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hazelfoureyes · 10 months ago

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⟢Alastor x Cupid FemReader Tasked with making a demon believe in true love or you can’t return to heaven, things immediately go off the rails when you hurt yourself and Alastor catches one of your most troubling arrows; Mania

˚�� · »-♡→ Week 1 and Week 2

˚₊ · »-♡→Week 3 and Week 4 smut💦 (keep reading)

Alastor lets you leave the hotel! Together! For soup. Later, your plans to make Alastor lose his obsession backfire. But like, in a hot way so you’re not that mad about it. A+ for effort?

˚₊ · »-♡→Week 5, Week 6, Week 7, and Epilogue smut💦

「warnings/promises: smut, I once again misuse a fucking prayer in a sacrilegious way, soup, spoon feeding, Angel texts, so much cum, bondage, tentacles, just good ole fashion fucking in the radio station, not quite dubcon but Alastor doesn’t really listen, hell has twitter and lets be real it’s just normal twitter, giant Alastor, Horse Luci」

Minors DNI ♥️ 🧹lovingly

You finally managed to leave the hotel. It was of course with Alastor at your side, microphone pressing into the small of your back like a third arm. It was as if he worried you’d just turn around and run.

He opened every door, pulled out your chair, and when your left hand shook and dropped your food he took on the task of feeding you. It was embarrassing, to say the very least. The sinners in the restaurant staring, a brave few filming or typing furiously on their phones.

You got a buzz on your own cell, a gift from Angel when he realized Alastor wouldn’t let you speak with others alone.

He texted a link to a post on some hell site, to a photo of you right then, at that exact moment, being spoon fed by the radio demon. You considered smashing your head into the table until you blacked out. If you got up and left would you make it back to the hotel before someone realized you weren’t a sinner? You were absolutely terrified of someone noticing you as heaven sent.

Heaven kicked? Heaven thrown. Yeah that one felt right.

“You need to eat. You can’t heal like this.” Alastor sounded concerned, but you fought the urge to care.

He hadn’t apologized to Husk, but Husk did say Alastor seemed to avoid eye contact which was basically a gift to him. Alastor had come to your room to dress you the next day as he always did, neither of you mentioning the day before. The hall was magically pristine by the time you left.

A tiny sliver of you thought he felt embarrassed. But decades of experience told you that Mania didn’t afford embarrassment, the stricken couldn’t be truly manic if something like that was holding them back.

Maybe it had been such a shallow cut he hadn’t gotten the full punch of Mania?

Another attempt to feed yourself, slowly bringing your spoon to your mouth, “You know when I heal I am going to finish my task and leave, right?”

An odd laugh, a non-existent tear wiped away, “Adorable. No. I promise you, that won’t happen.”

“Alastor.” You put the spoon down with a clink.

“I love when you say my name. May I offer you more reasons to hold it in your mouth?”

“Al-,” you groaned, “I can’t stay forever.”

He hummed, a show of pretending to think about what you said, “Wrong! You can. And I argue, you will.”

You tried again with the spoon, regretting soup. Your appetite had been shot for awhile and it seemed easy enough. Wrong. Again. There was a constant tremble to your hands since arriving. Perhaps experiencing pain for the first time was rattling your body so much that it couldn’t cope. “Why would I ever do that? This is literal hell.”

Alastor leaned over, taking the spoon from you with ease and bringing it to your mouth, “Because I’ll make you understand it’s where you belong. They didn’t appreciate you,” his grin widened, “Not like I do. Like I can, if you’d let me.”

Annoyed and flustered, you took the help to eat. “Thank you.” A spoonful, “How can you say that though? I’m the one and only Cupid.”

“Actually, no. You’re not. You are just the current incarnation. They’ll replace you.”

You regretted telling him that. They could. Just replace you, that is. There was nothing stopping them. You stared into your soup, lips curling down.

“Don’t look so defeated. I’ll make you happy, for eternity.”

Your eyes rolled. “When do you plan on starting that eternal happiness?”

You didn’t look at him when you said it, but you could see his hand slow, then become completely still. Had you wounded him?

He pivoted, “Doesn’t Cupid have wings?”

Another spoonful, “Of course.”

Alastor waited while you took a drink, determined to make you eat the entire bowl, “Where are they?”

A pause. Where were they? You hadn’t realized you couldn’t feel them. They weren’t everpresent, but their weight still sat between your shoulder blades at all times. Always. Normally. But now?

“You don’t know? That’s troubling.” Alastor read your face with ease.

You shot him a look. Stop doing that. Stop replying to unspoken thoughts.

“Apologies.”

Another text before you could snap at him.

You slid the phone away from Alastor, face red. “Do you think, honestly, if you’re capable of it, that I’ll ever be able to go home?”

His hand came to your neck, running over your collarbone, “For the record, I’ve never once lied to you.” You rolled your eyes, fine, okay, “With your heavenly body, even as weakened as you have been here, I’d say just a few more weeks.”

You turned the phone face down.

“Good…that’s good. If you plan on winning me over, your countdown has started.” You pushed the soup away, appetite gone. The idea of never returning to heaven made you nauseous. He slid it back to you, face stern despite the smile he wore.

The walk home was quiet, your stomach full of unwanted soup.

No, not home. The hotel.

He usually spoke a lot, clearly loving the sound of his own voice. His hand replaced the staff, settled on your back as he guided you. You could feel the warmth through your clothes. How could he be so hot and not be sweating? Another sinner thing?

The thought hadn’t left you by the time you came into view of the hotel gates. Maybe you had been replaced. How would you know? Maybe that was why your wings were gone. Surely there was some way to communicate from hell.

You found Lucifer as soon as you returned, unbothered by Alastor’s presence, “I need to speak to heaven.”

Alastor was saying something but you had gotten quite good at tuning him out. Lucifer snapped back, the men quickly devolving into arguing again.

“Lucifer.” You said it with your chest.

His apple topped cane whirled, a golden circle appearing with a crystal clear image of heaven’s glowing gates through its center.

A loud noise erupted behind you, a high pitched static wail, familiar tentacles flailed and a long shadow of a growing Alastor stretched across the wall. His back was bent into the lobby ceiling, perhaps three stories tall now.

The sounds of magic popping as Lucifer shapeshifted accented the sounds of horror with that of whimsy. You approached the portal, those black tendrils slithering around your ankles but you easily slipped out of them as their owner's energy was pulled to full demon Lucifer slamming into him.

Almost, you could see it.

A monstrously large hand came down, shaking the hotel and knocking various objects off their perches in the lobby. Charlie and Vaggie, someone else you’d come to enjoy the company of, flew down the stairs.

The common area was filled with the sounds of yelling and breaking glass. You crawled over his hand as Alastor’s fingers curled around your body gingerly. He tried to pull you from the gateway but while he slowed, Lucifer now a flying horse kicking him in the face, your outstretched hand strained to enter the portal.

Your fingers grazed the doorway, the air around the lobby fizzing and warping as a desperate screech tore from Alastor’s wide and impossibly thin chest. The grip tightened around you. A static whine threatened to pop your eardrums.

As your fingertips pressed past the ring, they stopped. Something impenetrable and unseen between you and heaven.

Alastor must have noticed it too, his grip loosening as you clamored on hand and knees to the portal. Your palm ran over the doorway, searching for a hole or seam to rip. Just under your skin was your home, bright and clean and painless. A tiny ‘no’ fell from your lips, smacking at the barrier with your open hand.

Alastor returned to his normal, still terrifying, height. Lucifer came forward, their fight losing motivation, his small hand on your shoulder as you sat on the hotel lobby floor. He closed the portal and apologized, “Sorry kid. Let’s try again when you finish that task, okay?”

Alastor’s arms went under your back and knees and lifted you off the ground. You didn’t resist or argue. Your eyes were unfocused, vision blurry with tears, as you were carried past the others. Vaggie looked ashamed, which was odd given she had more character than half the archangels could muster together between them.

There existed permissions for who could enter the heavenly realm, a list meticulously kept. They’d removed you from that roster. They’d locked the doors behind you.

You felt good. The final week of your first, and hopefully last, month in hell was marked with taking off your sling for the first time.

A good three day wallow in a metaphorical cave helped you emerge with renewed vigor. Of course they locked the gates behind you, otherwise you’d just go home. That made sense. That made sense.

That had to make sense.

Deciding to take a risk and attempt to expedite your homecoming, you and Angel made plans. Like a teenager in a party movie you snuck out of the hotel when Alastor was asleep. Well, so you assumed. You weren’t really sure what he did behind closed doors.

Angel brought you somewhere he felt people would be receptive to discussing love and talking to angelic beings, and admittedly also very high.

Sling off but still being as gentle as you could, you leaned across the small standing-only table to talk-shout with a rather cute aquatic demon. An eel? Or maybe some kind of water-fond lizard? It didn’t matter, his glasses were cute, both of you a little drunk, and you quite good at saying the right things.

And all of the right things were said, and you felt maybe if nothing else you’d enjoy your first demonic lay, when the power shut off.

Everyone filed out, bummed and bothered to find most of the neighborhood shrouded in darkness.

Angel tapped your shoulder and pointed up the hill to the hotel, radio station a glow with a red light, “Ya know, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Nothing to do but to stare, you stayed quiet and angry while he flagged down a taxi knowing the trip would be fast without traffic lights, “Guess Daddy Dead Eyes is calling you back.”

Anger grew and grew in your chest as you were charioted home.

Jesus, to the hotel. Stop doing that.

You burst into the radio station tower, Alastor barely reacting. Until, that is, you marched up to his desk.

Pinned before you could react, his body pressing into yours as your ass ran up onto the desk.

“Sneaking out like a child?” His voice was low, soft, unnatural. “Why do you intentionally torment me?”

“I have done,” you tried to move but only succeeded in rubbing your stomach against his crotch, “no such thing. You’re just possessed.”

He responded by pressing forward, no accident, as his eyes narrowed on you, “Correct. I am a man possessed.” When he rolled himself into you, an alcohol primed groan escaped your mouth.

“I thought you didn’t care about those things,” your eyes flashed to his lap pushing into you and then back to his glare.

“You’re my exception that proves the rule. If you’re so desperate for attention there’s no need to leave the hotel to find it.” His smile was poisoned by the simmering anger in his eyes, “Dear.”

It was the alcohol and annoyance at losing a chance with glasses-man, Jake or Jark or something not worth a scrabble move, that made you sneer a reply, “Not yours. I am a divine creature, demon. Your body would just filthy me.” Nose up, feeling absolutely better than him in every sense, you pushed him off and left.

That was easy. Wow.

Proud of yourself, you made it to the elevator before you realized— illusions. Perhaps his illusion was the idea sex with you was worth the effort, more so than others. He said it himself before, he didn’t care for such things. Perhaps if you could show him it was as boring and unattractive as sex with anyone else could be, maybe you could shatter his mania with disappointment.

You pulled a u-turn and heel-toed right back into his station. Giving him no time to react this time, you climbed onto his chair and straddled him, “On second thought, try your worst. Let’s get it out of your system and move on.” You ground your hips down. He only smiled up at you, amused. Taking his hands you set them on your waist, giving him permission to handle you, “Claim me. Make everyone know I’m yours.” He didn’t move. You were starting to feel embarrassed, had he goaded you just to make you look stupid? He would. But your kind invented the tension before sex between enemies, “If you can.”

That did it. His hair visibly stood on end, “It is not a matter of ability. It’s about-”

“If you can’t, that’s fine. No need to start lying to me now. But don’t say I never gave you the opportunity.” You smirked, hoping he enjoyed a taste of his own sardonic medicine, and lifted yourself off of him.

His hands came to life on your hips, helping you rise and then flipping you onto your stomach. Your arms pushed radio transmitters and various old timey fuckery away to make room for yourself.

Those talons slipped up the center of your bottoms and crooked into your underwear. Long and strong, his fingers felt you. “Is this a perk of a heavenly body or is this,” two fingers dipped into your already wet and relaxed entrance, “all for me?”

You fought the urge to respond with anything other than malice, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

In heaven no one needs preparation, no one needs lube or required stretching to keep things whole and fun. You would love to say that quality followed you down, but unfortunately, like perfect health and angelic wings, it had not.

You decided to chalk it up to the alcohol. Always an easy excuse to offer yourself.

Alastor’s hands pulled away and up, finding the place just above the Rosie’s Emporium clothing tag and ripping the bottoms and underwear clean in half.

You bit into your hand to keep your excited shriek to yourself but unfortunately couldn’t stop your legs kicking up. His laugh echoed off the many windows.

Why couldn’t he be worse at this? Why couldn’t Alastor be clumsy and meek and awkward at sex? No, the menace you’d gotten almost used to was confident and commanding, you felt yourself twitching in anticipation. People have a misconception that Cupid was a chaste and wholly emotional creature, which was false. First of all, Cupids varied based on the incarnation. Just like other heavenly creatures their personality was varied and unpredictable.

Personally, you weren’t suited for the job. If you were honest. Why couldn’t your quiver just be full of Eros and Agape? Even of those two, sexual love was more your speed. Romance was fine and lovely but perhaps you’d gotten a little jaded.

Luckily for you, fucking Cupid was something many winners had on their afterlife bucket lists and you rarely found yourself with an empty bed.

Your attention was stolen back, Alastor’s clawed hand grabbing at the flesh of your thighs, “Oops.”

Focus. Why were you doing this again? Your system was metabolizing the alcohol now, and with the air cooling off your exposed sex, everything was awash with lust. Did you want to diminish his mania or were you just horny?

Would it really be so bad to admit you were both?

Deep breath, you remembered. Boring. Banal. The plan was to be motionless and not provide him any satisfying sounds. Don’t touch him, don’t try to push back on him, no tricks or fancy shit. The sooner he was over this you could make someone trust in love and fuck off home.

Seconds turned to a minute, your ass in the air as Alastor’s hands pawed at your skin. You wanted to ask what the hold up was, but you didn’t want to give away how much you were needing him to just fuck you already.

“Do you miss flying?”

You looked around, were you so drunk you missed an entire chunk of conversation while thinking about how to hide thirsting for his dick?

“Yes…?” True statement.

“Allow me to help with that.”

There was a moment you half expected to be chucked out the window, but almost worse than that, you heard him seat himself in the chair again before your body was picked up and off the desk. “Alastor! I don’t-,” Hands flailing, feet moving around the best they could, you struggled against the familiar tentacles he had command over. “I do not allow it!”

Your hands batted at them fruitlessly. One came under your knees and folded them to either side of your chest before wrapping around your waist twice, a second across your chest like a seatbelt snug and secure. Had you been on the floor you could almost be mistaken for taking a deeply devout praying stance. Only your arms were free to move, the position making you open and incapable of taking back any semblance of control.

“Alastor!” Stretching, you could almost reach the edge of his work table, but your fingers and toes curled in as you were seated on something hot and stiff. Your lips quivered, desperate to keep silent as you were pulled down onto him. Reaching back your hands found his stomach, raking your nails across the skin in need of anything to grip.

When you heard him chuckle to himself, you knew you were already losing. Plan backfiring entirely. You pulled your hands back to your center, taking ahold of the tentacle nestled between and across your chest.

“Heavenly Father,” his voice was quiet but sure, your eyes so wide you worried you’d get stuck making a permanent face of utter shock and despair, “bless us and these thy gifts which we receive from thy bountiful goodness, through your name, our lord.” You were lifted off his lap, Alastor’s swollen tip dragging along your unstretched walls as he said the Lord's prayer, “Amen.” Pulled back down before the second syllable even reached your ears, you cut into your bottom lip as a scream bounced around behind your teeth.

Heathen.

“I would think you of all people knew how to finish a prayer.” Alastor chided, “What will heaven say?”

If heaven knew you were being impaled midair on an overlord’s cock, they’d create a second hell for you to rule. Population of none. Except maybe some horny nuns.

As he found a pace he seemed happy with, slow and long draws out of you, you realized how fucked you were. Looking down, you could see one of his hands was settled at the base of his cock, those long fingers draped down his balls. The other hand was unseen and unfelt.

“Alastor.” You tried to sound stern.

“Oh I doubt heaven knows my name. Not yet at least.” He sounded unbothered, almost unaffected. “Not until I’ve spirited away their little angel of love.”

You were almost insulted at how easily he could speak despite being buried so far into your wet, hot cunt. Maybe you had been spoiled in heaven, people usually so turned on by the idea of you that they were coming undone as soon as you were wrapped around them or in them in whatever way you decided.

A broken chant of “be bored, be bored,” in your mind as Alastor hummed, that mystery clawed hand falling at your back. Biting your lip, you tried to think about anything other than how full he was making you. Did the glasses man at the club have a cock as thick as Alastor’s? Would you have been as satisfied as you were now? Every down thrust made the tuft of fur at this base press against your ass. Soft. You wanted to grind against it, the idea pulling a wanton moan out.

Fuck. Failing to distract yourself because you got distracted. It was so hard to think about anything else than your body being pushed open again and again. The blood on your lips was sweet, licking them clean before finding a new spot to bite down on. Quiet.

“Ah, are you giving me the silent treatment?”

Could this son of a bitch read minds? Could sinners read minds?!

If you didn’t reply, that was confirmation. But if you did reply, you were breaking your goal of not talking.

“Just…,” you took a deep sigh, knowing this was going to be rough, “I’m not really feeling like making any noise.” A shrug, the best you could manage at least while bound and held aloft in the space above his lap. Pretending this was normal and boring was a feat. “I’m not a vocal person during sex. I prefer to just lie there and get serviced. Don’t mind me.”

That sounded awful. Perfect.

“Oh? Well then, I guess I’ll not worry myself.” You could hear the smile in his voice. Less perfect. He began to hum a little tune as your body, partially upright, was now being tilted forward at a 45 degree angle from his lap. His cock was bending in you, head pressing harshly up into your walls.

Heart beating so fast you felt a dizzy spell hit you, that renewed anticipation almost as arousing as the sensations.

His humming continued like he was reading the paper. You’d never ridden a roller coaster, but you’d seen many people do it before and this was surely the same feeling; right at the peak before the drop. When the ride operator stills you and lets you stare down at the height before you. Your stomach was flipping, excitement tinged with fear.

You were pulled off his dick until you felt the bell of his red tip get just outside your entrance. Was he going to pull out entirely?

No. He pulled you down by way of shadows and fucked you just a couple inches into your cunt. His head was dragging out past your tight hole and smashing back in, directly hitting your g-spot. The spongy bundle of nerve endings was dented with every thrust.

You weren’t used to having your entrance stimulated so much, the skin luckily becoming slick as your own wetness was fucked out of you.

“That feels weird, please.” How quickly you gave up. “Stop pulling out like that.”

A considerate sigh, “But you’ve gotten so wet, my dear. You’re dripping down my thighs already. I don’t think you want me to stop.”

Could you cum like this? You felt like you could, maybe if you just…you quickened your breath, faster and faster. Your stomach heaving, you felt the crescendo of pleasure.

“On second thought!” He stopped.

Your toes wiggled, hands gripping the tentacle on your chest. Quiet. Shh. Don’t argue. Boring. Don’t care. The building orgasm waned, you felt your blood pressure lower. This really was hell.

Alastor’s head was just sitting in you, burning hot and throbbing. You were sure you could feel his heartbeat.

You two were locked in a standoff. Someone had to let on they were enjoying themselves; Alastor releasing pent up frustration with your attitude toward his affections, you chasing down a rare penetration-only orgasm.

An idea struck you, a way to hopefully antagonize him and bruise his pride enough to force him into your hand (pussy), “Thank God. I think it’s almost my bedtime.”

Alastor’s smile strained, a twitch coming over his left eye. A trap. But the idea of letting you down and off of him seemed far worse than the small defeat you were offering. “Allow me to rock you to sleep then, sweetheart.”

Success! Shit!

You reached out, the angle of your punishment allowing you to grab the edge of the table and grip. Alastor’s annoyance translated to an inhuman pace, him pulling you off entirely from his cock before bringing you back down. He was positively slipping in and out of you, your lower lips puffy and soaked around him. This degree of wetness was something you couldn’t remember feeling outside of marathon sessions.

When your hands tightened, a shock of pain tore down your arm, a scream bringing Alastor to a sudden stop. “My collar…” Pain was apparently not a kink you enjoyed, though you briefly wondered if heaven allowed it at all.

You couldn’t even fuck properly. You couldn’t do anything right. All you managed to do was fail. A sting to your eyes as the air hit your welling tears. Did humans feel this pain often? Your body was righted and turned, you looked down to Alastor’s face as you were brought to him. He looked so soft, usual smirk a sweet toothless smile, “I told you to keep the sling on, didn’t I?” He looked happy.

Your arms found his shoulders and your head came to his chest, “Shut up and finish already.” He didn’t release you from the binding, instead pulling the right arm under the hold of his slender tendril to keep it safe and out of the way. His hands were both at the base of his cock while you were gently riding him. Well, “you”. He was still using his powers to manipulate your body on and off of him. Alastor’s fingers were spreading your arousal down his shaft and along his tightening balls, if you had looked at his face you’d have seen a weakened man there, furrowed brows and lust drunk eyes. But you didn’t look, trying to hide the same expression on your own features.

Left hand free, no need to hold yourself up, you made lazy, and you hoped subtle, circles around your clit. You weren’t sure if this was a total failure or not, but you could finish and say something good came of it. You, specifically.

Things were quiet, though. The loudest sound in the room was the wet pop coming from where his body was meeting your sopping hole. His breathing was fast and soft, sighing when he bottomed out. Another bite to your lip, a few more deep hits to your cervix, and you enjoyed a small but satisfying release. The hand on you stayed through, riding out tiny waves of pleasure as you twitched around him. When you felt his release you sighed, you did it. You think. Maybe. Regardless.

As he slowly lifted you, you considered if your legs could hold you—

Up you went and back down you fell as he took a new, quicker pace.

“A-Ah-lastor?! You,” you bit your tongue, “already finished?”

You had made a mistake earlier that you hadn’t even realized. But Alastor had been holding it between his sharp teeth, “How many times?”

Absolutely no idea what he was talking about, you gasped out a reply, “What!?”

“How many times should I fill you before you’re too filthy to return to heaven, do you think?” He couldn’t be serious. “Three? Five? You see, the advantage of using my tentacles is that I don't get tired.”

Oh, but he was serious.

The battle was entirely forfeit somewhere around the third time he flooded you with his seed.

“These aren’t the usual screams I enjoy from my studio, but I’m not averse to them.”

When he felt you’d learned whatever lesson you were supposed to be taking in by the pump full, you were finally removed from him. He covered your lower half with his coat around your waist. It would be lying to say you were surprised to find his wide shoulders and small waist wasn’t just an illusion of his well tailored, yet oddly torn, coat. He was annoyingly attractive. Who gave him the right?

Your legs gave out when you tried to stand, warm hands pulling under your armpits to get you back on your feet. As much as you wanted to push him away, you were still a little tipsy and your legs still getting used to full blood flow. His arm held out for you to use for stability, you took it and wobbled silently to the floor you both lived on. Before you left the elevator you looked down and saw a line of white dripping down your inner leg. Took longer than you expected, honestly.

When you turned to the right to go to your door, his arm came around your waist and shepherded you to his room on the left. You shot him a look, asking what he thought he was doing.

He laughed, “Oh, after tonight’s little escapade, you’re moving!” He opened his door and gestured for you to enter, “Welcome home, my dear.”

What was worse than a failure? A catastrophe? This was that.

“Now come on, we need to get you cleaned up.” A hand patted softly at your ass before ushering you inside.

He did just that, wiping you down and undressing you before settling you into his bed. Exhausted and sore, you decided to argue after sleep.

When you awoke, you checked your shredded bottoms for your phone. Nothing.

An answer was found when you mentioned it to Alastor, who asked what you were searching for so early in the morning, “Perhaps someone at that venue you enjoyed has it? Too bad you can’t go back and ask.” He was resting his back against the headboard, you realized he’d unbuttoned his shirt quite a bit. “Oh well!”

How was he always making you scream?

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷ masterlist

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

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@asianfrustration13 @alittletiredcry @sirens-and-moonflowers @alastorssimp

#alastor x reader #alastor smut #alastor x you #alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fandom #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #smut

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marauder-misprint · 3 months ago

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Birthday

Sirius Black x fem!reader

microfic - 765 words

cw: fluff, established relationship

Growing up, you loved your birthday. A day where you got cake and presents and just about anything you wanted. It was all about you. As you grew up, your want for material things dwindled, as did you liking for being the center of attention. Sure, you still liked cake but it wasn’t your favorite dessert. Not that anyone at Hogwarts would bug the house elves for a birthday cake. It wasn’t like you hated your birthday, it just wasn’t special. Whatever magic faults sprinkled on the day had faded and now it was just another day, except with more cards from extended family.

Being that the day wasn’t special to you, you didn’t mention it to your friends. It was a don’t ask, don’t tell kind of situation. You think Pandora knows your zodiac. She had demanded to know it when you first met. So she has an inkling that it’s around now, but she doesn't know the exact date. And that’s how you like it. It comes and goes without anyone knowing.

“Hey sweet thing,” Sirius says, climbing to sit on the armrest of the bench you’re sitting at. “How was Divination?”

“Boring. Talked about how zodiac signs influence people.”

“Huh. Compatibility come up?” he asks. He leans forward to whisper, “Do the stars say we’re compatible? I’m a scorpio and you are…”

You shake your head with a smile. “I think we cover compatibility later.”

“But what are you?”

“A witch with the poor choice of Divination for an elective.”

“Well, yes,” he says. “But when’s your birthday? I figure it’s something I should know as your boyfriend. Seems like the boyfriend type thing to know.”

You hum and pat your chin with your fingers, as if in deep thought.

“I… don’t have one.” You sound hesitant. It’s not that you don’t want Sirius to know when your birthday is, but you don’t want him to go overboard with gifts and doting on you. His tendencies to go all out were enough for you to withhold the information.

Sirius lets out a haughty laugh. “Darling, everyone has a birthday.”

You hum again. “I’m one of those special people without one.”

You give him a sickly sweet smile, which he responds to with a pout.

“My girlfriend won’t tell me her birthday. That cuts deep, love. Right here,” he says, pointing at his heart. “Why you not telling me? What are you hiding?”

You shrug. “Nothing. It’s not a special day for me. So why bother?”

“Mine wasn’t special until I came to Hogwarts. Perhaps you just need to know how to celebrate it properly!”

He stands up, as if ready to plan you a birthday party at that moment, despite not knowing when it is. You see his eyes flicker with a wicked glint. You know that if he had his way, whatever he was planning in his head would be the most outrageous rager Gryffindor Tower has ever seen. You reach out and place a gentle hand on his arm, bringing his attention back to you.

“My birthday was celebrated just fine, my love. My childhood wasn’t… like yours.” His face tightens briefly. “I got presents and cake and everything. I just don’t want that.”

He bites his lip as his face twists to the side. His eyes bore into your face, studying your expression carefully.

“You… don’t want that.” His words come out slowly as he processes.

“And I know you love celebrating and throwing parties. I don’t want that. Not for my birthday.”

He nods and sits next to you. He’s quiet for a moment before he leans back and throws his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side.

“What if we did a dinner or a muggle movie night? Something just the two of us. No gifts, nothing flashy. Just good ol’ quality time with your dear loverboy?”

You snort a laugh. “Loverboy?”

“That’s me,” he says before smashing his lips into your cheek for loud sloppy kisses that make you giggle.

“Sirius!”

“When’s your birthday?” he asks, face still smushed against yours.

You sigh and mumbled your birthday. He pulls back, looking offended.

“Last week?” he gasps loudly. “Your birthday was last week? I MISSED IT?”

“Yes,” you say shortly, but you’re smiling widely.

“I can’t believe you! The anniversary of the moment you arrived on this earth, the most holy day that we were blessed with your presence, passed and you told no one?”

“That could be correct, Sirius.”

“Well, clear your schedule for this weekend, love. I have a birthday to make up.”

#marauders fic #sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #marauders #sirius black fluff #microfic #marauder-misprint

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thebenjiblackwoodexpress · 7 months ago

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Love is like the rose thorn

𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔨𝔣𝔲𝔩 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔬𝔫’𝔱 𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔨𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔢 ℑ 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲, ℑ’𝔪 𝔰𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔶

Description: The last thing Y/N expected after quite literally falling down the rabbit hole was to wake up in a world where dragons and knights exist. Throw in an incorrigible but undeniably handsome boy called Benjicot Blackwood who won't stop following Y/N around and we have ourselves a regular ol' fairytale.

Disclaimer: Victoria here to interrupt my regularly scheduled Aeron Bracken content with a Benjicot oneshot. This doesn't have any connection with Elizabeth's masterpiece The Blackwood Knight but is an attempt to fulfill a request from @ithilwen-blackwood for a modern reader finding themselves in Westeros. I'm sorry it doesn't match the request exactly as the reader isn't a dragon rider in this.

Loosely based on Beauty & The Beast. There's now a companion Cinderella retelling for Aeron Bracken called Star Crossed

Warnings: swearing, threat of violence, female reader, world jumping reader, Frenemies to lovers vibes, lengthy (I got carried away whoops), Beauty & The Beast vibes.

Y/N woke with a jolt. Dazed, her eyes frantically tried to take in her surroundings. She was disturbed to find she was not in her own bed, but lying on the cold hard ground with ferns lightly tickling her face. She seemed to have fallen asleep in the middle of nowhere, not recognising any land marks, just the vast expanse of green fields, rocky paths and off in the distance the treeline of nearby woodland. She remembered she'd been hiking and come across a strange arch covered in interweaving vines and blood red roses so dark they were almost black. She had felt inexplicably drawn to the arch that seemed to crackle with magic. But she knew that was ridiculous, there was no such thing. And yet she found herself walking towards it as if pulled by some invisible force until she stepped through it...and was met with darkness.

Y/N was pulled back to the present by an intense feeling of panic. None of this made any sense. Nonetheless her survival instincts had kicked in and she knew she couldn't just linger out in the open, she had to find help. So she started forward, opting to avoid the eery treeline of the woods, hoping that she'd eventually come across some semblance of civilisation, even better someone who could help her make sense of what had happened to her.

Y/N felt like she'd been walking for hours, perhaps she had, her bones wearied with exertion. A shining ray of hope came in the form of a beautiful man sat atop a precarious pile of stones. He struck a princely figure, dressed in clothes that looked straight out of a medieval fair, a fake sword hanging from a belt at his hips. His soft brown hair, lanky limbs, and dimples gave him a boyish charm. But his broad shoulders were suggestive of a strong build and the small scar on his nose gave her the impression he'd once broken it, perhaps in a fight. Eyes suddenly snapping to hers, his features rearranged themselves into a cocky smirk and she suddenly felt quite strongly that the man in front of her was quietly dangerous.

Unfolding himself from his slouched position, almost that of a beleaguered sentry, he jauntily approached her. Although he did stay at a respectful distance of a few paces. "Good day my lady, I have not seen you around these parts before. And I admit I do not recognise the colours of your house. From where do you hail?" Y/N found herself scoffing at his roguish tone and bizarre speech pattern. "From where do I hail? Are you heading to an expo or something. What's with the cosplay and fake sword?" The man's handsome features pulled into a slight frown of confusion. It lasted a mere moment before his eyes were oncemore alight with a mischievous glimmer that Y/N found equal parts frightening and exciting.

"Do you jest my lady? I bear the sigil and colours of House Blackwood as is my prerogrative as Lord of Raventree Hall." He bowed his head to her, a hand to his heart. Y/n had to admire his commitment to his costume but it was starting to grate on her nerves that he seemed to talk in riddles when she was desperate for answers. "Right, sure you are. Could you please point me in the direction of the nearest town?" Y/n asked awkwardly, hoping to try her luck with someone not dressed like a knight. "You do not know where you are my lady?"

"Not exactly. Not at all if I'm being honest. I sort of just walked through an arch and woke up in a field and here I am. Where exactly is here?" The man's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Y/N detected a trace of concern as his eyes appeared to soften. "You tell a strange tale my lady, and I should be pleased to assist you in any way I can. We are in the heart of the Riverlands, in Blackwood land." Y/N felt a fresh surge of panic rise up within her chest as she struggled to understand any of the unfamiliar words the man in front of her had just laced together. Had she somehow time travelled and that was the cause of their mutual confusion? Trying to maintain a semblance of calm she took a deepth breath through her nose. "Can you tell me what the year is?"

The man's lips turned up in an amused smile. "This close to the borders of Bracken land it depends who you ask. In the eyes of House Blackwood it is the first year of the reign of the true Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the 129th year after Aegon the conqueror's conquest." Y/N let out a high pitched squeek, the panic that had settled uncomfortably in her stomach finally bubbling up to breaking point as she began to realise she may be farther from home than she'd first realised. The young man seemed positively alarmed at her outburst, his eyes widening as she started taking small steps away from him all the while trying to regulate her frantic breathing. His brow furrowing, he started to close the small distance between them, a placating hand outstretched as if he expected her to run from him.

"My lady, I can see that you are distressed. If I have done or said something to alarm you, I assure you it was not my intention." Y/N told herself to snap out of it. This was likely all some big misunderstanding. That or the stricken looking man in front of her was toying with her. The idea that he would do such a thing when she was so clearly lost, confused, and vulnerable incensed her. Glaring at him she wordlessly turned on her heels to walk away from him at break neck speed. Hearing footsteps she glanced behind her to see him following at a distance. "Are you following me?" "Yes" He said simply as if it was perfectly obvious that he should. "Brazen bastard" she mumbled, unfortunately not low enough for him to miss. A look of surprise as he registered her insult quickly shifted to one of bemusement before Y/N could even begin to worry about him reacting badly. "That may be, but I'd rather not see you walk into a den of savages. And that is the direction you're going in."

Y/n was quite frankly sick of his cryptic messages at this point. Stopping in her tracks to face him, the young man immediately halted, mirroring her movements. She fixed him with a stern glare. "I don't know what you're playing at but it isn't funny. I have no idea what you're talking about. And I'm not a lady so you can drop the act."

Turning so quickly she was sure her hair must have whipped him in the face she continued on the path she'd chosen. If he wanted to drop mysterious messages of foreboding without telling her anything concrete she'd just as well ignore him. That turned out to be difficult as he resumed following her wordlessly. Y/N broke the silence a while later. "Why are you still following me? I thought you said I was going the wrong way. Headed towards savages as you put it?" Seemingly delighted that she'd finally looked at him and was willingly speaking to him he shot her a dazzling smile that almost softened her resolve to be irritated with him. "To protect you of course. I am a knight and you are a lady in distress. The course you set is a dangerous one but if you choose to walk it then I shall walk it with you." His smile did not match the promise of life-threatening danger he was suggesting.

"I can take care of myself and since I can't understand half of what you're saying I'm not sure I really believe you." His smile growing wider, the young man took a couple of steps towards Y/N to close the distance between between them before gently taking her hand and planting a kiss to her knuckles. "I don't doubt it fair lady, you seem seem have a will of steel but I'd rather not risk your safety if its all the same to you." Momentarily at a loss for words at his actions, Y/N quickly quashed the traitorous fluttering of her heart and cleared her throat as she pulled her hands from his and attempted to put him down gently. "That's quite enough of that. Look, I appreciate your concern... " she stopped realising she didn't know his name and looked up at him questioning. "Benjicot Blackwood. Might I Iearn the name of the fair lady in return?" Ignoring his question, Y/N went on "but there's really no need to worry. I'll be just fine on my own."

Once again Y/N turned from him and continued to walk towards whatever mythical danger the man had portended. When she didn't hear his footfalls following her immediately a smile of self-satisfaction ghosted onto her face before she realised she was almost dissapointed. That was until she heard them at a farther distance this time. Glancing behind her but this time not stopping she shouted back to him. "Are you still following me" He had to shout too for her to hear him though there was mirth in his tone "yes my lady, you still seem dead set on barrelling head first into danger. And you have not yet given me your name" he responded playfully. Y/N groaned audibly "Why can't you go bother some other poor girl and leave me alone?" Y/N fumed to hear him laugh. "Because then, fair one, I might actually have to bother, as you say, ladies who like my company. And where would be the fun in that when I have you to shout at me?"

Y/n gaped at him in disbelief, this man could not be serious. Shaking her head at him, she decided to just go back to ignoring him. Perhaps he'd get bored of following her or, if she was really lucky, fall into a ditch. They walked a little while longer before an arm suddenly shot out around her waist, the young man having hastened his steps to step in front of her. "A step further and we're in Bracken territory. I beseech you to turn back with me. I will take you to my halls and we can discuss your predicament further." Y/N felt a growing sense of fear at Benjicot's seriousness.

Perhaps she'd been too quick to write his warnings off. No sooner had she thought this than she heard approaching footsteps and spotted four other men dressed just like him, except for the golden colour of their cloaks where his was a deep red. She didn't like the angry looks on their faces and was ashamed to find herself cowering slightly. Taking in her fright the young man shot around and positioned himself more fully in front of her, arm lightly outstretched behind him as if to shield her.

"Get back from the border Blackwood, you're in breech of the assize."

"Fuck the assize. This is Blackwood land and you know it." Y/N didn't have a clue what the two men were arguing about as insults flew back and forth, but her ears perked up as the man closest to her red knight levied the next one at her. "Take her with you. Is she fucking stupid, or is she so bold to think she can waltz around wherever she likes? Typical Blackwood bitch." The Lord of Raventree as he'd called himself earlier snarled out a reply, stepping forward to shove the golden Knight harshly in the chest. "You craven bastard. You dare insult a lady under my protection?" Y/N should have been panicking at the impending threat of violence, but her anger at the man's insults, so blatantly laced with misogyny, rose up so fiercely that she heard her own voice among the din before she could stop it. "Don't you dare call me a bitch. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? I don't know anything about an assize or why you're so obsessed with rocks and not crossing them but you can't just go around calling people names. Have some respect."

Seemingly stunned into silence, perhaps not expecting her to challenge him so brazenly, the golden Knight just stared at her in stony silence for a few moments before ignoring her entirely and turning back to her red knight. "Control your woman Blackwood." Through gritted teeth, Benjicot bit back "Speak another word about the lady and there will be violence." The golden Knight drew his sword, pointing directly at her red knight's chest. Ok, so not a fake sword then. Surprising her by laughing tauntingly, Benjicot walked right up to the tip of the sword. "You wouldn't dare." Y/N told herself she shouldn't find his passionate defence of her attractive, but in the current circumstances she felt she could be forgiven for being irrational. "Come on, just leave it" one of the other golden knights piped up. After a tense few moments the golden cloaked man lowered his sword and and stalked away, followed by his friends.

Shoulders tense, her defender did not turn his back to the knights until they were out of sight before turning around to look at her, eyes immediately softening from the aggressive glare he'd just been fronting. "Are you alright my lady? I had hoped to avoid such an interaction." Y/N flip flopped between finding his evident concern sweet and being irritated that he seemed to think this was her fault for not listening to him. "You think I'm to blame then? You're the one who kept dropping veiled hints about my impending doom and refusing to clarify what you meant!" Y/N could not for the life of her understand why the infuriating man in front of her was smiling at her. "Why are you smiling at me? Do you enjoy fighting with me?" "You mistake me my lady. I am merely gratified to know that you are well enough to shout at me. I was concerned that you would be shaken and frightened."

When Y/N didn't respond, mouth opening and closing trying to find a response, Benjicot assumed that she must be in some state of shock after all. "Please allow me to take you to Raventree. It would go against my conscience to leave a lady wandering about the riverlands alone when you seem so confused." With that he held his arm out for her to take, an antiquated gesture that seemed to confirm to Y/N she was really not in kansas anymore. Weighing her options, she considered that Benjicot Blackwood had teased her and followed her, but he had not harmed her and had in fact protected her when he could have walked away. Making her decision, she lightly placed her arm on his. "My name is Y/N." Benjicot grinned at her as if she had given him a star rather than her name, placing his other hand atop hers as it rested on his arm and began directing them in the opposite direction "a beautiful name for a beautiful lady." Blushing fiercely with embarrassment, Y/N squeeked out a "Thank you."

Benjicot must have been chasing Y/N around the Riverlands for quite some time, as it took them at least an hour to reach the impressive fortress he called Raventree Hall.

Once she'd gotten over the initial shock of realising she had in fact jumped from her world into another, Y/N actually found herself settling in to life in Westeros. It had taken some convincing for Benjicot to believe her story and stop assuming she was mildly insane, but he had all the while insisted she stay with him in Raventree Hall, gifting her with her own room and beautiful gowns in the colours of House Blackwood. She'd only had her hiking gear on when she was unceremoniously plucked from her world into his, and she sought to avoid similar looks of curiosity to the one he'd shot her when they first met. Y/N grew to love Raventree and the people who lived there.

Benjicot had practically forced his friendship open her and as incorrigible and cocky as he could be, encouraging a healthy back and forth banter between them at all times, she could not be anything but grateful for it. Each day he would show her something new, always hoping to amuse her, whether it be a new room to explore in his ancestral halls, a book he thought she might like, or the rose garden tucked away in the grounds, which had become her favourite haunt.

The roses reminded Y/N of Beauty and the Beast, her favourite fairytale from back home which Benjicot had made her tell at least a hundred times, listening just as attentively, a hand cupping his chin and eyes never leaving hers each time. She supposed that her own situation did somewhat resemble her favourite tale, down to her very own castle and beast. Benjicot had always been a gentleman with her, but she had heard the stories of Bloody Ben whispered by his servants and seen first hand his willingness to resort to violence to protect her when they first met.

More often than not it was Benjicot, or Benji as he seemed to insist only she call him, who came to her, always seeking out her opinions. But today it was Y/N seeking him out. She'd been growing more and more homesick of late and wanted to be with the one person she felt could truly understand, eventually finding him in the armoury, wielding his sword in different formations. Hoping to sneak up on him, and having taken fencing lessons herself back in her own world, she quietly tiptoed over to the swords. Grabbing the lightest one she could she walked soundlessly back over to him before he suddenly turned and clashed his sword against hers. "Sorry Y/N but you should know that I'd recognise your footfalls anywhere and you're not as quiet as you think."

"Rude" she huffed back, sliding her sword down his and shoving him away from her. He grinned at the challenge. "You didn't mention you'd handled a sword before." "Only a little."

He parried a fresh blow from her, easily blocking the next.

"I can see that" He teased, earning a snarl from her though it did not have any true aggression behind it. He continued to block her blows, but seemed reluctant to attack and she used this reticence against him to lunge and place her sword close enough to his neck to refute any delusions he had about her lack of skill. But he was prepared for this and swung his sword upwards to block her again, before taking hold of her waist and spinning her around, her back hitting his chest. His sword hand wove around around her shoulders, as he kept the blade at a distance from her body, while Benji gently trailed his other hand down the side of her bodice, his touch feather light and searing all at once. He leant down to whisper in her ear "You left yourself open here when you lunged."

Y/N had always found Benjicot attractive, even when he teased and irritated her, but she'd tried to quash any romantic feelings for him so as not to ruin their friendship. But his closeness to her now, her body pressed against his, was intoxicating and she struggled to think coherently. Suddenly releasing her, Benjicot smiled widely and bowed. "I shall see you later my lady, I am off to attend to my duties." Throwing his sword carelessly over his shoulder, he turned and exited the armoury, leaving Y/N to stew over the unwelcome feelings their impromptu sword fight had brought to the fore.

Later that night, Y/n could not help the wave of sadness that threatened to crush her under the weight of it from sending her into a spiral of homesickness. Soft sniffles and sobs echoed about the room as she tried to square the new life she now loved with her feelings of guilt over leaving her family behind. The rattling of her bedroom door knob sent her flying from her bed in alarm as she quickly grabbed a small blade form the wooden desk and hurried to conceal herself behind the door. As the intruder entered she wildly swung around to jab the point of her dagger into their ribcage. The intruder stiffened and she looked up to se that it was just Benji, whose brow was quirked up in amusement. How could he act so nonchalant about her nearly spearing him like a fish?

"What's so funny? I nearly gutted you!"

"With a letter opener?" She looked down to find that what she'd thought was a dagger was indeed just a letter opener, not likely to do much damage. She forced out a laugh that ended up sounding much more like a sob, and Benji's face immediately fell once he took in her tearstained appearance fully. Y/N couldn't bear his look of concern, certain it would just make her cry harder and so she broke the silence. "What brings you to my room at this time of night anyway to give me the opportunity to spear you in the first place?" She'd hoped to diffuse the tension and make him laugh but his expression remained just as serious, eyes filled with worry. "I heard you crying."

"Oh." He had come to check that she was OK. His gentle concern for her sent forth a fresh wave of tears and when Benji opened his arms to her she immediately fell into them, her forehead hitting his chest as his hand came up to stroke her hair in a comforting gesture. "What ails you my lady. Whatever you need I will see it done."

His kindness only made her crying worse and he kissed her sweetly on the crown of her head, rubbing soothing circles along her spine. "I miss my family and my home." Benji stiffened as if he were expecting a blow but he let her continue. "And mostly I feel guilty that I'm not sure I even want to go home. Truthfully I love Raventree and your friendship has meant everything to me."

Benji took hold of Y/N's elbows and lightly pushed her away from his chest so he could look into her eyes. "It gladdens my heart to hear that you feel this way about my home. I should like you to consider it your home too. You will always have a place here with me." Kissing her forehead tenderly, he held Y/N's head against his heart again as if she were made of glass or something truly precious to him he was scared to break. Little did she know how true this was.

Weeks later, Y/N found that her homesickness had begun to dissipate to a dull ache. But her feelings for Benji had grown and spread like the vines of the rose bushes she loved so much, wild and uncontainable. It was difficult to even be in his presence without wanting him to touch her and hold her as he had the night he'd found her crying.

Sitting with her in what he'd come to refer to as her rose garden, he kept shooting furtive glances at her as she read from a tome on his house history. "Why are you staring at me?" "I'm not?" "Try that again without the question mark"

Benjicot surprised her, shifting in his spot next to her to turn to her fully, their knees touching, before taking both of her hands in his. "I have not been able to look away from you for more than a few moments ever since I first laid eyes on you. I must admit that I am desperately in love with you and wondered if, by some chance of fate, you might feel the same way?"

Y/N's jaw fell open in shock. " You love me?"

He squeezed her hands "most ardently."

Her mind spinning, she threw caution to the wind and flung her arms around Benji's shoulders to kiss him. He reacted instantly, pulling her as close towards him as possible until she was in his lap, his hands grasping at her hips to pull her closer still as if he couldn't believe she was real.

Breaking the kiss for oxygen, Benji began to trail a line of kisses down Y/N's neck, leaving her breathless, one hand pressing her back closer to him. "I wish you to be my wife, to become the Lady of Raventree Hall and House Blackwood."

Butterflies erupted in her stomach.

"Future Lady Blackwood am I?"

"Should you permit it, I will protect you, cherish you, and love you for the remainder of my days or for as long as you will allow. I humbly offer myself to you as your husband, with all the love I possess for you."

"And what if I disagree with you and challenge you. What if we argue constantly?"

"We do not argue my love, you scold me and I listen" He shot back with a playful grin.

"And if I decide to change all the tapestries pink?"

Benji sighed, tilting his head to her eye level so she could read the sincerity in his eyes.

"I want all of you, including your thoughts and opinions. They're what made me fall in love with you. I want you to share them with me even if they challenge mine, especially then, even when I hold you in my arms. As to the tapestries, I'm rather partial to my house colours but I would try to bear the change if it would please you."

Y/N giggled at that before planting a tender kiss to his lips. "Then I consent to be be your wife and Lady. You can't take it back though. You're stuck with me now."

Benji pressed their foreheads together, cupping the sides of her face to brush her lips with his. "And how grateful I am for it." He spoke against them before pressing his lips to hers in a kiss he hoped expressed his undying devotion to his lady.

A face I'd go to war for. The title is based on the line 'love is like the wild rose-briar' from an Emily Bronte poem I love called Love and Friendship.

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #benjicot blackwood #davos blackwood #benjicot blackwood x reader #house blackwood #benjicot blackwood oneshot #benjicot blackwood imagine

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coquettebeautiful · 2 months ago

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naffeclipse · 5 months ago

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To Survive

Reader x Orca!Eclipse

Commission Info

The lovely @crazedauthor requested some good ol' hurt/comfort with a orca!reader with orca!Eclipse. You lost your entire pod but ever since Eclipse found you, you haven't been alone. Your grief, however, comes in waves, but Eclipse will hold you through them.

Content Warnings: Mentions of death and blood.

———

The white-blue ice of the continental shelf juts out into the dark gray waters with jagged edges like the upper teeth of a great maw. You bob slowly along the surface, swishing your tail, treading water idly.

You are not unlike an orca in pattern, strong black and white markings painting you as an apex predator, but you are little without your pod. As unassuming as a lone seal caught in waters far from shore. The colors tipping your fins and flukes are soft and cool against the otherwise bleak waterscape but those too seem to have dulled as you drift without purpose.

These waters have never been so empty. Without Eclipse, you sink back into a cold, numb shell-like rime coating the ground.

The hollowness within you yawns. You have no energy to escape the whirlpool-like drawl of the abyssal grief within you, and so, you are sucked down into the churning depths.

You weren’t always alone. There were your sisters, your mother, your aunts. They swam and weaved along the surface, breaching with loud bursts of laughter. They combed your hair with their fingers. You look down at your empty palms. Water slicks your skin and empties your hands of the sisters you once doted on. Your sides lie empty, unflanked by your mother and aunt as they guide you towards your next meal. No prey escaped your fine claws.

A morning fell upon you, and you awoke to your pod becoming prey. Your eyes opened, and there were nets and harpoons, and scarlet swirled in the water as your aunt thrashed and your sisters cried out.

The songs were sharpened with piercing magic. Harsh and demanding, your sisters sang and drew men into the surface until they could drag them down by their ankles. The frigid water claimed the humans without qualms. You’ve killed prey before but the men struggled and fought until you felt sick.

They never saw the sunlight again.

But humans are relentless. You have learned how tirelessly they follow, lying in wait for a few of your pod members to drift into uneasy sleep before throwing the wicked blade through the surface and into your mother’s side. You held onto her, bleeding panic. You tried to sever the cord with your teeth before they dragged her into their smaller, swifter vessel and left you behind.

A taste of copper, ghostly and faint, spreads over your mouth. You stare, eyes wide, but you see not the shelf of ice nor the dark waters softly rippling with your bobbing frame.

Sirens do not drown—not without reason. Not without a weight tied around their bodies, trapping their arms down and exhausting their tails until they can no longer push toward the surface. Wounds bleed freely in the salty brine. Cries and screeches of pain overlap until there is no more music.

You haven’t sung since you darted away, lost in the chaos. So cowardly, you took only the vision of your mother’s pained expression, and it pressed itself to the back of your eyelids like the burning glare of sunlight at dawn.

You are the last survivor of your pod. You double over the carved-out space within you, like a carcass eaten from the inside out, and gulp down air.

Water splashes from a sharp flick of a tail. You jerk, your heart climbing into your throat as you whirl around to find a burning set of frills breaking through the surface. Looming over you, the orca siren displays a sharp grin of teeth perfect for stripping flesh from bones.

“Happy day,” his voice rumbles in an abysmal chord. “You’re being so good, little love, staying right where I can find you.”

You place a hand over your chest and take a moment to recover from the fright, your heart pounding against your sternum. Being pried so swiftly from your thoughts leaves you reeling, but the orca siren’s strong, sleek form and his pronounced, red and orange colors along the edges of his person anchor you back into this moment. The memories are left to storm far away like distant black clouds.

“Eclipse,” you breathe. The emptiness within you shrinks by a slight margin. Lowering your hand, your eyes roam over him, searching every inch of his sleek body for a fresh wound or a patch of netting. “Are you alright?”

He tilts his head, his eyes upturning in equal parts delight and curiosity.

“Of course. I am more than alright now that I have you within reach.” He flicks his tail. Slipping closer, he begins to circle you like a shark catching the scent of blood.

You float in place and follow Eclipse with your eyes. He preens under your gaze, arching his back and flaring his fins to allow you to admire him fully. The sunlight is bright upon his black and white flesh. His lithe body is corded with sinew and sleekness, speaking to his strength and speed in rough, cold waters.

Eclipse slips behind you. You try to turn to keep up but a shiver erupts down your spine when his black-bone claws touch the small of your back. His touch falls lower to trace the curve of your dorsal fin to the very tip. A flutter erupts within your middle.

“I have a gift for you,” he whispers, his hot, metallic breath dusting the nape of your neck.

The air you so carefully stored in your lungs when you dive deep below is loosened by his touch as if he brought you back to the surface to breathe again.

“You do?” Your heart becomes a floundering thing within your rib cage. “What is it?”

You turn, your flukes brushing his longer, bigger tail. You eye his other fist, clutched below the water. Another courting gesture, as he has been pursuing for the past few weeks. Since he found you drifting alone, almost inconsolable in your wretched mourning, he has not left your side to save for brief hunts of gifts or food. Heat pools in your chest, hotter than any sunshine dusting the surface of the sea.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Give me your hands, little love.”

You obey. A soft flick of your flukes gives away your excitement. Lifting your palms and opening them, you stare into his burning gaze, like twin flames of yellow and red. He doesn’t look away. The intensity of his gaze claims you, capturing you within his grasp without lifting a finger.

He slowly unfurls his claws and presses a smooth, cool bone into your palms. The flickering burns of his attention remain on you, earnest, and if you dare venture a guess, fearful.

The beautiful bone is pale and clean, though it seems too fresh to have been found leftover in the frozen land. Strangely, it’s been carved. The smooth grooves along it indicate a sharp tool—claws perhaps—have shaped the gift from merely a bone to a finely curved arch. A token of time and affection.

Your pod would have adored Eclipse. Your mother would have fawned over him, pleased by his skill and strength, and the many, many gifts he’s since bestowed upon you. Orca sirens do not have a strict season of courting ships unlike other sirens, like the whales. From the moment he found you, he has made his intentions clear.

You were uncertain, so afraid to have encountered one away from a pod—but you were no better. He did not leave your side the first night. He kept you warm in his arms as you grieved silently, unable to speak through the emotion trapping every breath in your throat. He did not ask you to speak. He sang softly, gently.

Your mother would have approved of him.

Your lips part. A smoky breath leaves your mouth but no words follow. Softly, you clutch the bone closer to your chest and lift your gaze to meet Eclipse’s. His brow is hard, caught between fear and impatience.

“Little love?” he asks. “Do you not accept it?”

You shake your head.

“No,” you finally speak, and it is with great difficulty to keep a sob from slipping out of your chest and into the air. “I accept it. It’s beautiful.”

His eyes narrow in the slightest before he reaches for you. Weakly, you hold no resistance as he pulls you against him, engulfing you in his embrace.

“Tell me what is upsetting you.” He leans back, his tail cradling your own as you rest sideways against him. “I will rip apart whatever has done this to you.”

“No!” you gasp. “No, please. I accept your gift.”

His claws loosen from around you, no longer tense with the desire to sink into flesh. He cannot kill what afflicts you.

“Tell me,” he commands in a low voice. “I can’t bear to see you in anguish. Share your burden with me.”

You hold the bone tight to your heart. The smooth and defined arc of the bone reveals the thoughtful nature of what was done to it. This was not rushed nor effortless. This is Eclipse’s true desire for your approval.

You lower your head and lay your cheek against his chest. He tucks you underneath his chin.

“I miss them.” The words scratch out of your throat and break your voice into a thousand shards. “I want them here. I want them to meet you and love you as I do. I want my mother to see my mate.”

It gushes from you like a melt of spring, streaming down your edges as you clutch his courtship gesture tighter to you as if it were your last anchor. Eclipse falls still. His arms encircle you, and he rumbles a smooth melody deep within his chest, and it fills you to the brim.

“I know, little love,” he rasps gently. His wide mouth finds your cheek. He nuzzles against you. You hiccup and sob, squeezing your eyes shut as his affection eases the sting of sorrow. “I barely remember my mother’s song. I can hardly recall my father’s face. I was small when they were taken from me. Then I was alone.”

You tilt your gaze up, tears shoving past your eyes. Eclipse bows over you. His eyes have dimmed almost into nothing. He traces a claw up and down your arm in a rhythmic touch.

“Oh, Eclipse,” you whisper. You didn’t know. Not when, not how—not like this.

“But I am not alone now.” He lifts his head, proud and unyielding. Your lips part in gentle awe. “And neither are you, my mate.”

“How did you…?” You have to swallow the thickness down. “How did you survive this grief? It feels hopeless.”

He gently noses your cheek. You close your eyes.

“I survived one day at a time, and then I found you.” He kisses your temple. He clutches you closer, holding you flush against his chest. You press one palm to his heart. The other locks his gift in your grasp.

“We are mates,” he declares, soft and low, whispering the truth to you delicately. “We can grow our own family.”

A flood of red overwhelms your face. You have to duck as he laughs softly, the lethal tips of his claws gently carding through your hair. You curl your fingers underneath the corner of his jaw.

It is not so horrible to think of a future where you are happy again. Where you and Eclipse have little ones of your own. Your heart pounds. Your eyes flutter, and you bleed pink. Your flukes flicker as Eclipse cradles you closer.

“I swear,” he breathes against you, soft as sea smoke, “you are not alone. You are mine. And I am yours.”

You press his face closer to you. With tears in your eyes, less salty, washed anew with his promise, you nod your head.

You lean in and you do not have to wait for his answering kiss. His mouth captures yours. Softly, he tastes you, gently pushing and pulling like the waves surrounding you. His arms hold you against him. Ripples are carried out from the embrace of mates.

There is a future where you do not wallow in your grief, where you carry the last of your pod in your blood and give it to your children. Eclipse will guide you through it.

The emptiness within you is not so alive anymore.

#naff's writing commissions #apex polarity #orca!eclipse #orca!reader #poor babes know exactly what it's like to suffer but now they have each other <3 #naff writing

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questforgalas · 2 months ago

Text

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life

For @daredaredoodles!! Happy Ghoapmas!!! Here is some very oblivious and very yearny Ghost for you!! Oh, did I mention lots of fluff? :) I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!

Thank you @forsaire for hosting!!!!

Ao3 link

Summary: It was supposed to be a holiday season like all of the others - nights filled with reports, and a base haunted by a Ghost while everyone wandered home. Three knocks on Simon's door change those plans entirely.

Words: 5K

No CWs, just tooth-rotting fluff and Gaz so done with these two

It was supposed to be quiet tonight. An intimate date between Simon, the desk in his room, and the pile of reports that magically remain the same height regardless of how many hours are put towards them (a detail Captain Price never misses). Does Simon happen to write a little slower to aid that magical spell so that he has a proper excuse when Price inevitably comes knocking on his door and asks why he hasn’t filed for leave again this December? Possibly, but that little detail belongs between Simon and the twenty minutes during which he contemplates which words to use instead of “infiltrate” and “detonation”.

He should have known nothing ever goes according to plan. Three familiar knocks rapping against the door certainly proved that right.

Cut to Soap MacTavish standing on the other side, a smile curling his lips and azure eyes all the brighter against the navy jumper wrapping across his broad chest. Words were said, something about a night out which made sense since Soap wore dark jeans that seemed made specifically to torture Simon, and there was a glint in Soap’s eye not dissimilar to a child’s on Christmas morning.

Ah, so, Price was picking up the tab.

As Soap stands in the hall, punctuating his pitch to coach the lieutenant out of his room with perfectly placed smiles and a wink or two anyone else would find gratuitous but Simon found infuriatingly endearing, Simon swaps his hoodie for a black jumper, grabs his jacket, and has the door locked just as Soap says, “‘nd it’s not tha team without ma favorite lieutenant.”

The calendars say “December”, but the unseasonably warm air makes the jacket hanging over Simon’s arm feel like overkill, making him contemplate turning around and throwing it through the door, but instead he rolls up the sleeves of his jumper. In the corner of his eye, he sees Soap watch as the fabric folds back and reveals Simon’s forearms - corded with muscle, covered in scars, one completely inked over.

Simon wanted to tell himself that the way Soap ogled at the skin didn’t make his own feel a size too small. He wanted to tell himself the way Soap’s Adam's apple bobbed and the dusting of pink at the tip of his ears didn’t match his own. He wanted to tell himself he wouldn’t tuck this moment away safely in the gilded chest labeled “Moments He Can Pretend” that he stored in the safe recesses of his heart.

He wanted to tell himself all of that, but unfortunately, that would make Simon a liar.

Soap rambles on about some combination of some chemicals that Simon doesn’t understand a lick of - he’s just happy he remembers to nod at points that seem right for it - and they walk side by side through Hereford.

“What fresh hell is this,” Simon mutters, the revelry from the pub greeting their ears when they’re still a block away.

“Don’t fret, Lt.” Soap nudges him with his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just ol’ Gerry with tha music up because he finally accepted he cannae hear for shit.”

It was, in fact, not Gerry with the music up.

The Green Pony quite literally glows on the corner. Green garland lit with soft, white lights frames every window, and electric candles flicker at the streets. Two wreaths adorned with a red ribbon bow hang on the dark wood doors, and through the windows, matching garland and lights line the entirety of the bar. A large tree pulls it all together, lighting up the far corner much to the chagrin of some patrons looking for a secluded corner away from the crowd.

They shoulder their way through the entry and are immediately sucked into the chaos that is the Green Pony operating over capacity. Behind the bar, Gerry, the owner, a man who Simon is convinced was born in this pub, slings pints and jabs faster than any of the youngsters helping alongside him, and when he catches sight of the two men, he throws a lazy salute and points in the direction of their usual table. They break through the crowd, and the sight of Captain Price and Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick greets them at their usual booth.

“Well fuck me,” Gaz says as they approach. “Good to see ya Ghost, but you just lost me 20 quid.”

“Pay up,” Soap holds out his hand as he scoots in besides the other sergeant. Gaz grumbles something about “unfair advantages” as he fishes out his wallet, and hidden under a black medical mask, a smile pulls at the corner of Ghost’s lips. A terrible bet by Gaz, really. Might as well be the title of Simon’s memoir:

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Could Never Say No.

Gaz of all people should know this, and Simon’s pretty sure Soap does do.

Simon settles in next to Price who silently nods in a way of greeting, but Simon doesn’t miss the way his mouth curls up in a smile around the lip of his glass. “Never become predictable, Sergeant. Easier to kill that way,” Simon offers. Two pints sit unclaimed on the table. Simon grabs one while nudging the other towards Soap. “‘nd have some respect. I’m worth at least 40 quid.”

“Sound advice, sir.” Gaz tips his glass to Simon then takes a strong swig.

The rounds disappear and reappear over and over. The older patrons begin to make their way home, thinning the crowd some but not enough to avoid Simon’s shoulder - large enough to breach the end of the booth - becoming a human bumper now and again. Someone’s hijacked the jukebox, and Mariah Carey’s been serenading them about Christmas for the past twenty minutes. Price said his goodbyes a round ago, but not before assuring “Yes, sergeants, the tab will still be open,” and he threw that look to Simon that said “They’re your circus now”.

Now, Gaz sits at the table, chocolate eyes glassy under the lights, and a finger absentmindedly circles his pint. A dopey smile sits on his lips, and every few minutes he mumbles along to Mariah before she drowns in the din of the crowd. A word hasn’t been spoken between them since Price left - an understood respect by Gaz who knows Simon’s need for silence as much as Soap’s need to fill the air - and Simon wishes he could enjoy it. He wishes he could give Gaz that much. Instead, a dainty hand attached to a brunette he faintly recognizes from base is demanding all of his attention.

Moments ago, Soap delivered their newest round with a thunk, earning a curse or two from Gaz who saved his pint just in time, but instead of sliding into the space next to Simon - a space he occupied as soon as Price said his goodbyes - he grabbed his pint and beelined to the bar. There, a brunette waited. They were familiar, that Simon was sure of, and Soap kept flashing that smile that Simon was desperate to be turned on him.

And then the hand. The hand gripped Soap’s bicep, gave it a squeeze, and a laugh, airy and bright followed. The hand remained. That smile flashed brighter.

Simon hated that hand.

She was pretty enough. Glossy hair, high cheekbones, an ass Simon assumed would be appreciated by the right eyes. Eyes that weren’t azure blue and rivaled the bays of Islay. Any eyes except those.

The hand slides from Soap’s bicep and cups his elbow. Simon’s knuckles have gone white. He really hated that hand.

“Ghost, mate,” Simon hears from across the table. “Bruv, that glass is about to lose whatever battle ya’ve picked against it.” Simon tears his gaze away from that hand and sets it on Garrick who, bless him, doesn’t flinch. “Mind tellin’ me what that poor glass has done to you?”

“Don’t know what you’re on ‘bout,” Simon answers and sets his eyes back on that hand that’s smartly retreated back to its owner. Lucky her, she gets to keep it.

For now.

Soap’s pint is forgotten on the bartop, he says something to the brunette, and the cute crease that appears when the Scot is trying to puzzle out an equation is between his brows. Simon adores that crease. His hands itch to smooth it out and fight whatever has caused it.

He misses the questioning look on Gaz’s face and when he follows Simon’s gaze. He misses when the sergeant puts two and two together, but what he doesn’t miss is the sigh that’s pulled from Gaz’s chest and the thunk of the sergeant’s forehead against the thick, wooden table.

“Ya’ve got to be bloody kiddin’ me.” Stunned, Simon watches as Gaz thunks his head one, two, three more times, then snaps back up. His face is nothing but anguish. “Talk to him.”

“What?” Simon smartly replies.

“Talk. To. Him.” Gaz accompanies each word with a thump of his pint as if hammering them into the wood would hammer them into Simon’s confused brain.

“Talk to who?”

“Bloody ‘ell!” Simon thinks Gaz is being a bit overdramatic, what with throwing his hands in the air and acting as if Simon is the densest person in this pub. Problem is, Simon has no idea what he’s supposed to be grasping. The sergeant rubs a hand down his face, and once he’s collected himself, the stare he throws at Simon pins him to the booth. “Talk to Soap. I’m beggin’ you, Ghost. Talk to him, and save us all from havin’ to keep watching you two dance around each other like a bunch of school boys who don’t know what a crush is.”

The words make sense. Well, they make sense that they’re words, and they’re going in one ear. But not all of them are processing and some of them are going right out the other ear leaving a jumbled tangle of words like “Soap” and “you two” and “crush” that are rattling around in the empty space of Simon’s mind. Yes, it makes sense that Garrick just said something, but the implications are mad enough that he has half a mind to order him to a psych evaluation at once.

“Might’ve finally lost it, Garrick. Imaginin’ things now.” It’s really all he can muster past his lead laden tongue.

Crushing on Soap, well, that was as easy as breathing. But crushing is too trivial a word, wasn’t it? Crushing was what you did on the schoolyard when the brain hadn’t learned the words that threatened to burst from your heart. Crushing was soft glances across a room and sheepish smiles dripping with honeyed words. Crushing wasn’t a deep seeded trust that you’d make it home alive as long as that one person was beside you. Crushing wasn’t intimate knowledge of a body learned in the lowlight of safehouses while rough hands guided needles through skin. Crushing wasn’t hushed confessions in the dark as you accepted your mortality.

No, Simon did not have a crush on Soap MacTavish, because a crush was too simple. A tapestry of moments woven from a tarmac to now - the bar lights catching the hidden caramel strands of Soap’s mohawk - blanketed along Simon’s very being, and no longer could he ignore that his British heart had a Scottish flag planted firmly in place.

And because life loves to remind Simon that he is not a man destined for gentle touches and even gentler words, he watches as the brunette grasps Soap around the forearm and leads him out of the pub. “Told ya,” the words taste more bitter than he intended. “Imaginin’ things.”

Gaz tracks the pair through the crowd. “I’m the best interrogator on the team,” he says. Simon’s brow shoots up, and he’s about to question what the hell that has anything to do with this when Gaz holds up his hand and continues. “I’m the best interrogator on this team. I can read body language at a level that, often, I wish I couldn’t. The amount of people’s secrets that they don’t even know but I know is a burden I’m cursed to carry.” Pint abandoned and a finger getting closer and closer to Simon’s chest, Gaz continues. “I don’t know what the hell ‘appened in Las Almas…well I do, I read the report, but I mean between you two. I noticed it the moment we stepped into Ale’s safehouse, and it’s only gotten worse since. We, the 141, are a team. Price and I are teammates. You and I are teammates. Johnny an-”

“He doesn’t want anyone callin’ ‘im Johnny.” Amusement dances across Gaz’s eyes, and Simon knows he fell into his trap.

“Exactly. Anyone except?” Gaz takes Simon’s glare as confirmation. “All I’m sayin’ is, Soap and you? You’re more than teammates, Ghost. You’re the best in the world - as much as I ‘ate to admit it - not because of hours of training together or years of missions. It’s like you two are one soul, it’s absolutely mad to watch. And it’s not just on missions either. Ya both have a starin’ problem, that’s for sure. Though neither of you would know because it’s always when the other isn’t lookin’.”

“We - what?” Simon can’t fit Gaz’s words into his understanding of his relationship with Soap.

“The heart eyes? At each other?” Gaz flutters his lashes, and Christ, it actually gets a chuckle out of Ghost, as annoyed as he is. “Ya’d think for someone whose eyes are the only part of his body he shows, you’d be better at schooling them, but I swear I’ve seen those lines at the corners actually melt whenever Soap walks into the room.”

Oh, Gaz is proper teasing now, and Simon wants to smack the smirk right off of his face. He wants to tell him he’s delusional and that he can’t accept the image Gaz is spinning because it means taking the feelings he keeps packed away in that gilded chest in the safe corner of his heart and laying them all out there. Yet, the denial never comes, and instead, he feels his traitorous mouth curl up.

Is that…relief easing his chest?

Gaz’s face softens. “Remember the first thing ya told me when I joined the team?”

“Our job doesn’t guarantee tomorrow,” Simon says automatically. “Take the good moments while ya can. Don’t know ‘ow many ya’ll have.”

“Maybe time to start takin’ your own advice, huh?”

“Who’s advice we takin’?”

Gaz and Simon jump at the new voice, both reflexes fast enough to keep the pints from spilling over. Simon peers up, and his heart stutters. There stands Soap with cheeks rosy from the cold, and Simon has well and truly lost it because he desperately wants to loop his arm around Soap’s waist and tuck him into his side to keep him warm.

“Just Ghost’s words of wisdom,” Gaz supplies easily.

“Ah, only an eejit wouldn’t listen to the Ghost.” Soap stares down at the table, and he clears his throat before he continues. “Actually, Lt. I - I was hopin’ I could pull ye away?” He rubs the back of his neck, and the red on his cheeks spreads to the tips of his ears. “Unless ye don’t want to! Dinnae me - mean to interrupt, probably discussin’ something - never mind I…”

“Relax, Sergeant.” At the sound of Simon’s voice, Soap’s shoulders drop and his breaths come easier. He meets Simon’s gaze, and Simon has never seen this look in those storm blue eyes. Timid. Unsure. Bashful? “Was just finishin’ up. Garrick, ya good?”

Gaz waves him off. “Out of ‘ere. Your dark cloud is bringin’ down the festive mood.” He throws them a wink and stands from the table, smoothing out his jumper as he eyes six feet of muscles and a jawline that could break glass leaning on the bartop. Instead of walking around them, Gaz cuts right between Simon and Soap, and just before he steps away, he leans into Simon’s ear. “Talk to him.”

The hour hasn’t cooled the air so Simon and Soap opt to wander through Hereford instead of hailing a cab. Simon blames the beer and Gaz’s words buzzing in his ears, but he feels attuned to every one of Soap’s footfalls and every sway of his arms. The street is empty, plenty of room to stroll, yet the two of them walk with barely a hair between them. A tug Simon will always follow, and maybe Gaz hasn’t completely lost it, because Soap does too.

But because Simon can never make things easy for himself, he says “Where’s the brunette?”

Soap looks at him, face scrunched and that crease is between his brows. It would be so simple to reach out and gently smooth his thumb along it. “Wha’ brunette?” Soap asks because he can never make it easy for Simon, either.

“The brunette at the pub. Seemed…cozy.” If a sniper took him out, Simon wouldn’t complain.

“Cozy?” An incredulous laugh circles around the word. He’s really going to make Simon spell it out.

“Ya. Cozy. Thought, well, -” Simon picks at the nonexistent lint on his sweater. “Thought she was makin’ good company.”

Soap is silent, and it’s making Simon’s skin crawl. He focuses on his steps, one in front of the other. He creates a new mission right then: get back to base, say goodnight to Soap, and not emerge from his room until everyone has left for the holidays. He has rations hidden in his desk, he can make it until then.

“Oh, Simon,” Soap says softly between them.

They don’t speak for the rest of the walk, but there’s a spring in Soap’s step, and whatever millimeter of space that had existed between them is eaten up entirely by the Scot. When they arrive on base, Simon prepares his goodbye, ready to go down his hall while Soap goes down his, but when he turns to depart, Soap grabs his wrist and guides Simon with him.

They arrive at Soap’s private room. The Scot jumbles his keys, nearly dropping them on the ground, and struggles to get them into the keyhole. Simon thinks to point out that the process would probably be easier if Soap just let go of his wrist, but call him weak because that touch is more intimate than any stitch Soap has put in his body.

Finally, the lock turns, Soap pushes open the door, swiftly kicks it closed, and the two of them stand in the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table.

He’s been in Soap’s room plenty of times before, but this, this moment is different. A delicate thing Simon could almost hold in his hand, and he hopes that door never opens again. Hopes that they can stand here away from the responsibilities and the enemy bullets and bask in the warmth of this thing between them. This thing that Simon prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that he’s no longer imagining and is ready to stop ignoring. Since the pub he’s felt exposed, as if every emotion he’s tried to hide away for the better part of a year is now written across his skin for a pair of azure eyes to read. As he spies the rapid rise and fall of Soap’s chest, he thinks he’s not the only one.

Words sit on his tongue, but just before they tumble from his lips, he pulls them back. He’s pictured this moment 1000 different times and 100 different ways. None of it practiced. He has to get this right. He takes a breath. He has to figure out a way to tell Soap that if he wants to take the plunge, Simon is on the ledge with him, but he also wants to leave the door open so that if he’s misread everything, nothing needs to change between the two of them. The jumper is beginning to cling to his back.

But it’s Soap who speaks first. “I got ye somethin.”

“Ya got me somethin’?” Simon repeats back.

“Aye. It’s - one second.” Soap steps around him and rifles through his jacket. When he straightens, a dark rectangle is in his hands. He holds it out to Simon who has lost all function of his arms and stares at the object.

“What is it?”

“A present.”

“A present?”

“Holy ‘ell, Simon. Yes! A present! Ye know what a present is, aye?”

Simon is only more confused by the answer. Soap shoves the rectangle into his chest, and Simon’s brain catches up fast enough to wrap his hands around the object that he now realizes is a thick, wooden box.

“For me?” Seems his brain hasn’t moved past two word sentences though.

Soap rolls his eyes and his hands plant his hips. “Yes, it’s for you. It’s what I was talkin’ to Heather about.”

“Heather?” Christ, Simon needs his brain to wake up.

“Aye, Heather. The lass at the pub. She helped me get this.”

“So, ya weren’t -” Simon feels his ears burn. “Ya weren’t…flirting?”

Soap’s eyes widen for half a second, and then he tries to hide a startled chuckle with a cough as he looks down. Simon’s pretty sure he hears “Fuckin bampot” mixed in there. When Soap looks back up, he seems shy, almost embarrassed, cheeks back to that pink that’s starting to drive Simon wild. “No, Lt. Heather gets handsy after some pints, but I wasn’t flirtin’ with her.” Azure blue locks him in place. “I had someone else in mind for that.”

Bloody hell. Simon’s first instinct is to retreat. Flirting wasn’t wholly a new thing between them. They’d lost comms privileges on more than a few missions with Price - Gaz never had the power to pull the plug though he always made his grievances known - but it was all coy, innocent, dangling off the edge of friendly banter. None of it was ever so brazen, so laid out in the open. But here was Soap, taking the first step, leaving a small part of himself bare, waiting to see what Simon would do with it.

“You didn’t have to,” Simon says, holding up the box.

“I wanted to.” It sounds so simple coming from those lips.

Simon’s jacket joins Soap’s, and he holds the box in both hands. What he mistook for black is actually a deep, rich mahogany polished by an expert hand. The box easily lays in his palms, and he’s acutely aware of Soap watching him as he lifts the lid. Simon’s breath catches.

The inside is lined by a black silk, and nestled in the middle lies the most beautiful knife he has ever seen. He can tell that the blade is of the best steel, a straight spine across the top meets a point sharp enough to tear through his toughest gloves. He runs his thumb along the edge to the heel and revels at the ease with which it knicks his skin.

Where the blade is all wicked grace, the handle is a work of art. Stunning black onyx catches the light as Simon delicately lifts it from the box. At first glance, it’s smooth, but when he rubs the stone with his thumb, he catches other carvings. He moves to the bedside table, and when he holds it under the lamplight, Simon nearly drops the knife.

Sapphire blue and rich hazel streak through the black stone, tangling together perfectly. Simon turns the handle. On one side is a blue bar of soap. It matches a doodle Simon has seen on scraps of paper left in briefing rooms and napkins in the mess and on the corners of his reports when a certain sergeant comes to visit. He flips it, and on the other side is a hazel ghost. Another doodle Simon has spied on the pages of a journal kept close to that same sergeant’s heart.

“Do ye like it?” Soap shifts on his feet. He’s rubbing the back of his neck again, and Simon fights back a laugh.

The absurdity of it all, that Soap could be nervous right now.

No. Not Soap. Not anymore.

Johnny. His Johnny. He’s always been his, from the tarmac to now as Simon stares, gobsmacked, at this immortalization of them in stone. At this declaration of every intention and feeling and dream Simon’s been too afraid of. Johnny’s blue streaking through the darkness, dancing perfectly with Simon’s hazel. Ghost and Soap always side by side. He decides right then that he’s done tucking the feelings away in that gilded chest. He’s done with moments that live only in his fantasies. He’s done pretending he’s ok with it being just Ghost and Soap forever and that he hasn’t craved Simon and Johnny.

So yes, it is absolutely absurd that Johnny could be nervous right now.

“Heather’s da used tae be in tha service ‘nd makes these custom now. I ken you’re picky about the blades. Think I drove ‘er up the wall goin’ back ‘nd forth makin’ sure it was the best -” Johnny is rambling, and he’s looking everywhere except at Simon. If he was, he would have seen Simon reverently place the knife back in the box. He would’ve seen Simon rip the medical mask off of his face, and he would’ve seen Simon eat the space between them in two strides. If he was, he would’ve been ready when Simon cupped his face, and crashed their lips together.

Simon has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how to do soft and gentle. He doesn’t know how to exist in a space where there’s acknowledged interest that’s so much heavier than a tumble in a bed. He doesn’t know how Johnny MacTavish, full of joy and thunder and blazing glory, found his way into Simon’s endless darkness. But Johnny kisses him back and grips his jumper, and Simon’s heart is no longer his own.

“Hi,” Johnny says once they catch their breath, and Simon can feel the smile against his lips.

“Johnny,” Simon mumbles, and it sounds like a prayer. He pulls Johnny closer and feels the strong muscles of his arms circle around Simon’s waist. He cradles Johnny’s face, thumb softly rubbing against the stubble on his cheek, and he leans in again. This, Simon thinks, is his own personal version of heaven.

They’re pressed together now, chest to chest, and Simon is certain he’d be fine dying right here.

“How long?” Johnny asks, and he leans into the palm of Simon’s hand.

“Fishin’ for compliments, Sergeant? B’neath you.” There’s a swift slap on his shoulder. Simon nuzzles into the crook of Johnny’s neck to hide his smile.

“Awa’ an bile yer heid.” There’s no bite in the words. “How long?”

“Las Almas,” Simon admits against his skin. “The way you looked at the rig when the missile ‘it. I couldn’t look away from you. Still haven’t been able to.” He pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together. “And when I saw Graves bullet ‘it…well, not even Price would’ve been able to keep me from huntin’ him down.”

“Hells bells, Simon. That was over a year ago!”

Simon ignores the outburst and kisses a rough, uneven scar barely hidden within the sergeant’s hairline. Johnny’s newest, only a couple weeks old “But then Makarov -” It takes a moment to fight past the lump in his throat. The arms around his waist tighten.

“In the hospital, I promised meself - “ Johnny turns his face into Simon’s neck, “that if I made it out, if I got one more shot, I was done runnin’ from ye.” He pulls back, freeing one hand and brings it up to cup Simon’s cheek. “While I lay in that bloody bed, all I could think was, ‘Ye didn’t get tae tell him. Ye didn’t get tae tell him, and now he’ll never know.’ So let me tell ye now.” Johnny cups beneath Simon’s jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “I love ye, Simon Riley. In this life and the next, I will always love ye. God help any sorry soul that ever tries to take ye from me, because I will burn this world tae tha ground until I find ye. I don’t know how long this life is willin’ to give us, but I’ll take whatever it’s generous with as long as it’s with ye.”

And well, Simon isn’t quite sure what to do with that.

There’s a jumble of emotions rattling around in his heart threatening to spill into his gut if he thinks too hard about it. He’s aware that Johnny is staring at him, adoration and patience swimming in stormy blue, and his hand is softly carding through the curls at Simon’s nape. He remembers Johnny back on that tarmac - nearly two years ago now - brash and cocky and willing, and wonders what would have happened if he’d known how his fate was written, how his own heart was on the line. If he had known on that first mission what that annoying sergeant would come to mean to him, what would he have done? Would he have kept Johnny at arm’s length, protecting him from the jagged mess that is Simon’s darkness? Standing there, basking in the glow that is his Johnny, he doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think he could have.

Simon threads a hand in the back of Johnny’s mohawk - it’s beginning to flirt with deregulation - and snakes the other around his waist. “Take the good moments,” he mutters in the space between them.

“Aye,” Soap says, smile bright in the lowlight. “Take the good moments.”

So, they spend the evening trading lazy kisses and honeyed words. At some point, boots are forgotten and jumpers join a pile in the corner. They tumble into bed, legs tangled, and even as sleep takes them, not an inch of space is allowed. Johnny’s breaths fan across Simon’s chest, deep, content. Sleep is pulling at Simon’s lashes, but he fights it a little longer. In his last moment of consciousness, he grazes a finger along Johnny’s hairline, catching on the rough scar, and he thinks the memoir needs a title change:

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life.

And in the morning, there’s a folder waiting on Price’s desk. He sips his coffee, picks it up, and smiles at the familiar weight. When he flips it open, there’s simply a location: Glasgow.

“Merry Christmas, Simon,” Price says and watches a jeep pull out of the base.

Johnny is singing Mariah at the top of his lungs, and Simon doesn’t remember the last time he was this content. The mask is forgotten on the desk in his room, and a new knife is tucked by his side. They turn onto the highway, Glasgow waiting, and Soap lays his hand out between them.

Simon can feel it, the wispy end of a filament stretching between them. The past collisions and the future moments. He can see it, that future laying on the other side. That future full of lazy kisses and even lazier mornings. Of days together, never questioning if the other walks through the door. Of Christmases in Scotland and maybe a cabin one day, too. For now, they have to make due with stitches in safehouses and easy touches in helis. Stolen kisses in private rooms and hidden words between the commands.

For now, he reaches over and takes Johnny’s hand.

#my first ever exchange!!!!#this was so fun ahhh!#ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty #2024 ghoap holiday exchange #tay writes

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