced.

You slowly flutter your eyes open to light slipping in between the beige curtains. Your eyes are half-lidded and threatening to close against your will as your bandage wrapped hands rests atop the metal railing on either side of you.  

It smells of strong floor cleaner and hand sanitizer, a scent that is slightly uneasy on you as you slowly slip back into consciousness. 

Your muscles feel tight in your body; pain racking your shoulder and neck as you crane it to take a look around the room. 

The walls are spinning and the ceiling above you is spiraling making you sick to your stomach. 

On the bedside table to your left—closest to the window—there’s flowers. They’re too withered to try and recognize what kinds, shredding to flakes in your fingers when you caress them between your pinky and thumb.

Your hand drags up to pull nasal tubes out of your nostrils. It’s almost as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe air, throat tightening and lips so still from lack of moisture.

There’s a penetrating migraine in the back of your skull as you carefully swing your legs over the side of the bed, the thin baby pink and spotted hospital gown flowing down your sides leaving you slightly exposed in your thigh region. 

Bare and bandaged feet slide along the smooth cold tile, sending chills up your body as you grip the IV stand with your trembling hand, the other holding onto the bed railing for support. 

You groan and strain as you struggle to lift yourself up, propelling upwards with your palm and grip on the stand until your knees straighten and your standing up somewhat decently.

Where was Ghost? Is Ghost alive?

So many thoughts coursed through your head along with the punishing feeling of dehydration. 

You guide yourself using the wheels on the IV stand towards a counter, your hands gripping the handle of the sink and pulling it upward.

A choked moan manages to break from you as you scoop the water in your hands and swill the rich liquid. 

Water dribbles down your chin, which you wipe away before lifting your head to look into the medicine cabinet mirror. 

Your hand rests on the wall in front of you as you heave.

They cut your hair shorter, not too short but enough so that it was comfortable. Your entire right side of your face being bandaged, stains of blood being a faint copper color.

Bandages wrapped around your neck and reached down your shoulder you’d been shot in.

Your hair had been taken care of neatly while you were in a coma, that was obvious.

Ghost. Where?

You grip the IV stand and hobble towards the door, turning the knob and gripping the threshold with your other hand as you step out. 

A nurse pauses in her tracks, rushing to your side in an instant. “How are you up? Your injuries are critical,” she gasps, palm flattening against the small of your back.

“My lieutenant—…my lieutenant…” you say in an undertone.

“You need bed rest, you’ve only just woken up.” Her voice is gentle yet commanding.

“No,” you bark, shuffling out of her hold. “Please take me to him.” 

The woman bites her lip before nodding hesitantly, hand against your back again to guide you towards his room.

It was only a few doors down from you—when the nurse opened the door, allowing you into the room.

You see the back of Ghost’s head facing in your direction, his hair tousled from the bandages wrapping around his head.

“Ghost,” you call.

His head turns from facing the window to facing you, you hear him murmur your name in reply.

“Y’minx,” he breathes. “Hell y’doin’ out ya bed?”

You carefully walk yourself towards him, the nurse holding her hands atop her chest nervously. The sound of the plastic wheels of the stand makes his breath hitch in his throat, the sound of reassurance that you were alive.

“You okay, big man?” Your voice is hoarse from lack of use, but he’s able to that you perfectly.

“D’ya ever worry ‘bout y’self, love?” Ghost asks with a tinge of humor. 

Heavy casting was on his right leg, bandages and patches on practically every inch of his body—similar to you.

“Sometimes,” you smile softly and push strands of his hair out of his face, your heart slightly shatters in your chest at the sight of him flinching at your touch.

Ghost scoots himself over slightly, wincing at the sudden movement.

You seat yourself beside him on the large gatch bed and his hand pushes you down to lay beside him.

“Wait, Mr. Riley—“ the nurse takes a small step forward.

“I’ll ‘b fine,” he grunts.

Her eyes blink slightly as she takes a few steps back, her lips separating to speak though no words come out. She simply turns on her ankles and closes the door behind her.

Ghost secures an arm around your waist, pushing your back flush against his bandaged chest.

Your eyes trace his tattoos and the muscles of his arms, every scar and blemish.

“Where’s the force?” You ask quietly.

“Left recently,” he mumbles back tiredly, pressing his nose into your hair. “Y’smell like pomegranate—got y’self a damn spa crew while y’were out?”

You laugh dryly, breaking into a light fit of wheezes.

“Not too hard, Seargant.” Ghost’s finger tucks a loose strand of hair from your bangs behind your ear.

Your wet bandages on your hands rub against his knuckle as you hold onto his hand, he seems to pay no mind.

You turn your body slightly so you can get a better look at his face. “Odd seeing you without your eye black.” You quip.

His closed eyes open to look down at you. “Mm, might as well see m’down in me knickers then, eh?” He chuckles huskily.

“Very funny,” you roll your eyes lightheartedly. 

You catch his small glances to your lips, his hand leaving your chest to run his thumb down your bottom lip until that same hand is cupping your cheek lovingly.

His eyes narrow, he’s sleepy, but you still catch yourself propping your body up with your elbow and closing the gap between the two of you. 

Instantly, his head cranes and tilts to deepen the kiss, his fingers gently sliding down the side of your face to press his thumb into the underside of your jaw and drag his fingers along the nape of your neck.

Ghost breathes into your mouth, the taste of mint leaf and citrus enveloping your taste buds as his tongue laced over yours.

The kiss was passionate, you feel his eyebrows furrow showing his desperation as you both kissed softly at a gentle pace and motion.

Your eyes flutter open as you feel his warm lips leave yours with a quiet pop, both of you panting lightly with his forehead pressed against yours. Ghost’s eyes are unable to open for a few moments after you disconnect. 

When they do open, your eyes bore into his brown orbs, the dark purple hue circling under his eyes showing his deprivation of sleep.  

When he feels you buck gently back into his groin, he releases a small grunt, lips meeting yours again for a small chase kiss.

“Not like this,” he says quietly. “I’d take you on this bed right here, right now, but y’ve recently waken up ‘n we’re both still in r’covery.” 

You hum in agreement, his hand finding it’s place on your chest once again with the knowledge of your lower abdomen injury.

“‘N to b’honest—‘can barely feel m’damned balls, feels like ‘ve got whiskey dick.” He grumbles, and you bite your lip to suppress a giggle.

“Simon!”

“Don’ you laugh at me, woman.” Ghost lowers his head into the crook of your neck, biting the skin gently 

“My deepest condolences, Lieutenant,” you purr, catching his lips in another kiss when you jerk his head upward with your uninjured shoulder. He growls against your mouth in reaction.

There’s a long yet short line of silence as you turn towards his back again, your legs tangling with his as you hold your lips against his knuckles.

“Y’have no clue how strong you are.” He swallows the knot in his throat as he speaks. “God, Thaye, they…they told me there was a chance y’d never wake up.” 

“Hey,” you hum. “Stop that, I’m here now.” 

His eyes stare blankly at the wall ahead of you, maybe even the same wall you were staring at—if your eyes weren’t closed already. 

“I just don’ know what I would’ve done if I made it outta there ‘n y’didn’t make it with me.” He says. 

“Y’r the reason I made it out with you in the first place. If y’hadn’t pulled that barmy stunt—“ he pauses, and you feel the rise of his chest and the fall as he exhales deeply.

“Y’survived internal bleeding, trauma to the head ‘n eye, two broken ribs, second and third degree burns, asphyxiation, dismemberment, stab wounds and gunshot wounds..” Ghost squeezes his fist tighter against your chest. 

“So did you, Si.” You coo softly. 

“Christ…” he mutters. 

His fingers interlock with yours best they can, regardless of the most of them being numbs on your knuckles, and it wasn't until your hand rested on his chest and rubbed over the raised scars, that he realized he hadn't been touched so gently in nearly eleven years. It wasn't a new feeling, but it was a feeling that he had craved desperately. 

Never had fallen in love before, but he knew you had bad experiences with it—figuring out that your ex-fiancé had cheated on you while on deployment. Someone had to love you, and he was skeptical of it being him, but it was clear you loved him too and now he was scared you’d stop. 

But hearing your gentle breathing as you slipped back into sleep hunched into his form led him somewhere he’d never been. You cleared his mind and cleared away his thoughts. For the first time, he doesn’t want to look away from what he has the ability to feel.

[k-nayee]

Death Wish Love Epic: The Musical

wc: 1k a/n: Song Inspiration: Death Wish Love by Benson Boone; recommend you listen while reading!! This is a Penelope!Reader btw!

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

Odysseus had never known a battle more grueling than the one he faced now—fighting the distance between him and his Penelope.

The Gods had thrown everything they could at him: monsters, wars, storms. But none of it compared to the war he waged within himself.

It wasn’t just the bloodshed or the pain that kept him going, it was you—your face, your laughter, the way you looked at him as if he were the only man in the world.

He’d seen so much death, so much destruction. And yet every time he closed his eyes the thought of you was stronger.

In every battle he could hear your voice, soft but commanding, urging him to come back to you.

That was what he held onto. That was why he survived.

But sometimes the love he felt for you scared him. It wasn't just love anymore.

It had become something dangerous, something that had the power to tear him apart.

If he lost you—if the Gods took you away before he could return, Odysseus knew it would destroy him.

He felt fragile in that love, like it held the power to break him in ways no sword or spear ever could.

Even now as his ship rocked on the waves heading toward Ithaca, all he could think about was you.

The memory of your face; the way your eyes shimmered with a warmth he couldn’t find anywhere else.

You had always been his anchor. Even when the world around him was falling apart you were the steady ground beneath his feet.

He clenched his fists watching the horizon as the faint outline of Ithaca came into view.

His men were talking and murmuring about home, but Odysseus was quiet as he stared out at the sea.

His heart raced. What if you had moved on? What if after all these years you no longer waited for him?

The very thought of it made his chest tighten. He had faced monsters that would drive any man mad, yet it was the thought of losing you that truly terrified him.

Odysseus cursed the Gods for how long they kept him from you. Every day spent away from you had felt like death.

He could face a thousand wars—a thousand enemies. But the pain of not having you by his side was unbearable.

He longed to hold you again, to feel your warmth, to hear your voice. It was a love that consumed him entirely, a love that bordered on madness.

As the ship drew closer to the shore his heart pounded louder than the crashing waves.

The moment the ship docked Odysseus was off. He barely heard the cheers of his men as they celebrated their return, his mind was already racing toward the palace.

His steps were quick, fueled by the fire in his chest that had been burning for years.

He reached the palace gates, and though his breath was heavy from the run his heart lightened the moment he stepped inside.

He could already sense you—your presence, the very essence of who you were lingering in the air.

And then he saw you.

You were standing on the terrace. Your back was turned to him, the soft light of the setting sun casting a golden glow on your figure.

For a moment Odysseus couldn’t breathe. It was like seeing you for the first time all over again.

Every inch of him ached for you. But he stood frozen, too overwhelmed by the sight of you after all these years.

It wasn’t until you turned around and your eyes meet his did he moved.

“Penelope...” he whispered hoarsely, voice barely audible. It was like a plea for you to recognize him after all this time.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, and for a moment he feared you didn't.

But then you broke into a run, throwing yourself into his arms. Odysseus caught you, holding you as tightly as he dared.

His fingers tangled in your hair, his breath catching as he buried his face in your shoulder.

“Odysseus,” you breathed, your voice trembling. “You’re here. Y-you...you came back to me.”

He pulled back just enough to see your face, his heart swelling as he saw the tears streaming down your cheeks.

He wiped them away with his thumb, his touch gentle as if he were afraid you might disappear if he pressed too hard.

“I’m here,” his voice was thick with emotion. “I’m finally home.”

Home.

It was a word that held so much meaning now. It wasn’t the palace, or the island, or the throne.

It was you. You had always been his home.

Odysseus pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes closing as he savored the moment.

He had waited for this for so long, and now that he was here he didn’t want to let go.

You were everything to him, the reason he had fought, the reason he had survived.

“I love you,” your voice shook as you clung to him, your fingers digging into his back as if you were afraid he might disappear.

Odysseus smiled, though it was laced with pain. He knew the dangers he had faced were nothing compared to the dangers that lay in loving you.

But he didn’t care. He would die for you. He would face the Gods themselves if it meant staying by your side.

“I love you too,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “And I’ll love you until there’s nothing left of me.”

You pulled him closer, your breath hot against his neck as you whispered, “Don’t ever leave me again.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice breaking as he held you tighter. “Never again.”

And as the sun set on Ithaca, Odysseus knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, he would face them all for you.

Because this love—this dangerous, all-consuming love—was worth every sacrifice.

Even if it was a death wish, even if it meant losing everything, he would love you to the very end.

[daylite-writes]

A Healer’s Blunt Teeth - Yan!Capitano x Healer!Reader

(Pt 2 here)

In your homeland, the nation of war, healers are highly valued, highly sought after. This, however, does not grant them autonomy. Traded, won, and bought. That has been your life thus far. Now though, you’ve fallen into the possession of a man you know will never lose a battle.

cw: societal-typical captivity, Yandere-esc behavior, background death, non consensual touching/kissing, sharing a bed (romantic, but not sexual), consensual relationship, brief use of the word ‘master’ until Capitano shuts that down, time skip.

2.8k words

~~~

The sun was relentless, on the battlefield. Glaring down from the horizon, it was blindingly bright. It’s heat was so palpable it warped the rocky terrain around you. Your face, back, legs, all were drenched in sweat. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst part was the smell of the fallen bandits cooking under it.

You choked back a sob as another waft of the scent passed you. Rotting, seared. The battle was over, but didn’t dare to move from the spot behind a jagged rock you’d taken. Quietly, you cursed to yourself, “stupid, fucking—stupid. Gods, archons, fucking, idiotic—”

Idiotic team leader, idiotic fucking team. The scouts were supposed to make sure backup wasn’t within range, the talkers were supposed to intimidate them into to fork over their supplies, and the front liners were supposed to not fucking die should a altercation begin.

Apparently none of them did their job, because the moment swords were drawn, one of them sent a signal to a larger group of Fatui a ways back—the moment their backup arrived marked the start of the bloodshed.

They cut through your group with far too much ease. Trained. You didn’t dare peek out from your hiding place, but you listened to the ‘shirk, shirk, shirk’ as each bandit was double-tapped.

You bit your bottom lip hard, hard enough to draw blood, as footstepped creeped closer.

As a healer, you’d never been afraid of defeat. Even ones that had the entirety of the group you were with dead. But those defeats came at the hands of other Natlan people. Those were people who would spare the healer, finding better uses for you than death. The Fatui? No such promise. Surely they had their own, and in turn, you held no use.

The air was tense, silent, except for your stifled breathing and the click of the rifle as you struggled to load it. You swore internally, fumbling with the damned thing, before you heard a click.

You froze. The click was not from your gun.

“Drop it.” The Fatuus barked. You did so, weapon clattering on the ground, raising your hands in surrender, you kept your head dipped low. Unsteady breaths spilled from your lips.

“Please.” You begged, you weren’t a threat, you prayed they knew that.

One grabbed you, roughly, forcing you to stumble along as you were dragged into the blood smeared slaughter grounds. The sun, glaring in your eyes, made it hard to see. Eventually, the Fatuus shoved you, making you fall to yours knees—which sunk a little into the blood soaked mud under me.

The Fatuus said something, which you didn’t hear between your heavy breathing and rapid heartbeat pounding in your ears. It wasn’t for you—too formal and professional. You lifted your head—

The largest man you’d ever seen. Well, probably a man. Towering, with a helmet that looked like a shark’s metal maw shrouding his face in darkness. The blood pounding in your ears intensified. He was looking at you—he was looking at you—

You dropped your head down immediately, terrified of the man you’d been tossed before. Their leader, undoubtedly. It was a short lived reprice from his fearsome figure, as he soon grabbed your chin, dragging you to your feet and forcing your eyes to meet his void—

“You aren’t a bandit. You’re too scrawny, not toned, and you can’t load a rifle. You are for some sort of utility.” He tilted his head to look down over your body, before his eyes locked onto yours again. “Am I correct?”

“Y-yes—yes sir.” Your chest shook with every heavy breath. “I-I’m their healer.”

“Hm.” He said simply. The hand clasped around your throat and jaw twisted slightly, moving your head and body as he pleased. You let slip a sharp whimper, but didn’t dare say a word. He looked over you, appraising you like one would a horse or a fine good. Trying to determine your value.

“In the Natlan wilds, healers are usually bought, traded around between groups.” He lifted your head a little higher exposing your neck. What was he looking for? “Or taken, when a group died to another. Just one thing from which a victor is entitled to take. Hm. I wonder where you’ve been, healer.”

Too many places. From the moment you showed an innate ability for healing. Traded, won, bought off, defected to. Your knees threatened to buckle beneath you as you met his eyes.

His mask hid all but the slightest trace of blue eyes and a sharp, but you swore you could see the glint of sharp teeth as he dropped out, letting you collapse onto your knees in the dirt.

He turned to his soldiers, with a booming voice yelled; “Kill any left alive, take all supplies of theirs you find.”

Then, he turned back to you, voice quieter, but pleased. You hadn’t moved an inch from where he dropped you.

“What do you think of the cold?”

~~~

Capitano was your new boss. Not the Fatui—Capitano specifically.

You stayed in his tent during the day, and slept in the corner at night. It wasn’t like you were told to sit there, but you’d rather not risk punishment for asking for a bed. You weren’t sure how cruel the Fatui were, how cruel he was.

Besides, it was familiar. Sleeping at the foot of your latest warlord. A decoration when you were not working. Like a fancy vase, or an exotic fur blanket.

He came back to the tent one night, the troops reeling from a small battle. You didn’t know what against, only that he took a seat on the side of his bed, undoing his armor, and turning to you, silently beckoning. You approached, sitting beside him on the bed, beginning to heal his wounds.

You wondered how many had seen under the armor. He was strong, toned, and monstrous. Scars etched out of his back held veiny black scars that had to be from the void, his teeth, at times, seemed shinier than his blades and twice as sharp. His eyes…

Oh his eyes.

There was nothing wrong with them. Not visually, but…

You shuddered as you felt them on you again, your muscles threatening to lock up. Heal, right, you needed to heal him. Don’t disobey, don’t refuse, don’t show fear.

“Calm down.” He commanded, and you suddenly realized how your limbs were shaking.

“Apologies, master.” You took a small breath, forcing your hands to move steadier across his ribs. A gash, probably from some rifthounds. They’d been hunting the abyss deeper into the mountains.

“Hm.” He said simply.

He never showed any pain as you fixed him, despite healing—against most people’s assumptions—being no pleasurable experience. You wondered if he even staggered when the beast cut through flesh. You wondered how many he killed before one landed the lucky shot.

Scars faded, having curled up into themselves until they dissapeared, you pulled your hands back. You were on his bed, on your knees as he sat on the edge, legs planted on the floor. You were practically under his arm, in order to gain access to his ribs, but you didn’t move away, and wouldn’t. Not until he dissmissed you.

“Done?” He asked, voice even. Gods, did he even feel any of it?

“Yes, master.”

“Good.” He inclined his head slightly. A thanks. You, nervously, lips parted slightly, looked up to him, taking a second to glance at his maskless face. Was… was he going to dismiss you, or?

He met your gaze, and this time you could not stop your limbs from locking up. You felt like a rabbit, with the eyes of a wolf locked onto you.

He lifted a hand, his fingertips abyssal, dipped in black ink. Gently, he cupped your cheek. The little gasp you gave was one of fear, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Once again, he considered you, tilting and moving your head as he liked. “You’ve done well.”

If you could speak, you’d thank him. Call him master as the others you’ve served prefer, maybe bow your head. But no. Something in you, needed desperately, to remain very, very, still.

“You’ve served me well, for weeks, now. Not a whisper of what I look like among my men, not a peep of disobeyal from you. You haven’t so much as asked for a bed. I must wonder what has happened for you to be so… tamed.”

You said nothing.

“I think I could take you to the most beautiful place in Teyvat, and you wouldn’t dare ask to step outside my tent, instead awaiting my own permission. Hm.”

He tilted you head to the side, exposing your neck. This time, you began to shake. You’ve seen his teeth at times, they could tear your head free from your body—

“Captain?” You pleaded.

“Shhh. I’m not hurting you.” He whispered, you felt it more than you heard it, his hot breath across your skin. “Remain good and you can sleep in my bed tonight.”

He… kissed you. Your brain almost short circuited when his lips dipped down to your neck. It was gentle, even when sharp canines nicked your skin.

Slowly, your body relaxed, and he pulled you closer, he kissed your neck, like a lover. A reverent one. Before you knew it, you were sitting on his thigh, whimpering as he placed a hickey high on your neck, one not able to be hidden. Between your beating heart and his… affection, he stopped for mere moments, not to breath or take respite, but instead to murmur soft nothings, “good,” “thank you,” “my healer,”, before he planted another kiss somewhere new.

His attention continued on for far too long, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself, or where this was going.

“Master…” you said, panting, it took everything in you to not bury your head in his shoulder and bite your lip. You felt deeply embarrassed. This wasn’t the first time a member of the people you’d been claimed by paid… special attention to you. But it was

“Captain. You will call me captain.”

“Captain.” You forced out, softly. “Can…”

He waited, not kissing your skin as you figured out how to work your tongue. It would better, right? To be with him than against. A healer alone is doomed. You thought for a moment, before quietly speaking.

“Can I kiss you too?”

“Yes.” He growled out, far too fast. A little aggressive, but, okay—you lowered your head, planting your own kiss on his neck, as gently as you could.

He groaned a bit, the vibrations of it tangible against your lips. “Bite down.”

For a moment, your brain short circuited. What?

“Bite.”

Well then. Slowly, nervously, you sank your teeth into his skin.

His hand cupped the back of your head—archons you swore there were claws on them—and pressed your head a bit further down, forcing you to bite down harder.

The sound that forced its way from his throat was guttural, not quite a growl, but deeply animalistic and satisfied.

“Good… healer. Good.” He huffed out. The hand left the back of your head, and you took that as permission to release the crux of his neck from your teeth.

You couldn’t help but be shocked at the sight you left. A perfect set of teeth marks against his neck, little beads of blood dotting it. If you hadn’t seen it yourself a few times, you wouldn’t be sure he could bleed. At least, bleed red. He held himself like a god among men, and his soldiers seemed to put him on a similar pedistool.

Your mind circled back to his previous praise. Good. You did well, he was happy with you. You wondered if you would be allowed to sleep in his bed tonight. You wondered if he’d let you refuse.

Realizing he’d been silent for a time, you glanced at him, cold, icy eyes glittering behind lax eyelids. He was watching you.

Your chest was heaving despite the little effort it took, but his breathing was strangely calm, rhythmic.

You felt a hand run through your hair, you closed your eyes and bit your lip.

“It’s late. Sleep in my bed, should you like.” He said simply, and you opened your eyes. His hand was still in your hair, and you’d never felt so calm in his presence.

“Alright.” You spoke, the sound barely a breath.

You slept in his bed that night, his arm around your midsection. You felt like the woman in a painting with a name you forgot. She lounged within a lion's den, resting her head against one’s chest, sleeping beside an apex predator.

~~~

Capitano’s time in Natlan was coming to a close. And in turn, yours was as well.

You laid lazily on the strategy table, your head and chest slumped forward into your arms. Under you, a map of Teyvat, with various pins and marks. The path home. Capitano had been pouring over it even after his generals left, marking it every once in a while, or muttering to himself. You’d been waiting for him to finish for hours now.

For all his animalisticicity, his libido was strangely low. Even after months of his physical attention—kisses, bites, sharing a bed—it took you initiating for him to grant you anything. You were happy for this, you supposed. But it did make him difficult to manipulate, unlike many other men who’d oblige after you puffed out your cleavage and bit your lip.

So, you had to resort to other methods.

“Captain… I’m tired.”

“Sleep then. I’ll carry you back when I finish.” He didn’t look at you.

“At the table? Darling…”

“You were the one that wanted to come to this meeting.”

“Yes, the meeting. Not the… what is this? Were the plans your generals made not sufficient?”

“I’m merely going over them again.”

“Alright.” You weren’t getting what you wanted. Not yet. “Perhaps I should walk back to the tent.”

His body shifted slightly, an action that on him, was like the moving of glaciers, heavy and lumbering. “You stay by me.”

It was a reminder, a weighty one. You did not have to be his lover, but you were his healer, taken by right of combat. The only right that mattered in Natlan. He held dominion over you either way.

You did not have to be his lover, but god was life easier that way.

“Sorry.” You sunk back into your arms, feigning just enough sadness and remorse to make him uncomfortable, even if he was visibly still as a mountain.

“You know you are not allowed to move through the camp alone.”

“I do. I just forgot, the last few chieftains I served didn’t bother overseeing my location or sleeping arrangements.” You lied. They did. Very closely in fact. You were a goddamn healer by blood, very expensive in the country of war. You slept at their feet or in their beds, sometimes in chains. But such facts did not serve you in that moment. “This… supervision is new to me.”

He sighed, setting down his quill. “I suppose this is done. We can return to the tent.” He moved around the table, coming up behind your chair before sweeping you into his arms. Hook. Line. Sinker.

“My legs function, Capitano. I assure you.”

“They did not seem to this morning.”

“I’m a healer, I can deal with some strained muscles.” You bantered back.

“Oh, so me bringing you breakfast was simply a ploy of yours?”

“Of course it was, surely you realized.” You grinned into his shoulder, taunting. “And healing takes time, imagine what the soldiers would say seeing me struggle to walk, coming out from your tent?”

“Hm.”

“Anyways, I said I could walk.”

“I wonder, do you ever accept the fact you may not get what you want? Or must you claw at me until I indulge you?”

“With walking?” You grinned, finding a stance you could sink your teeth into. “Are you afraid I may run?”

“Do you think you could escape?” Capitano met your question with one of his own.

You hummed, eyes closed with a soft smile, not bothering to indulge him until he answered you first.

Your eyes shot open as the warm metal of his gauntlet tilted your head up by the chin. He looked over your neck, scarred with the symbols of his love, and gave a content, “Hm. No.”

You rolled your eyes, a little insulted. “I could escape if I liked.”

“Of course, my healer.”

You pouted as he let go of you, your face falling down into his shoulder again.

“Fear not though, my healer.” His voice had a rasping, growling edge to it, making your body shiver in the Natlan heat. “There will never be anything to run from.”

~~~~~

Just a little thing! Hope y’all liked it <3

[surielstea]

Nobody’s Soldier

Eris Week 2024, day 5: War

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Lieutenant!Reader

Summary: In which Reader and Eris spend their night before the war together going over battle plans, and distracting themselves from the bloodshed with other tactics.

Warnings: Slight Angst | Smut | Minors DNI | 18+ | Oral (f reviving) | p in v | penetration sex | slight worship kink | Sir kink | teasing | Eris FUCKS.

A. Note: Sorry this is so short!! I wanted it to be longer but, It’s mostly smut anyway ;)

3.1k words.

I drew in a sharp breath as I stared down at the map of Prythian, pawns of eight different colors sprawled across it.

The seven courts all gathered on one side, and Hybern in stark black marching from the west.

I groaned, my head pounding as Eris and I went over strategies for the umpteenth time that night.

Eris wrapped his arms around my shoulders, hugging me from behind and pulling me into his chest. I melt into his touch, craning my neck back to look up at him. "Where will I and my squadron be sectioned?" I ask in a tired murmur.

Eris's brows bunch and he looks down at me. "You're not fighting in this war." He shakes his head. I pull away from him, turning around to face him with confusion etched along my face.

"What do you mean I'm not fighting in this war?" My lip curls slightly.

"I'm your general, and I'm commanding you to stay off the field, what's not to understand?" He arches a manicured brow and I scowl.

"Eris I'm a Lieutenant, one of your best fighters," I state. "You cannot take me out of this war simply because you wish to keep me safe." I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Yes, I can." He states, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And I will, selfish or not you are my mate and I will not allow you to put yourself in danger." He frowned, the expression making my gut twist.

I stare at him in disbelief. "I'm a soldier, it's my job to protect this court. You cannot seriously think to keep me from fighting in our wars." I protest, stepping forward, craning my neck up at him, and snarling.

"I'm not sending you out there just to risk losing you to some war that wasn't even ours to begin with." He matched my tone.

"But it is ours. It always has been. If Hybern wins this war do you think he'll have mercy on us? That he'll even remember us?" I narrow my eyes on him and he grits his teeth, his expression unwavering. He did not speak, but he did not falter either.

"Gods, Eris if I knew accepting the mating bond meant that you'd keep me from the battlefield then I never would have—" I begin to say, but I didn’t get the chance to finish because suddenly my wrists were pinned back against the wall and Eris was flush against me, baring his teeth.

"I'd advise you don't finish that sentence if you know what's best for you." He warned a low growl rumbling from his chest that sent shivers down my spine.

"I could save lives that would be lost if I wasn't there. Lives, Eris, your men." I persisted, my voice softer but not weak.

"And jeopardize yours in the process? Call me a selfish and blinded bastard if you want, but if you were to get hurt? It would destroy me." He confessed, his voice dropping into a more intimate, sacred place, one that he only let me hear.

"Then you cannot fight either," I mutter sourly, despite my heart aching to agree, to tell him I’d do whatever he wanted if it meant we could stop arguing.

He barks a laugh at that, the sound clipped and lacking the warm amusement his laughter often had. "I am the general, I am an heir, I must fight and it is not my choice." He explained, and even if I already knew, it hurt to hear that it was not up to him whether he fought or not. "But I can save you, I can keep you safe at the very least, that, that will always be my choice." He steels his features.

"You're such a hypocrite." I scowl.

"I don't care, you are to stay here where I know you will be safe and that is final." His voice did not waver, the male I was looking at was a future High Lord, the General of Autumn's armies.

"And if they siege on this tower and slit my throat before you even get the chance to return to me?" I suggest and his brows bunch as if the thought alone brought him more grief than he could stomach.

"Gods, my darling can't you just stop being stubborn, just this once?" He asked, his voice teetering on a pleading.

"No, because I cannot sit here locked in this tower while you're out there in danger," I say. "If you fall Eris," I swallow, struggling to get the words out. "If you fall and I'm not there to say goodbye one last time, I will never forgive you or myself." I knew he only was looking after my best interest and safety, but he needed to realize that this would tear me apart as much as it would to him if our roles were reversed.

"So please, if you cannot stay behind too, then let me come with you." I was not above begging, I would, and if he still didn’t permit me to join his forces I would find a way to fight beside him anyway.

He seemed to recognize that, and ever so slowly he closed his eyes and let out a deep heavy sigh, one of forfeit— and I know, that I’ve got him under lock and key. "On one condition." He seethes and I suppress the smirk on my face.

I simply raise a brow, waiting for him to go on.

"You stay away from the front lines, you do not go into the heat of the battle unless it's completely necessary." He pauses. "Your squadron's goal will be to maintain your safety, if you try to do some self-sacrificing bullshit they have permission  to knock some damned sense into you, do you hear me?" He snarled, the General looking down his nose at me.

I let my wild grin form over my features. "Yes sir." I nod, biting into my lower lip and tugging at my wrists, which he still had pinned above my head.

"Swear it." He growled, not letting my arms loose until I did so and I rolled my eyes.

"I swear on the Mother Herself. I agree to your stupid requests, and will not step foot on the front lines or self-sacrifice." I grumble.

"Good." He removes his hold from my wrists and I immediately slither my hands around the nape of his neck. "You mean everything to me, I can't lose you." He said softly, wrapping his arms around my waist securely. I lay my head against his chest, hugging me tightly.

"I know, trust me, I know," I whisper, knowing I’d react far worse if I was in his position.

I silently absorb every detail of this moment, attempting to commit the warmth of his embrace to memory, the cinnamon and clove scent of him, the reassuring feeling of his muscular arms wrapped around me. But most importantly, the sound of his heartbeat and steady breathing. I don't know what I'd do if either of those things ever stopped. I tightened my arms around him at the thought.

Slowly, his hands run up my sides, past my shoulders and arms, and intertwine our fingers.

He silently pulls me to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it and guiding me into his lap, straddling his hips. He looked at me with both fear and desire swirling in his amber irises, and reverence behind it. I smiled softly and cupped his face in my palms, remaining silent as I pressed gentle kisses down his jaw.

He moved, his lips connecting with my neck, his touch worshipping as he pulled me against him, holding me for a moment, taking solace in the warmth and comfort that bloomed when we touched.

He trails his lips down the column of my throat to my collarbone, he nips slightly at the skin, then sucked and bit and licked at it, leaving a purple mark on the area. “Having one more night with you before we leave for the camps is torture." He grunted against my freshly branded skin.

"Why’s that?" I ask, my hand going into his hair. His touch increased into a more urgent, possessive need.

"Because I could spend an eternity worshipping every bare inch of you, but I'm sanctioned only a night." He explained. "I plan to memorize you, every dip, every curve, every damned inch of you." He said softly against my skin and I smiled as his hands slipped beneath my nightgown, gripping the bare skin of my hips, and when he noticed I wasn’t wearing any undergarments he only smirked against my skin, biting at the love mark softly. “Gods, you’re good to me.” He groaned and I grinned, winding my hips over his.

He couldn’t quite contain himself anymore and flipped us over, my head falling into the pillows, legs falling open as he moved between them. He made quick work of my nightgown, pulling it off and discarding it onto the floor. "I want to burn the memory of you into my mind,” He professed, his mouth ravenous as he kissed down the valley of my breasts. “To be able to remember your scent,” He went on, my hand gripping his hair as he traveled further south. “Your touch,” His breath was hot against my lower abdomen as he neared where I craved him most. “Your taste." My mate purred, his tongue darting out and licking a long stripe from my entrance all the way to my clit.

"Eris," I gasped, my back arching as he attached his wicked mouth to that bundle of nerves, sucking on it.

"That’s what I want to remember most of all, the sound of you moaning my name,” He said, his words half a groan. “I never want to forget that." He pressed a gentle kiss to my pulsing cunt and my breath hitched. “You going to be good for me?” He asked and I nodded, eager to feel him. “Answer me,” He commanded.

“Yes, Sir,” I murmured and his canines brushed over my folds, a low growl sounding from him in reaction to my obedience, and the nickname, it always sent him spiraling when I called him that.

He mercifully didn’t drag the foreplay on for much longer, his lips sealing around my clit while two of his fingers trailed around my entrance, dripping in my arousal before dipping in and stretching me out.

I mewled at the feeling, his name the only thing on my lips as he worked me up towards my release. He was going to be the death of me if he kept this up. His fingers curved inside of me, toying with that sweet spot that made my vision blur and my breath hitch. His tongue mimicked the movement of his hand and my legs jolted, a clear sign that my release was steadily approaching. How was he so damned good at that?

He chuckled darkly against my most sensitive area, the sound sending reverberations up my spine. “You already close, baby?” He taunted and I nodded, eager to reach that beckoning, all-consuming peak. “How adorable,” His teasing remark elicited a whine from me and I tugged at his hair, beyond words.

He returned to my neglected clit, his fingers still pumping in and out of me as I barreled towards my climax.

“Come on my tongue,” He said, an order from a General. His tone alone made me release a slew of moans, my back bowing into the mattress as I gripped his hair. He groaned at the feeling of me pulling on his fiery red locks.

“Eris,” His name was a prayer on my lips, like he was a damned God and only he could grant me the pleasure I so desperately desired. At the sound, he bit at my clit and I gasped, my hands loosening as my release crashes into me in rolling waves of pleasure, casting down my spine to my core where he helped me ride it out.

He pulled away after a few more swipes of his tongue through my stimulated folds. He kissed back up my stomach, through my breasts. Every kiss was deliberately made as if he couldn’t forget how each inch of my skin felt on his lips.

I fisted his hair and brought him up hurriedly, my lips crashing against his, tasting myself on him. "I want you engraved into me, permanently." He whispered and my heart melted at his dedication, his loyalty. “My girl,” He murmured softly and I knew he was only saying what was on his mind, too caught up in his thoughts to realize he was even speaking aloud.

“I’m yours,” I say, cupping his jaw. “And you’re mine,” I grin wildly. He nods, a love-drunk look on his face.

“Body and soul,” He agreed while leaning closer, capturing my lips in another fierce kiss. His hips rut down onto my glistening cunt and I groaned at the feeling of the clothed bulge in his pants rubbing against me. He takes advantage of the sound I make because it allows his tongue to slip into my mouth, hungrily exploring with it.

His hands roam my body, his touch claiming yet reverent. One of his hands comes to my hip, pinning it in place to stop my writhing while the other gropes my peaked breast, his thumb swiping over the sensitive bud.

“Eris,” I moan, my back forming a crescent as he grinds his hips over mine again. “Please, I need you inside of me,” I beg, my hands moving from his hair to his shoulders, muscles shifting under my touch as he adjusted, pulling his pants off and whatever was beneath them fervently.

I writhe but his hand tightens at my hip, fingers singing and digging into my soft skin. “Stay still for me, can you do that for me?” He asked and I nodded.

“Yes, Sir,” I murmur and he smiles down at me, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the corner of my lips, the touch so intimate.

“That’s my good girl,” he praises, his cock aligning with my drenched cunt, dripping down onto his length.

“You alright?” He asks, his breath mingling with mine.

“Yes, please Eris make me feel good,” I consent and he smiles, all he needed to hear before he pushed the wide head of his cock into my cunt.

He groaned as I stretched around him, my elastic walls adjusting to his thick length. “Gods, you’re so tight baby,” He grunted through clenched teeth, attempting to reign in his composure and stop himself from ramming into me full force. “Taking me so well, atta girl,” He purred, pushing in deeper and deeper, and when I was certain I was full and couldn’t take any more, he pushed in one last inch. His face contorted into a mix of pleasure and restraint as he looked down at where we connected. My wet, puffy cunt wrapped around him so perfectly.

Ever so slowly, he began to move, his hips adjusting so he was pulling out and with each gentle thrust he would slowly go deeper, grow rougher until I was used to the stimulation and all my pain morphed into pure pleasure.

“Eris,” I mewled, my head tossing back into the pillows as I dug my teeth into my bottom lip to stop myself from screaming as he buried himself to the hilt inside of me, beginning to pound into me at a fast pace.

His abdomen contracts with every push and pull of his hips, his back flexing as I clawed my nails down it, leaving marks that he’d proudly display until they faded and he’d have me give them to him again.

His pace somehow increased into something animalistic, primal. His hand on my hip slithered up to my stomach, his palm splayed across the area and he gently, slowly pushed down.

I gasped as I felt him deeper, every ridge and vein of his length rubbing against my walls. I looked down, able to see exactly where he was inside of me as he continued pushing in and out of me. I moaned at the lewd sight, my eyes rolling to the back of my head as I dug my nails into his porcelain skin.

“You see that?” He purrs, staring exactly at what I was. “That’s how deep I am inside of you, stretching you out so you fit me, and only me,” He said, his words claiming and possessive as he continued to mold me onto his cock so no other male could derive the same pleasure from me that he could, not that I’d ever want anyone else to. I mewled at the idea of only being able to receive pleasure from him, my general, my mate. No one else, not even my own fingers.

“You like that, baby?” He smiled, his lips ghosting the shell of my ear. “I do, Sir,” I nod with a pleasure drunken smile across my lips. His cock twitched as I clench around him, signaling that he was nearing his release.

“You close baby? I don’t know how much longer I can hold back,” He warned and I nodded, my hands going to the nape of his neck.

“I’m—” My legs jolt. “So close,” I gasp out, my breath hitching and gaze shuddering.

“Look at me, I want to watch while you unravel on my cock,” He said with a feral, untamed grin that sent me reeling.

With one last roll of his hips, I met my second release of many that night. My orgasm took me full throttle, my vision growing fuzzy as heat washed down me. I clench tightly around me as I find my undoing, spurring him into his own release, his warm cum seeping into my cunt and filling every crevice, pumping me full. He bit at my shoulder as he groaned, our separate ecstasies coming together, longing in the air between us as we both rode our highs, his hips still rutting into me, much slower and relaxed now.

He grunts as he pulls out, it took effort, I had been milking him dry with how tightly I was clenched around him.

He let out a sigh, our pants filling the silent room, the fire crackling in the hearth that he must’ve absentmindedly lit in the midst of his pleasure.

He sank into the mattress beside me, his movements slow yet still carrying so much power to them.

“Aren’t you going to clean me up?” I hum the teasing remark tiredly, flipping onto my side to face him.

“You think we’re done?” He arched a brow, his hand coming to my bare hip and pulling me over him so my legs were spread over his hip. “I have one more night with you until this war is over, you’re a fool if you think we’re spending any of it sleeping.”

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[fireside-fanfics]

Ain’t Gotta Be You

Based on this prompt.

The world had been unforgiving for so long that Peach had forgotten what it felt like to be warm. Not in the sense of a fire crackling at night or the fleeting sunshine between battles. No, it was something deeper—something she had found in Daryl Dixon, the least likely source of comfort in a world built on survival.

They had been fighting their way through the remnants of an abandoned outpost, looking for supplies when Daryl snapped. It had been brewing for days, ever since the last mission where Rick’s latest plan nearly got them all killed. He was wound too tight, the tension of the war against the Saviors eating him alive. When Peach had pulled a move that nearly cost her her life—darting into the open to draw out a sniper so Daryl could get a clean shot—he had finally hit his limit.

"The hell were ya thinkin'?!" Daryl snarled, shoving his crossbow over his shoulder as they stomped through the woods back to camp.

"I was thinking about keeping you alive, dumbass," Peach shot back, unbothered by his anger.

She had seen it before. Daryl didn’t know how to process emotions unless they came out wrapped in barbed wire and curses.

"Ain't your job to do shit like that," he muttered, refusing to look at her.

"Oh, so it’s fine when you do it, but when I do, it’s reckless?" she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Don’t be a hypocrite, Daryl. It’s not a good look on you."

"This ain't a joke, Peach! You coulda gotten yourself killed!"

"And?" she snapped, spinning on her heel to glare at him. "What the hell else are we supposed to do? Hide? Run? Let them take everything from us? If I have to put myself in danger to make sure these people—our people—survive, then that’s exactly what I’m gonna do."

Daryl’s nostrils flared, jaw working as he fought for words. "It ain't gotta be you, Peach!"

"It ain't gotta be you either, but you keep throwing yourself into the fire every damn time! And what?! I'm just supposed to sit back and watch? No thanks, asshole."

He shook his head, stepping closer, his voice rough but quieter now. "I don't wanna lose ya."

Peach’s heart clenched, but she was too pissed to let that sink in yet and fired back the words, "Then be a better person."

Daryl blinked and sputtered out, "Why?!"

She huffed, throwing up her hands as she shouted, "Because someone needs to have morals in this relationship, and it sure as fuck ain't gonna be me, sweetheart!"

Daryl stared at her for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then, to her utter disbelief, he huffed a laugh—small, brief, but real. He shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Ya drive me nuts, y'know that, Peach?"

"That’s kinda the foundation of our relationship," she quipped, the tension between them thinning, shifting into something softer.

He sighed, stepping forward and hesitating before resting his forehead against hers. She let him.

"Just be careful, alright?" Daryl mumbled, kissing her temple. "I ain't ready to lose ya, doll."

"Same goes for you, Daryl." Peach reached up, brushing her fingers along his jaw, her touch light but grounding.

They stood like that for a moment, just breathing, before a distant gunshot reminded them of the war they were still fighting. Peach stepped back, nudging his shoulder with hers.

"C’mon," she said, "let’s get back before Rick starts thinking we eloped."

Daryl scoffed but followed her, shaking his head. "Like hell that’d ever happen."

"Never say never, sweetheart." Peach smirked, tossing him a wink.

And just like that, they walked on, side by side, into whatever hell awaited them next. Despite the battles still to come, despite the bloodshed and the heartbreak that war demanded, there was something unshakable between them. In a world where nothing was certain, where survival was the only currency that mattered, they had found something rare and worth fighting for: each other.

No matter what came next, they'd stand together because love—even in the end of the world—was still worth the risk.

[lady-ashfade]

hello :) i’d like to a strawberry cookie for jace (hotd) maybe the stress of the war gets to reader and he helps her out? tyyy 🫶🏼

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Warm Embrace

´*: ･ﾟ⋆˒ Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!reader

Bakery Event is closed

╰･ﾟ✧☽ Strawberry Macaroon: Imagine + custom trope.

╰･ﾟ✧☽ words: 649

╰･ﾟ✧☽ warnings: terrible thoughts, reader needing comfort, reader just panicking, thoughts about war and loss.

⤻ changed it to macaroon because that’s the sweet you get with your own trope.

˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚ 🥞 ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚

The sound of tapping at the widows, the whistling of the wind and the angry sea was unsettling. Horrible events have taken place in past weeks, there wasn’t much time to process or show weakness. And it slowly drove you mad. Walking the halls felt like a haunted and angered place, the silence of only your thoughts and steps are as loud as dragons.

Comfort was a scarce resource lately and only found in the arms of your newly wed husband, Prince Jacaerys. Late at night he’d sneak in at unreasonable hours thinking sleep had come over you, while taking you into his arms to rest as well. There was never a night where you found yourself truly asleep without him near, so when he wasn’t there, it was only cruel moments of being alone with the thoughts and fears.

Again, like every night, you had been cursed with not being able to fall in the warm embrace of slumber. Today was different, you did not try and lie down nor read, but sit at the mirror and continue to comb throughout your hair- unconscious to the world around you. Fear entranced every crevice of your mind and made you envision horrible things. Death of those you love, torturing of yourself- horrible and panicked thoughts that you couldn’t pull out of. 

Unknowingly to you the door had been opened and your husband entered your shared chambers, exhausted from his duties. Tonight he found you in a light room and awake, staring at yourself. “My love,” his voice was soft and low so when you didn’t reacted he changed his tone. Once he called it again, and again, then he used your name with still no answer. He was terrified.

It took him a few more tries mixed with him taking your shoulders and bending down next to your neck, eyes looking back at you in the mirror- you finally noticed.

“Jace?” Once you realize he was here you wondered how long you’ve been out, he usually comes back right before sunrise. “What time is it?”

“Just before dawn, my love.” turning his head he placed a kiss on your temple, a exhale left his nose, “What is happening in that little head of yours?”

Look at your hands and picking the skin of your nails, you felt aware of all the emotions coming through. “I am afraid,” you admitted while tears filled your eyes. “Forgive me, you have endured far greater then I have. I must sound like a heartless fool for being under stress.”

A fool was the final thing he’d ever call you. Throughout all of this he saw no signs of worry, or fear from you that it caused him to worry. While Jace has been falling into your arms he failed to return the favor- something he regrets desperately now.

His arms swept themselves around your body, his head rested onto of yours. He was always warm like a true dragon.

“This war is taking a toll on us all, but if anyone is a fool it has to be me. I have failed my duty as your husband to keep you safe from danger, even if that means from your own worries.” You shook your head in protest.

“No one will blame you for being frightened of what’s to come. I, myself am fearful of the bloodshed, even more so to the one’s I love. But we mustn’t let our fears take over,” losing his hold he traveled his hands up to your jaw and titled your head upward.

“Fear controls us, letting us down the path we dread.” you could feel his breath getting closer and his lips almost touching yours, becoming something you craved.

“I will protect you with all my will, the gods have given me the strength to do so.” And once again, your husband’s embrace takes all worries away.

[writingsfrombeyondthegrave]

Torn from the future- Chapter 1

Tom Riddle X Fem!Reader

Summary- After tampering with a Time Turner, you find yourself back in 1942. You decide that your best chance of improving the future is by befriending a certain man named Tom Riddle. You've heard of him before, but never in a positive light. Will you be his key to power or salvation?

Warnings for this chapter- Mentions of death and war, Stealing

Time travel has always been controversial in the Wizarding World. The Ministry in particular has taken to keeping any form of Time Travel under wraps as to prevent Wizards from dabbling in the illegal form of magical transportation.

Now with the Second Wizarding War quickly approaching, this dangerous threat was overruled by your desperation to change the past and prevent this whole mess from happening. The sorrows of your friends, the loss, the unnecessary violence and rift between wizards and muggles, even further than it already was.

Hermione had recently been popping in and out of lessons unnoticed and denied knowing what you or your friends had accused her of. You knew she had a Time Turner. If you had that, you could find a way to fix things yourself.

The smart thing to do would be to inform your friends so that they could help you but losing them was something that you couldn't bear. Your only hope was to take the time turner and figure it out alone.

Luckily there was no need to fret about your plan since you shared a dorm room with her. You waited until nightfall when the famous Golden Trio left Gryffindor tower, claiming to be sick yourself to stay behind and search for the it

The thing about your dear friend was that she was a perfectionist, not only in her schoolwork, but especially in her living quarters. If even a single paper was out of place, she would scream at you for days. But at times like this, where the whole group was stressed enough as it was, you could easily get by that little issue... hopefully.

Going through her belongings proved more difficult than initially intended, considering you never actually witnessed her putting the Time Turner anywhere away in your dorm, at least not while the both of you were present. She was actually quite protective of the thing, which you could understand given the gravity behind it all.

Digging through the trunk at the bottom of her bed, you searched through a dozen sweaters before finding a hidden compartment tucked away in the bottom corner. Surprisingly it seemed that Hermione had opted to leave the thing behind, too afraid of losing it on their unpredictable outing.

Hurriedly tucking the pocket watch into your bag, along with your journal, you got up from the floor of your dorm and made your way out of Gryffindor Tower.

Hours ticked by with you sitting on the ground of the restricted section. Books were scattered open around you in a circle while you chewed absentmindedly on your thumb nail, a nervous habit that you were too focused to pay attention to at the moment.

Thoughts and plans, one after another swirled in your mind continuously. A headache began forming from it, as you continued to reach dead ends. No plans that you came up with seemed to work well enough. Not to mention the fact that you never actually learned how to use the Time Turner before stealing it. You blamed that fact on your stress and desperation. Normally, you would plan out your actions meticulously but not this time.

Finally, it hit you. Harry's parents, Sirius and Remus, Even Regulus. You could save them all and prevent the heartache. It was simple in your mind, you would go back to the 1970's to save as many people as you possibly could. Maybe you could warn them somehow, or at least prepare them ahead of time for what was to come. It was the only way.

It's not as if you were afraid of participating in the war alongside your friends, it was just that you couldn't possibly stand by and watch your friends die beside you in the bloodshed and horror of war.

Pulling out the pocket watch from your bag, you decided to take the Time Turner apart piece by piece and rewire it to take you further back in time. Normal Time Turners would only send you back a maximum of five hours, which wouldn't have worked for anything you had planned.

Consequences by damned, you thought as you opened the Time Turner and began poking around at the mechanisms inside. The diagrams in the book made absolutely no sense. They only contained detailed drawings of the watch, but previously there had been no history of ever tampering with one.

Ticking began to get louder and louder. The books on the shelves rattled violently as if sensing the worst. You raised your eyes from the Time Turner in your hand and your eyes widened slightly, looking around to see what was happening.

Your finger slipped and accidentally grazed a metal coil that was exposed. Blood dripped down and the watch sizzled from the intrusion. A bright flash of light startled you and threw you back into the bookshelf, causing a copy of Dark Witches and Wizards Through History to crash down on your head.

Time shifted, books disappearing from their place on the shelves, dust cleared, and the watch rattled as you tried to clasp it tightly. Instantly the world faded and the last thing your blurry vision saw was the room spinning fast as you collapsed to the floor.

The creaking of footsteps in the library outside the Restricted Section was what woke you up. Your head pounded and you lifted your hand to place it on the top of your head. Sitting up to regain your balance, you rested your back against the bookshelf, albeit much more carefully than before.

There were no books on the ground anymore, it was only you alone. That should've been your first indication that something wasn't right, but your head hurt far too much for you to worry about your current surroundings.

After shoving the pieces of the Time Turner back into your bag, you finally stood up and made your way out of the library, cautiously avoiding the librarian or wandering Prefects. The only thing on your mind was getting back to your dorm and figuring your next course of action.

The hallways were deathly quiet, not a single person in sight. It must've been far later in the night than you had remembered.

You had almost made it to the Gryffindor Tower when you heard a deep voice speak from behind you.

"Where do you think you're going?" He asked, his voice calm and authoritative. You must've gotten stopped by a teacher. Being prepared for a lecture, you raised your hands as you slowly turned around to face him.

"I was-" Your eyes widened as you saw him, words failing you. This boy was around your age, with dark eyes that bore into your soul.

He raised his eyebrow, the tiniest hint of acknowledgment before his expression became emotionless once more. "I know everyone in this school and I have never seen you before. Follow me"

It wasn't a request as he walked ahead, down the hallway. Never once did he look back, clearly expecting you to follow behind blindly. You weren't sure if it was the headache, but you obeyed for the time being.

A/N- Please like/repost/comment and tell me what you think! Constructive criticism is always encouraged and appreciated. If I left out an important trigger warning, please let me know and ill add it.

This Series is inspired by Time Warp, written by @astonishment, but I won't be tagging them in every part since that would probably be annoying. I definitely recommend reading their series! Thank you again for letting me use the idea as the basis for me series.

Misc Credits:

Dark Mark Divider- @firefly-graphics

Diamond Divider- @troublesomesnitch

Header- Me

[grandlinedreams]

Hiya! Thank you for all of your fics! 🫡 They really make my day everyday! If you are still accepting requests, may I please request anything angsty with a fluffy end for Azriel 🥹 Whatever you can think of! ☺️

Hiya!! I sure can hehe, I hope this is to your liking!!

|| warnings: angst, blood, the war camp Illyrians are jerks, fluff

Illyria is fucking cold.

Wind whips at your face, unforgiving chill biting at any exposed skin ㅡ not to mention the steady crush of snow beneath your feet. The sun is already sinking past the snow-covered line of pines that makes up the steppes ㅡ making you grimace and attempt to hurry your pace.

This was not how you'd expected to spend your evening ㅡ but then again, you suppose freezing to death is more ideal than whatever fate your supposed "group" had intended for you. Made of Illyrian males and wholly unfamiliar, they'd made it clear that you weren't welcome on this expedition when you'd started ㅡ even more so when they'd had the audacity to grab at you with enough force to bruise your skin.

You aren't Illyrian, and so perhaps the thought had been that you would be weak, made more vulnerable in unfamiliar territory ㅡ but you'd proven them wrong when you'd sank your dagger into the gut of one of them, wrenched yourself free, and promptly taken off with the speed of a frightened stag.

You know they could track you if they really tried, but with the snow that pelts from above and the darkening sky, you doubt they'll risk it. But you're facing a bigger problem now ㅡ you have no idea how to get back.

"Fuck," you whisper to yourself, teeth clenched to keep from chattering. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

If it weren't so goddamned cold, you would've been paying better attention. If you hadn't been chased off by a handful of alphahole males with superiority complexes, you wouldn't even be out here in the first place.

Which is why, you suppose, all you can feel is surprise as the ground underneath you gives way with the cracking snap of loose rock and earth. It doesn't give you time to react as you lose your balance, plummeting gracelessly down into the abyss below what'd apparently been a drop off.

Your body bounces once, twice ㅡ then your head rebounds off sharp stone, impact making your ears ring before silent black consumes you.

Something is wrong.

Azriel can feel it, an undercurrent of tension that thrums in his veins like a second heartbeat. This entire place makes him uneasy, the churn of memories from his own time here as a child that reminds him why he avoids this place at all costs when he can.

But Rhysand had been adamant that he and Cassian make sure things were going well here, and you'd gone along to offer what support you could. Azriel appreciated the intent, but the way you'd been eyed by more than a few of the other males had set him on edge even further.

Cassian eyes him with a mixture of amusement and sympathy at the fact that he's just shy of pacing. Movement at the edge of his peripheral catches his attention, and he turns ㅡ it's the group you'd gone to scout the steppes with.

And, he notes with a fresh spike of fear to his stomach, you're not with them.

Azriel is moving before he truly registers it, eyes flicking from one face to another, fury rising like the maelstrom howling in the moutains beyond. "Where is she."

One of them has the audacity to scoff, and Azriel's blood boils as his shadows writhe, clamoring for bloodshed. Right now, he'd have no qualms about ripping every single one of them to pieces. His siphons blaze. "Tell me where [Name] is. Now."

One of them sneers. His arm is slung over his stomach, stemming the spill of blood from a wound to his stomach. Azriel hopes that you're the one who gave it to him. "She took off."

Azriel snarls, wings snapping out before he throws a rough, "Deal with them before I do" to Cassian before he's in the air and off in the direction they'd come from.

The only reason you know you aren't dead is because everything hurts. Pain radiates from everywhere, from the tips of your toes to your scalp ㅡ but you're alive.

You're not certain if you're relieved or not. A quick tentative flex of your hands is first, then your neck, your back ㅡ and you hiss a sharp curse when white-hot agony starbursts from your left ankle.

It takes longer than you care to acknowledge to sit up enough to assess it ㅡ grimacing at the swollen flesh, bruised an interesting shade of purple.

Fuck.

There's no way you're going to get out of here, not like this. Frustration mixed with fear prompts the rise of tears to your eyes, and you grit your teeth against a sob.

You're going to die out here. And there's nothing you can do about it. You doubt those alphaholes told anyone what happened and while you know Cassian and Azriel will look for you, they won't know where to look.

You stifle another choked sob, then still at the sound of movement. Of course some wild animal would take advantage, you're an easy meal ㅡ

"[Name]," a voice calls from behind you, so Cauldron-blessedly familiar that it has you struggling to turn, raw hands scrabbling for purchase to haul you upright.

You don't know how your ankle bears your weight or how you don't immediately collapse back to the ground ㅡ all you care about is lurching into the Illyrian male's arms with a ragged call of his name. "Azriel."

How he found you is beyond you, but his arms are around you, warding off some of the chill as he takes on most of your weight. He doesn't ask what happened, and you don't ask what you look like. The way his grip tightens on you answers how he feels about both.

He's still gentle as he lifts you up, flinching when you still hiss in pain. And then you're airborne, cradled carefully against him. Pain and exhaustion make your eyelids heavy as you nestle against Azriel's neck, the subtle shift of his head against yours following you into sleep.

When you wake next, it's to the crackle of a fire and the warmth of dry clothes. Sitting up is still a challenge, and dried blood flakes beneath your touch when you bring your fingers to the tender throbbing of your temple.

"You're awake." You look up to see Azriel standing in the doorway. You've been around him enough to read him, the unspoken relief in his eyes as he approaches. "You don't have to worry about that group of warriors," he tells you, "Cassian and I handled it."

The gleam to his eyes turns wicked and cruel, and you have no doubts how he and Cassian handled it. It doesn't make you feel better. You look away, studying the blanket over your legs.

"They had a point," you mumble, hating the weak rasp to your tone. "I shouldn'tㅡ"

"Give people like that any kind of weight to the words they say," Azriel cuts in sharply. "Because they're wrong. Just because you aren't Illyrian doesn't mean you're not strong."

When you still won't look at him, Azriel approaches you and reaches, calloused fingers coaxing your head up to meet his gaze.

"You still deserve better, Az," you mumble. Azriel's eyes narrow, flashing before he's leaning down to press his lips to yours. The kiss is rough, demanding ㅡ and then he pulls away enough to look at you, eyes blazing.

"I don't want better," Azriel answers, voice low. "Because there isn't. I just want you."

Your lips tremble before you're kissing him again, softer and sweeter. "You have me, Az," you mumble.

"And you have me," he answers, quiet enough that only you can hear him. "Now and forever."

[shiftertech]

CW: suicidal themes, institutional transphobia implied

I don't belong in this cradle.

It's the honest truth of the matter. I don't deserve to be here.

Another battlefield lays itself before my projected vision, smoldering browns and grays behind the colorful sensor overlays. In these hellish craters, I likely do belong, but not in this cockpit.

There's a sickly feeling that comes with it. Like a pair of ragged, poorly fitting clothes, carrying a detestable stench.

Its torn threads? Inch-deep gashes and mended holes in metal plating that were not acquired under my operation.

And the stench? It's her stench.

I know everything about her. It told me. It was never not gonna tell me.

Imogen died in this very same cockpit, fear flooding her veins while an armor piercing round entered through the sidewall.

It showed me this, the angle of the projectile, the internal feed playback, the sound of it, the measurements of her biometrics, the flatline and system-wide scream it deafeningly howled out as its other half ceased.

It was the first thing it ever showed me when I did my first link test. It was bitter. Wrathful.

I didn't even fucking know they could feel like that the first time I hopped in. They pulled me out of the cockpit in a sorry state, shaking and sobbing, but still figured my synchronicity scored highly enough to put me back in the thing. They can't afford to scrap a working mech anymore for "limited pilot incompatibility".

Why the fuck did Legacy stick me in the mech that was mourning?

I was mad. Real mad at the brass for denying my reassignment req's. Most of all, I was mad at her mech.

One day it responded to my anger on the trek back to exfil. It flooded my mind with just her. Her joy, determination, cockiness, care... It overlaid stored visual/audio buffers into my own vision—replayed the very sensations attached to those logs—and I was her. It flooded me with her love as if it was my own, with a closeness I never was afforded to have with such a war machine.

I felt deep envy tinging my anger.

Pilots sit in these big metal boxes because of the strategically utilized notion of it being theirs. The rumored wonders of a paired digital consciousness are allowed to spread because it pulls hopeless girls with big dreams like Imogen into the cockpit.

That's what they need in a loyal pilot. I wanted a goddamn mech to call my own, not some dead girls broken leftovers.

But then I, as Imogen, died in that seat to my mech screaming out for me.

And then there was no anger. Just emptiness.

What an awful lesson, to be taught what it feels like to lose half of yourself.

There's another sortie on another reneging territory rejecting Legacy's grand mission, fighting against mechs that used to bare the insignia of the Earth and her Moon. Again I find myself walking back a line, cover laid for my comrades while rebel hotshots push the advantage with righteous vigor.

When it isn't streaming bits of her at me over the datalines, memories lovely and tragic, it's cold. Completely silent. Somehow that's worse.

On the losing end of a war in a coffin.

Sometimes I just can't stand it, and find a boldness within me when I ask it to tell me the story of how Imogen chose her name again. That's its favorite.

(I don't call it by its chosen name because it won't tell me. I have a feeling it never will.)

I wonder often why it even lets me command it into battle after battle. I'm not who it truly wants, and its suffering because of it. I figure if it can puppet my senses just as well as I puppet its limbs, it could likely figure a way to brick itself for good.

It twitches over the link when the thought bleeds through from my end, and it goes silent once again.

Guilt writhes around my gut as I fight for a future I barely believe in anymore. I know why it wouldn't.

When I filled the forms in the service registration office, on a harbor moon in a system two jumps from Hila, I had made a decision. Bloodshed remained stark on my mind as the upheaval of Legacy control on one of its most pivotal worlds forced me away from the only place I called home.

I recall the resistance ships dropping low beneath the skyline with improvised munitions, launching off their rails at military strongholds. I recall the mandatory evacuations as uniformed Legacy troops kicked down doors and ordered us onto the evac shuttles.

I recall the very military administration building that my sister was stationed at erupting all at once as the strategic calculations for maximal military damage factored in the Department of Citizen Records field office on floor 63 as a viable target.

I checked the "F" on the form with the pride that my sister was the very reason I was allowed this privilege. I checked the box with the shame that this was considered a privilege. I checked the box with the naive ideal that once we won this war, it wouldn't be resigned to just a privilege.

(A flicker of emotion echoes across the dataline, as it picks up this memory I've never shown it before. It feels like a gentle embrace.)

Losing my sister was losing one of the few people who actually saw me. She didn't miss a beat when I told her my real name. She held me close, and I felt the most profound joy in knowing love in sisterhood.

I chose to survive because it's what she would have wanted, for me to blossom into the woman she knew me to be.

Imogen is not my sister, but she could have been.

The mech chooses to live because it's what Imogen would have wanted.

We're both stuck in this war together.

I don't know how this ends well for either of us. Defection has crossed the mind, but no certainty comes from the prospect. I could end up in a cell for the rest of my life and it could get scrapped when they realize their newly captured mech is brimming with trauma.

(The notion of it getting scrapped draws a surprisingly intense emotion out of me. I can't pin it to just one comparable feeling of a loved ones grave being bulldozed or a close friend being murdered. Maybe it's both.)

It doesn't hold feelings on what comes after, I've realized.

It does its job, comes home, and is prepared for the next sortie. This is what it was made for, despite whatever side it's on.

That's what it means to survive for a mech.

I stopped hating it long ago. I don't think it hates me.

I think we need each other.

Even if I don't belong in this cradle.

----------

This one is kind of a departure for me to write, but I hope it resonates in the right way. Thanks for sticking through it <3

[wolfnight2012]

So is the fandom at large still characterizing "Open Arms" as the ~pacifism~ song or have we gotten past that?

Like, I don't know how keen Polites was for violence as a soldier in the Trojan war, since we meet him after the fact & lose him soon after.

But "Open Arms" doesn't tell us about his capacity for violence. It barely tells us about his thoughts on violence as an option.

The most we can infer from "Full Speed Ahead" and "Open Arms" is that Polites doesn't believe violence is the only option (or the one they should jump to first.)

But that's not even what "Open Arms" is about (not really)

"Open Arms" is about Polites noticing Odysseus' trauma & trying to help his friend heal.

The first lines of the song are:

"I can tell you're getting nervous, so do yourself a service"

Here "nervous" isn't being used to mean "scared" but rather "anxious" or "tense." I think Polites is calling out the fact that Odysseus is going 'fight or flight' mode despite everything being calm/no threat in sight.

He then tells Odysseus to have hope.

"Think of all that we have been through, we'll survive what we get in to"

He then starts to call out Odysseus a bit more explicitly (and notice how Odysseus does not contradict him. After his first [and unconvincing imo] "I"m fine, Polites" Odysseus doesn't speak again until the lotus-eaters show up)

(Btw, if you wanna read my breakdown of Polites & Odysseus' relationship [as explicitly depicted in EPIC], I wrote a post about it here)

"I know that you're tired of the war & bloodshed" <-We the audience also know this: "Will these actions haunt my days/is the price I pay endless pain?" (Plus killing Astyanax messed him up)

"Tell me, is this how we're supposed to live?" <- Must we remain in that kill/be killed mindset, always on alert, always warriors first, men second?

"Look at how you grip your sword, enough said" <- I think we can infer that Polites is either calling out the fact that Odysseus hasn't let go of his sword since they left the ship (aka always in 'warrior mode' aka "is this how we're supposed to live?") OR that Odysseus is white-knuckling his sword, (aka he is nervous/ anxious/stressed about a potential attack despite no visible threats)

Either way, in Polites' eyes, this mentality is detrimental to his friends' mental and/or emotional health.

Then we get to the point where I think the misunderstanding started & ended up overshadowing the rest of the song:

"You can show a person that you trust them, when you stop and lower your guard" <- I think we can take this literally (lower your sword until you actually have need of it) or figuratively (be ~emotionally~ vulnerable by asking for help.)

"This life is amazing, when you greet it with open arms" <- It doesn't have to be "endless pain" Life can be beautiful, but you have to stop closing yourself off/seeing everything as a threat first

Polites is arguing that the world is not always out to get you. Sometimes people are decent. Sometimes they are willing (or want) to help you.

It's a bit of "Try extending your hand in greeting before reaching for your sword" (Not everyone will be friendly, but you won't know if you are aggressive from the get-go.)

And a bit "Life is what you make of it" (if Ody treats every stranger like an enemy, then that is what they'll be.)

"We'll be fine if we're leading from the heart" I talk a bit about this in my response here. TLDR; Odysseus is lying to himself when he says he can "Lead from the heart & see what starts" in "Luck Runs Out" because that is not what he is doing,(and his reward is the windbag betrayal) MEANWHILE he does successfully "lead from the heart" while warding off Circe's advances & it's what saves his men/gains Circe's sympathy.

"No matter the place, we can light up the world, here's how to start" <- Again, life is what you make of it. You can make it a good one; not everything is an enemy/potential threat. Stop being a warrior first & go back to being a man

Of course, this doesnt immediately work, because Odysseus greets the world with his sword when the lotus-eaters show up

(Tbh, I find it hilarious that the lotus-eaters' FIRST word is "Welcome" and Odysseus responds to a Friendly Greeting by drawing his sword)

Like, Odysseus is genuinely seeing a threat here, he IS scared "nervous"

His first words to the lotus-eaters is a demand/warning for them to "stay back" (and both their cute voices [going off audio only] or their canonical fluffy designs tell us these are tiny things. They have no weapons, they haven't indicated any aggression, but Odysseus is so high-strung he sees something he might need to fight anyways)

THIS is what Polites has been refering to. THIS is why he's so concerned about his friend. That is not healthy and Odysseus is buckling under the weight of living in "survival" mode/always being "on"

"My friend, greet the world with open arms" <- this isnt Polites horrified Odysseus is responding with aggression/concerned for the innocent lotus-eaters, THIS is Polites (knowing Odysseus is tired of war & bloodshed) reminding his friend that he doesn't have to put himself through this. There IS another way. These creatures could be friendly, "Maybe they'll share some food, who knows?" Maybe, maybe not, but they won't know until they extend a hand first & ask.

And Odysseus does it by half measures *cough* just like all his actions after "Just a Man"*cough*

He lets the lotus-eaters know of their plight "We're only here for food" and threatens them in the next breath "600 men are waiting/stay back, I'm warning you/my men will turn this place into blazes"

He doesn't even ask for food/help, he simply lets the lotus-eaters know they're searching for food, then immediately piles on three additional threats to make sure they don't try anything.

Then of course the lotus-eaters offer food, but not food they can eat & Odysseus becomes dejected (which I think implies he was [sorta] listening to Polites, or at the very least, is so tired/stressed/wrung-out that he was secretly hoping it could be as easy as Polites claims.)

And Polites tries one more time.

"I'd like to show my friend that kindness is brave" <- I've seen so many people call Polites naive. That his optimism is too extreme/and not fit for the world (or at least the world of EPIC) but i would disagree with this common interpretation as well.

Why is kindness brave? If Polites believed greeting the world with open arms would help them find ONLY friendly strangers (instead of hostile ones or outright foes) then why would kindness be brave. Wouldn't it simply be? After all, what's brave about a sure thing? What's brave about having a get-out-of-danger-free card?

Kindness is brave because sometimes you WILL be met with hostile strangers/foes. But you extend your hand in peace first anyways. You don't know for certain if you will be met with friend or foe. But that does not mean you walk around, one hand on your sword, seeing enemies at every turn. You greet the world with open arms & give strangers the benefit of the doubt first, THEN use force if necessary.

I see Polites' philosophy as similar to Waymond's from EEAAO in that regard.

Polites, like Waymond, is choosing kindness. Is choosing to be optimistic. Not because he is naive to the ways of the world, but in spite of them. That is how Polites fights against darkness & despair. He is not naive.

When Polites tells the lotus eaters he'd "Like to show my friend that kindness is brave" he knows he's taking a risk. That's why it's brave. He is extending his trust to these creatures in the hopes they'll help/they have no ill intent, BUT being Well Aware he could be met with the latter.

Just because he's optimistic about the outcome doesn't mean he doesnt understand the risk. To refuse to dwell on the negative doesn't mean you're unaware of negative possibilities.

Then Polites reiterates his advice "This life is amazing, when you greet it with open arms" because it doesn't have to all be war & bloodshed & stress. You CAN find goodness in the world, and you'll feel much better if you don't assume everyone & everything is out to get you. And he lets Ody know he's aware of what he's going through/what's upsetting him.

"I seen in your face there is so much guilt inside your heart" <- I genuinely don't know if the crew know Odysseus dropped Astyanax, every time Odysseus references the infant, it's vaguely or as an aside. But even if Polites DOESN'T know Odysseus killed an infant, he still has 10 years of war to draw from (plus the wooden horse/killing sleeping Trojans bit.) Like, Polites is aware of what Odyssues has done, he knows what Odysseus is grappling with. This is not a simple/superficial/naive call for Odysseus to 'cheer up!' Polites knows of the darkness weighing on Odysseus' shoulders & he's telling Odysseus he's allowed to put it behind him.

"So why not replace it, and light up the world" <- He's allowed. It's over. It's behind them. Polites does not want his friend to torment himself forever. Whatever he did, he can move on. He can be a better man that what he was forced to become while at war/Troy (remember, Polites is well aware Odysseus is "tired of the war and bloodshed".)

And how can Odysseus begin to heal from his guit/trauma?

"Greet the world with open arms" <- stop seeing every stranger as a potential enemy/threat. Open yourself up to the possibility that good things happen sometimes. Sometimes, people are kind

"Greet the world with open arms" <- and Odysseus begins to tentatively open himself up to the concept & take Polites' words to heart

"You can relax, my friend" <- you're allowed

Sidenote: I told myself this post would ONLY be about Open Arms (and this ended up being SO Much longer than I anticipated) but I have a few more things to say, so I'll try to be brief.

Warrior of the Mind:

I'm convinced Athena pops in when she does because Odysseus is listening to Polites. He's been eaten by guilt since Astyanax & shyed away from violence in Full Speed Ahead. His nervousness is not very "warrior of the mind" of him. YET Athena doesn't come in to scold Odysseus at any of these points.

It's only when Odysseus sings Polites' chorus back to him, signaling he's opening himself up to the concept of open arms that Athena makes her entrance.

Polyphemus:

I'm not asserting this, but I think the argument can be made that Odysseus checks out the cave because of Polites. Like, either:

A.) He's giving Polites' advice a try here & now by trusting the lotus eaters/that they mean no ill-intent OR

B.) (less likely probaby??) His friendship/affection for Polites is the sort where he wants to please him. Polites is set on trusting the lotus/showing Odyssues "another way" & Odysseus will humor him because it's Polites asking

(Tho obviously the other explanation is that they are just THAT desperate for food & Odysseus doesn't think they have time to go searching for yet another island when this one (the lotus eater one) already turned out to be a bust

Underworld:

I feel like the general consensus for Polites' section of "Underworld" is that Polites died still seeing/believing in the good of the world OR that his dying wish was for Odysseus to chose nonviolence/pacifism???

(But as you can tell from *gestures at this entire post* I don't subscribe to the idea that "Open Arms" is about nonviolence. THEREFORE)

We know Polites last words/action in life was calling for Odysseus. And, imo, Polites' dying wish was for Odysseus to heal. If "Open Arms" is about Polites' calling out Odysseus' stress/trauma & trying to coax Ody to approach life differently so he can start to move on from the horrors of war.

Then that means, in death, Polites is stuck hoping Odysseus heals. Over & Over Polites sings for his friend to let go of his guilt & try to build a life worth living (not just one have to survive in)

And THAT imo is 1000x sadder than a call for pacifism. Because Polites' dying wish doesn't come true. Odysseus' mental/emotional health grows worse & worse. He pushes everyone away in the Ocean Saga, to the point that his crew of 10 years starts to doubt him! He already "can hardly sleep" in the Circe Saga. The Underworld Saga almost destroys him and it only gets worse from there!

In the Underworld Odysseus is confronted with Polites' love for him. His desire for him to get better. His hope for Odysseus to find peace/happiness.

Polites loved him soooo much, his Final Thoughts were concern for his friend. (Then Ody gets to hear from his mom, who loved him so much she died waiting for his return)

No wonder it breaks him.

[Anyways, if you wanna see my (much shorter) post over how the Wisdom Saga basically argues for/confirms Polites' philosophy Was RIGHT, you can find it here]

[ultralightpoe]

Tiktok Trouble 3 - Jake Seresin

Authors Note: This had been sitting in my drafts for wayyyyy loo long and now that's it's out I feel terrible.

Word Count: 2742

Warnings: Hints at some steamy stuff but just fun other than that.

My MAIN Masterlist

Part One - - Part Two

(Thank you for the gif @unicornships )

Enjoy!

The first clip posted to his new tiktok account was an accident, one that remained nonetheless. 

It starts with the camera swinging back and forth, picking up a conversation being had behind it as whoever was holding the phone swung their hands out to walk. Jakes voice rings out “I’ll have you know-“ before the clip ends and the next starts. 

This time the camera is facing them and Jake is staring at the screen with narrowed eyes as Bob Floyd tries to explain it all. 

“So I press this button?” 

“Yes but it’s already recording.”

“How do you know it’s already recording?” 

“Because the ring around the button?” 

“What ring?” 

“Oh. My. God.” Natasha laughs off camera. “You are so losing to your wife. Can I get her in the divorce? Honest question.” 

“There will be no divorce!” Jake announces. “This park war ends in bloodshed.” 

“You been watching that Viking show again?” Rooster asks, coming into view with a disappointed look as Jake shrugs. 

“……yeah.” 

-  —-

COMMENTS:

“So pretty and still not a thought between those eyes.” 

“I’m on moms side in the divorce.” 

“You think he’s top or bottom?” 

“bottom fs”

-

You were in your shared bedroom, reading some book you had gotten today as Jake works around the kitchen, not really knowing what to do with himself on his day off. 

Then, like the genius he is, he realizes this would be the perfect time to prank you. So he starts setting up. 

First he hides his phone on the glass cabinet, giving it a wink before connecting his iPad to the speaker and hiding the speaker in a cupboard. 

He keeps the iPad close, beginning to peel potatoes before he yells loudly “Bubs! Can I get a hand?” 

And though you don’t yell back he hears your feet pad along the floors until you hit the stairs and come rushing to him. 

“Yeah?” You ask, moving to hug him from behind and kiss between his shoulder blades. 

“Can you start prepping the steaks? I got the marinade ready, I just need you to prep em.” He hears you hum and give his back one more kiss before moving to the cupboard to grab the larger plates. 

He quickly shoots out and hits play on the video he had pulled up. 

The second you open the cupboard door a horrific scream rings out like a demon and you jump back quickly, screaming yourself as you dash to hide beside him. 

Unable to help it he cackles, doubling over the counter at your scared face as you slowly piece together what just happened. 

“No way.” You gasp. 

“Uh huh. Got ya.” He smiles from ear to ear, winking. 

“You’re dead Seresin.” 

“Right back at ya, Seresin.” 

- 

COMMENTS:

“The way she runs to his side has me WEAK!” 

“the kiss between his shoulder blades??? SHAHNDJTN

“Aw! Look who learned how to use a phone!” 

-

Your retaliation comes 2 days later, at 3 am in the morning of course. 

You had been tossing and turning all night when you got the idea, slipping from the bed to grab your phone and bringing it with you as you shuffle to Jakes side of the bed. 

He was out, sleeping like the dead with his face shoved into the pillow and one arm tucked under it to keep it close while his other arm is spread to your side of the bed as if he was reaching for you even in sleep. The muscled expanse of his back is exposed, and the camera gets it all on flash as you lean forward to tap his skin softly and wake him up. 

“Bubs. Bubs.” You whisper, sounding panicked which makes him blink groggily. “The laundry bird came and took the goat.” 

“What?” He slurs, blinking so slowly you’re sure he’s going back to sleep. 

“Bubs come on. The grim reaper broke the washer.” 

“Fuck. Why?” He sounds so upset by the washer, even half asleep, you do your best to contain your laugh. 

“The ladybugs are meeting and we gotta go greet them.” 

“Okay..,.,” he moans, sitting up slightly, swiping at his face like he was actually getting ready to get up. “Okay.” 

“We gotta hurry before the balloon hits the ocean floor.” 

“Okay.” He sounds more determined now, sitting up. “Let’s go.” 

Then, ever the loving wife you switch up quickly. “Why are you up? Go to sleep.” 

“W-what?” He blinks, eyes half closed. 

“You were sleep talking. Go back to bed.” You mutter, and he blinks before nodding. 

“I’m sorry. Come lay with me.” 

-

COMMENTS:

“He was so confused lmao.” 

“Mans was fighting for his life in those blinks.” 

“The switch up has me dead.” 

“Aw. He said sorry to you like it was his fault.” 

-

It was rare that Jake ate McDonald’s, he was raised southern charm style and his mother hated the company. Homemade meals and southern drawls were the way to go. 

That being said there were days like today, both of you sweaty and irritated, and the only choice was McDonald’s. You both had been helping your parents move, which was stressful enough before you added the drama all your siblings brought to the table. 

And though Jake never wanted to talk crap about your family today he was extremely frustrated with them, mostly how they all seemed to be treating you like dirt and he could see you beginning to crumble which always upset him. 

He decided that you both needed a break as your brother began biting about an antique watch your father was trying to sell, claiming it should be his, and somehow someway it became your fault and a huge fight. 

So Jake took you out of the house, planning on getting you both food before you got too hangry, only to get more frustrated by the fact that the only non expensive restaurant in the area was McDonalds. And neither of you were dressed, nor had time for the other places. 

So you sat in silence while you ate and he could feel the anxiety and anger easing out of both of you, and when you went to the bathroom he figured it was time to lift the mood fully. 

He took the lid off your cup, stabbing the straw into the sauce cups lid and shoving it all in your drink before making sure your lid was back to normal. 

He filmed the process of course, and when you come back he claims to be checking emails from work as he films you hum softly before taking a big swig of your drink only to gag. 

A small laigh breaks out as you laugh yourself, panicking a bit as another gag takes over. 

“Don’t puke.” He laughs, and you cover your face before taking your napkin and sliding it along your tongue. 

“Absolutely not. What was that?” 

“No clue.” He laughs, and you roll your eyes but the smile on your face was ear to ear. 

“That was disgusting.” 

- 

COMMENTS:

“The way he laughs while she gags out a lung has me cackling!” 

“Not the Micky ds drink. Those are god tier.” 

“He’s kind of impressing me with the pranks.” 

-

Monday night is spent waiting for him to come home, still cranky with your weekend with your siblings and parents, sore and just not into life in general. 

You tried reading through some of the comments on your guys’ videos but those didn’t seem to help, you tried reading but the book you were reading was at a standstill and when you tried to clean the bathroom the bleach made you nauseated. 

Truth be told all you wanted was Jake. 

But you were his wife, which meant it was your actual job to torture him. And today you decided you would be torturing him. 

You hear his truck, filming yourself filling a spoon with salt and dipping it into the soup. 

When he comes in you smile. “Come taste this!” 

“How about I taste you….” He growls. 

“No bubs. I’m making dinner.” You huff, and he smiles before slurping the entire spoon into his mouth. 

He tries, he really does, blinking slowly before his face pinches up and he gags. He practically wretches, another gag falling from his lips as he leans over the sink to try and spit it out. Running the faucet and washing his mouth out the best he can. “Oh my god bubs,”

“It was that bad?” You ask, watching him. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to gag. I’m sorry bubs. I’m sorry.” He gags again, gulping down more water. 

You start laughing then, practically keeling over as he keeps washing his mouth out. 

“This…. This was a prank?” He sounds so betrayed that you feel a little bad laughing. “I….”

Then his face breaks into one of pure humor as he wheezes, laughing just as hard and moving closer to you until you are both wheezing in each other's faces. Just pure amusement. 

“I can’t br…eathe!” You laugh and he presses his forehead to your shoulder as he holds his ribs. 

- - - - 

COMMENTS:

“Just two people wheezing in eachothers faces lmao.”

“I want what they have.”

“Is no one gonna talk about him eating her comment???? Srsly?!”

- 

“Okay, so there is this couple on here right….” You start, staring at him. He keeps casting nervous looks to where your phone is set up to record you both. Like he was waiting for the prank. 

“Yeah?”

“And they basically dressed up as eachother for this song. Like he wore her clothes and she wore his and-”

“I’m in.” 

“Really? No arguing?” 

“No. You’ve got that excited look in your eye and I cannot refuse.” He laughs and you can’t help but clap your hands and jump up to dash upstairs which makes him laugh and snatch the phone. 

30 minutes later you both are trying to concentrate on making the video, Jake dressed in one of your dresses and barely managing to walk in the heels. 

He is bent over, his hand on his knees as he laughs, the dress groaning at each movement. “I can’t…. Shit-“ 

You are no better, dressed in his military uniform as you try to keep standing, barely breathing as you laugh. “Who….. who said marriage would be boring?” 

“My mother. On our wedding day. When she tried convince us not to get married!” He laughs at the memory, hand shooting out to catch you when you keel over from laughing. 

“Okay. Okay let’s do this.” He clears his throat and stands straight. You both film the video and while you post it you begin compiling the behind the scenes which does indeed have a clip of him bending over and the dress completely ripping down the middle. 

- - - - 

COMMENTS:

“Great googly moogly.” 

“His mom said what?????? Need a story time.” 

“How many times did I watch this? Yes.” 

- - - - - - 

It’s during a shopping day when he gets the idea, after being dragged from store to store over and over again. 

It was in the middle of a target when he decides to give you absolute hell, irritated by the fact that you were paying more attention to their lame bedding collections than him. 

“Hey…. I’m gonna go…. Look at something.” He mutters, kissing your cheek and walking away as you hum out. 

At first he shuffles through the men’s clothing section, getting nervous when a woman in lulu lemons gives him a wink as she shops for what he assumes is her husband. He dashes to the candles after that, sniffing at all of them before texting you “there’s a girl hitting on me in the candle section”. 

He takes a screenshot of it for tiktok before setting up his phone to film, waiting patiently. 

It takes you less than a minute, out of breath as you swing around the corner with a wild look. “Where?” 

“She went that way?” He lies, pointing.

“I'm gonna kill her.” You snap, fixing your hair. “And why are you just standing in the candle section? This is where single men stand to get laid, slut.”

“What, back track-“ 

“It’s like the most basic rule of target.” 

“There are dating rules for TARGET?!” He laughs. 

“You really need to get with the program.” You laugh, smacking his butt before waltzing off. 

He merely blinks at the camera in pure shock. 

- - - 

COMMENTS:

“Bahahahaha. I love her.” 

“She came ready for a fight.” 

“It is the most basic rule.” 

“Girl was so stressed she didn’t even bother to smell a candle.” 

- - - - 

“Hey Jake?” You call, standing in the bathroom as the phone records from the counter a little hidden from sight. You keep your voice on the closer end of panicked. 

You hear his phone shut off as he gets off the bed before he comes into sight with worried eyes. “What’s wrong Darlin?” He asks, reaching to rub your forehead in concern. 

“I can’t get my tampon.” You mumble. 

“Sorry?” 

“I can’t get find my tampon.” 

“What’s that mean?” 

“It’s stuck.” 

“Then pull it out.” 

“I’ve tried.” 

“Darlin’, doesn’t it have that like…. String?” 

“It broke off. I need help.” His eyes widen, eyebrows shooting up quickly and his face going red as he blushes. 

“O….okay.” He nods, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Yeah? You can help?”

“Anythin’ you need darlin’….” He mumbles, slapping his hands together. “Let’s do this.” 

“You sure?” 

“Y-yeah.” He nods. “I….. let’s do this.” 

“Okay…. Good because this was a prank.” You laugh which makes him splutter. 

“Oh thank Jesus, I was gettin’ panicked there. Not because it would be gross- but like- well I don’t know what the problem would be cause it’s not like we haven’ had period sex hundreds of times but- darlin’-“ 

“Jake Seresin is not a feminist everyone.” You laugh to the camera as he groans out. 

- -  - - 

COMMENTS:

“He would do it. He would kill for her.” 

“The way the southern accent comes out when he panics, lmao.” 

- - - - 

“Hey bubs! C’mere!” Jake calls, unscrewing the panel to the light from his spot on the step stool. 

His phone was set up to film him as you come into the room yawning, loudly as you swipe your eyes. “Hey bubs. I just need you to grab-“ 

He shakes his body, making it look like he got electrocuted as you scream out, rushing forward to grab at his thighs and try to help. 

“JAKE!” You scream, trying to pull him down. He starts laughing, hands covering his face as you breathe out. 

“Oh. That was so…. Oh my god.” 

“Oh bubs, you should have seen your face-“ 

“You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.” You snap, swiping the tears off your cheeks. “Wake me up from a nap just for that you son of a b-“ 

“Oh darlin’ no. I’m sorry.” He sighs. 

“I hate you!” 

- - - - 

COMMENTS:

“Oh that one hurt me-“ 

“Someone is not getting laid tonight…. Or any night.” 

- - - -

COMMENTS:

“Omg. Where did they go?” 

“Did they die? Why haven’t they posted?” 

“I misssss them!” 

“Mom…. Dad…… where are you?” 

“It’s been like 3 months. Come on.” 

“She probably killed him after the electric prank.” 

- - - - 

After 3 months of not posting you both return with a video. 

Life had been busy, with both of you moving because of his deployment and you having to find another job in the new space. 

But things have settled a bit, now back with his “Top Gun” crew and the house almost completely unpacked. 

You had been visiting his parents, and that’s where the video takes place. 

His mom and dad both had headphones over their ears blasting music, and the game is to guess what Jake is saying as you record. 

“You.” Jake says, laughing a bit. 

“TO!” His dad guesses. 

“You.” 

“TOO!” 

“You.” 

“YOU!” He yells and Jake nods. 

“Are going.” 

“Are going!” 

“To be.” 

“TOBY!” 

“To be.” 

“TOGA!” 

“To be.” 

“TO BE!” 

“Grandparents.” 

“Gray PARROTS!” 

“Grandparents.” 

“PIRATES?” 

“Parents” 

“You are going to be grandparents.” 

“You are going to be godparents?” 

“Oh Jesus Paul!” His mom snaps, pulling the headphones off quickly with tears in her eyes as she dashes to hug you. 

“Oh!” His dad smiles. “OH MY GOD! WERE GOING TO BE GRANDPARENTS!” 

When he rushes to hug you both the headphones get caught and he trips up before landing in the group hug. 

- - - - 

COMMENTS:

“No. Freaking. Way!” 

“Ugh.” 

“I’m so happy for you guys!” 

“Mom and dad fr fr.”

- - - - - 

TAGLIST::::::

@the-romanian-is-bae @mshistorylover @boringusername3 @dingochef @quillsandtypos @sunnysidesidra @eddiemunsonreader @sinners-98-world @rhirhikingston @imaginecrushes @80pairsofcrocs @themusingofagothicsoul @mshistorylover @quillsandtypos @mallerz @dtownclown93

@f1oralf1owers @salgachode @fox-bee926 @iamthebeth @anxious-alto @tsnelf7 @dumb-fawkin-bitch @gojos-bizarre-adventure @dreamsofouterspace @xcastawayherosx @chaoticassidy @eugene-emt-roe @iamaslytherin0 @the-romanian-is-bae @lets-turn-and-burn