#these are at odds with each other but only this quarter matters

[severalowls]

Teach a man to fish and you lose a lifetime of profit selling him fish.

[moondirti]

simon sees a familiar face. (AO3 mirror) tags: darkfic. ghost x nude model! reader. (given a stage name but no discerning characteristics.) violent intrusive thoughts. objectification. rough sex. marking. dacryphilia. possessiveness. dubcon photo sharing.

It's the slip of her skin in his periphery. Moisturised, gold shimmer body glaze. Tucked up against the bar and nursing a negroni in both hands, her dress riding high up on her thigh. Sticks out like a sore thumb in a pub like this, where seedy men come to drink their woes away. Just a little too clean, prim and perfect polish. Pretty enough to make his teeth hurt.

He has to do a double take before he can be sure. Where he would know her calves, those hands and varnished nails, anywhere, he can hardly believe it until she turns a quarter angle and her face comes into full view. Lips he's seen perked up and glossed into erotic O's. Eyes so often half-cast and sultry, lined in kohl, that it's odd to see them wide like this; looking around, searching for something.

Yeah. Simon knows her. Knows her like the grip of a gun, the rip release of a hand grenade, the flat lining of barrack cot mattresses. Knows her so well that his cock chubs up in an almost pavlovian response, fat and heavy and leaking already, like a bloody sixth former seeing a pair of tits for the first time. In all honesty, this might just be the equivalent for a man like himself. Aching jowls, frothy lips. Ageing, dirty beast – thrown the most delectable fucking bone.

Because it's her. Cut straight from the centrefold of his favourite magazine and pasted a mere four feet away. Just as alluring, as provocative as she is in the poster he'd gifted Johnny on a deployment birthday. The object gracing every page not adhered together with dry cum. The one thing that gets him – and frankly, every other mutt on the task force – through long missions.

He throws back the last of his bourbon and slips his mask back over his chin. The haunt is emptier than usual. He assumes the big guy by the doorway is responsible, no doubt hired to follow her around and scare the creeps away. Simon must count as one – if his intentions, latched like filthy claws in his stomach, are anything to go by – but he's also bigger. Bolder. Probably has tattoos that outlast her bodyguard's experience in the field. So he takes his chances as he stretches up and prowls up to where she's sitting.

"Selene Harlow." It's a stage name, of that he's certain. But he has nothing else to call her by, not having fallen short of searching for her true identity. She's good at keeping herself safe from perverts like him. A good fucking girl, if not a little minx.

"Only on the clock." She smiles softly, dipping the orange peel in and out of her drink. It looks untouched, glass sweating onto the bar top. He thinks of holding her head back by her hair and knocking the concoction down her throat. "You don't look like my date."

Simon makes a sound. "No' your usual type, then?"

"I didn't say that." Her dress is low cut, bandage tight. When she breathes in, he devours the way her chest heaves out of the material. Begging to pop free, or else be ripped open right here. He can't imagine she would be opposed to being stripped in public. Not with her breasts plastered on a million different publications, issues displayed in the illicit material case behind every gas station counter.

"Well, he must be soft in th'head."

She shrugs. "Don't sound so surprised." Simon wonders, if he were to press his thumbs down onto each collarbone, how much pressure it would take to snap them in place. He's always liked the delicate arch of her shoulders, the swan-like column of her neck. With how he fixated he is on them now, he can hardly place the dejection in her voice. "Not a lot of people wanna go out with a girl who does what I do. It was only a matter of time before he found out."

"Can' be too pissed at him, a'suppose."

"Hm?"

"His loss is my gain."

"Aha." A flash of teeth. She turns on the bar stool to fully face him, and her knees knock his. Soft fucking legs, plush like a chew toy and he knows– he knows what they look like completely nude and spread open. But nothing could've quite prepared him for how different it is to see them in real life. To see her – real, fleshly, blood full – and not be able to take. Have to hold himself back despite the way he's pumped himself raw to her arse almost a hundred times now. He lost the plot some time ago. His mind must think of her as his. "Is that what this is?"

And what is this? Simon doesn't have a name for it. All he knows is the way his head itches, the tantalisation crawling in his skin. The sheer self-restraint it takes not to pocket her home and chain her to his bed. He wants to dig his teeth into her cheek.

Instead–

"Could be."

"I think that's up to me." She crinkles in a wily little smile and he chuckles because it's funny. Funny because she takes him to be a good man. But with the way her bodyguard is eyeing him from across the room (fucking muppet), he knows that's not the quality he's projecting. There's the urge to crack a sick joke, something about clipping a bird's wings, just to see her pick up on the rot he carries with him. "You military?"

"Tha' obvious?"

"Hm, no. Wild guess." She straightens her back and the vague gesture she makes with her wrist is enough to drive him up a wall. It sets a timer, ticking time bomb, in his brain that'll detonate if he doesn't get his nasty old hands on her waist. Thirty seconds on the clock. He can never be patient when it comes to sweet things. "Your... stature. And I tend to be popular with servicemen, anyway. What's your name?"

"And why do you wan' to know my name, bird?"

She flutters her lashes, pointedly looking down to where he's bulging in his jeans. Bird is right. She shines like one with pretty feathers, begs to be plucked, because why else would mother nature create things like her if not to appease men like him?

"Figure you'd want me to moan it later."

And it's like watching one fly into a cage on its own accord. His blood boils hot and thin, flooding his head until his eyes strain with something ferocious. "Why wait." Simon says. He can't wrap an arm around her waist fast enough, scooping her from her seat and wrapping her tight against his side. Tight enough that, if she changed her mind, she wouldn't be able to flap her way out of it. "Name's Simon, and there's a bathroom 'round back."

It's nasty. Depraved. Graffiti lines all four walls and it's no coincidence that the one he pins her up against looks the filthiest. Something in him craves to see her degraded (the same part that marked a picture of her in black ink, chicken-scratch body writing proclaiming her as his), brought down to the same peg that he occupies. Beasts with too much baggage stored in their marrow. Humans, men, with moral compasses that skew a tad too far left. Animals. Animalistic.

"I don– Don't usually do this..." She breathes, excuse stuttered through little whimpers as he mouths at her jaw. Maybe she's afraid of living up to her name, or whatever image Selene Harlow projects. Not a prostitute, he can almost hear her say. Tastes the fear of misconception, sour on otherwise tart skin. He hums and tugs her breasts free with one, scarred paw.

"Doesn' really matter, bird. Were fuckin' made for it." He squeezes the two mounds, pinches knotted nipples and rolls them between his fingers until she cries. Her voice breaks in little bubbled sobs – starts crying so fast that, christ, it must be some sort of record – and he aches in his trousers. Ready to burst if he doesn't bully his cock into a hole soon, just like she's been ready to be unravelled all night. "Made to be mine, yeah? Bloody 'ell, jus' look at you."

Frayed little tapestry. If he weren't so mad with lust, he'd obsess what drove her to this point. What brought her to some shitty pub in Manchester to meet a good for nothing lemon. Why she mewls and completely melts into him when he slaps her tits, just to see the way they jiggle. He's an ugly bastard, definitely punching just by breathing the same air as her, and yet she's so perfectly willing. Flaying herself open, skinned alive. Gasping selfish gulps of air when he finally pulls off his mask to sink his canines into her shoulder.

He's so used to seeing her posed, perfectly still. To have her like this, a trapped worm underneath him, feels like concentrated lightning on every artery. Overstimulating. Paralysing. He never thought he'd see the day where she exposes herself in motion: folding her dress up over her wide hips, slipping soaked panties down to her ankles.

(In fact, he vividly remembers brooding over an interview her magazine had added to the corner of a cover page, once. Selene Harlow tells all! Answers inquiries on video pornography and more!

I don't think I'm the right person for that sort of scene. Not much of an actress, I'm afraid.)

Not that her feigning was ever a concern. Simon knows the giddy gossamer over her eyes can't be artificially replicated. She's too clumsy, too amateur in the way she readies herself for him. Used to doing all this prep in a frilly dressing room with apathetic staff members directing her. Sways a bit on her heels and holds onto his thick forearms as she widens her stance. He stands until she's steady, then drops to his knees in search of the star of this show.

And the sight is as much a bludgeon to his self control as seeing her for the first time was, trigger for the feral mongrel that barks and chomps on his ribcage. Her cunt is just as perfect up close in this grimy bathroom as it is well lit, professionally oiled, and printed on coated paper. A little fuzzy, swollen enough that it flowers open for him on its own. Shyly inviting him to dig his nose right under her clit and inhale, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the scent of her, undiluted. Salivate blooms around his teeth.

When he flattens his tongue against it, she tries to find purchase in the roots of his shorn hair. Nails scrambling along the buzzcut until she forfeits and clamps her hand behind his ears, head thrown back to knock against the wall. If he were a nice man, he would spend hours buried between her legs. Sated by licking her slick from its source, like a kitten given a bowl of cream. Would make her cum until she forgets how to keep quiet, until she screams his name loud enough for the world knows their muse is off the market now.

But if he were a nice man, he wouldn't be defiling her here. He would've taken her out to the Greek place that never seems to have room for him alone, and then back to her apartment, where he'd drop her off with a chaste kiss and a promise to call her tomorrow.

So Simon combs through her lips once, twice, three times. Coats her in enough spit to be able to shove two fingers with little fuss, and scissors them apart. The little thing stretches to accommodate his ministrations immediately, clutch swallowing him up to the second knuckle and sucking around him when he spreads her hole for his leering eye. It's cute – so fucking cute how she clenches and keens and cries. Neck arched up above him. Apple of eden, blank canvas. His fingers leave her cunt as he rises to bite into it.

(Truthfully, she could've done with more prep. She wasn't lying when she said she doesn't do this often, whatever this is. But the way silver pebbles brim on her lash-line makes his chest twist, the dog rearing on its haunches, ready to pounce – and he thinks he'd like to see her babble in pain as he splits her open on his cock.)

"Gonna take you home after this, y'hear? Fuck you well 'n' good, all proper like. Fold ya over a mattress and print my cock on your guts, birdie. Never let you forget it. "

"S-Si! Simon, please. I n-need..."

Ichor beads in the shape of his teeth, streaking oxygenated red down her throat. He makes a mess of it, smearing it across the marred patch of skin, and brings the fluid up to her face to rub it into her cheek. The type of marking he'd reserve for his third or fourth going with someone – if anyone ever lasts that long – but is absolutely necessary right now. Here, with her. Technically their hundredth something time together, if he were deranged enough to count the various times he'd spent himself over her spreads.

But nothing can supersede the truth of the matter. He streaks blood along her face and licks it off in a show of merciless possession. Pretty things like her get plucked off streets and ruined everyday, despite her cynicism on her value, and he can point to at least three other men by name who would slaughter to be in his place. Best to stake his claim now, clamp a collar on the exotic fowl he pulled down from the sky.

"Need wha', hm?" His tongue laps at her cheek, laving over the contour of her nose and swiping right under her eye to catch the tears that freely fall. She winces when he gets too close, hands faltering along his waistband.

"Your... d-dick. Please, please. Just wanna be fucked, Simon."

He plants a rough kiss onto her mouth, all teeth and tongue, and finally ladles himself free of his jeans.

Just wanna be fucked.

Daft, silly girl.

She should've chosen anyone else.

It takes a bit of pressure to feed himself into her cunt, pinning either leg to the sides of his hips as he guides his cock toward the opening. If she was putty before, she's positively liquid now, boneless rag doll slumped onto him. Dead weight. Letting him take control of this fight. Content to do nothing, slack-jawed and empty eyed as her hot walls come to embrace him completely. Her breath halts, the air recalibrating to just the sound of his ragged grunts, and he considers it an invitation to wrap a fist around her neck.

"I'll do more than jus' fuck you, pretty thing. Won' ever let you out of my sight."

And he means it.

It's impossible to withdraw completely from her – vacuum sealed too tight, too good, around him. So he fucks in short thrusts instead, snapping his pelvis back, only to shove forward once her legs begin to flail about. It's brutal even by his standards, rough in a way that supplants pleasure with pain. A small pity surfaces when her lip trembles, discomfort wringing her darling face up like a dish towel. Wet and pathetic, but he sneaks his free hand down to knead at her swollen clit anyway.

Like oil, it slips and hardens, tense enough that he knows she won't last long if he keeps it up.

Simon feels his own release encroaching. Unfurling at the base of his spine to form something cruel and primal. His vision tunnels to fixate on her – not the filthy bathroom or the lewd squelch of her pussy taking him in. Not the banging on the door by a customer desperately needing to piss, or otherwise, her bodyguard concerned at the choked screams carved from her lungs. Just her. Little bird.

The howling in his head doesn't stop, but it sure as hell quiets down when she soaks the coarse hairs at the base of his cock. Squirts, off-white fluid gushing from her and trickling onto the tiled floor. His movements grow stilted, off-rhythm, at the sight. His want grows claws and scales, grows wants that have wants. Beastly. He sees red.

"N-noghonbirfcontraahl." She gasps, suffocated still by the fingers pressing crescent-shaped scars beneath her jaw.

"Don' give a shit." He growls, then cums.

(Really, he doesn't. To see her swell up with his child is just one more added temptation, carrot on a stick. He bucks like a rabid animal and bookmarks that thought away for later.)

His seed doesn't stay put when he pumps her full of it. It gathers and drips out of her, undeterred by the barrage of his softening cock. When he pulls out, it draws milky treks down her legs. There's the instinct to shovel it back into her, tape her lips shut until the spend takes; but as he pockets her panties and helps her readjust her dress (after polishing himself clean on the expensive fabric), he finds he quite likes the thought of parading her around like this.

"C'mon," He nips her earlobe. "let's walk you home."

Simon does end up making good on his promise. They hardly get any sleep that night, sweating on every available surface her flat affords. By the end of it, she's so tuckered out that he has to lift her to bed. Hardly cognisant as he strips to his boxers and sidles up right next to her.

What doesn't escape her notice, however, is when he pulls his phone out to snap a picture of her like this. Fucked to oblivion, puffy pussy oozing about three loads worth of cum.

"W-what are you–" Stuttered. Panicked, like a pet that has at last realised it's been caged.

"Shhhh, birdie. You're my model, ain't you? Let me show you off, yeah? Won' let it get into the wrong hands."

"Promise?" She whimpers, tucking into his broad chest. She isn't in the condition to give her proper assent, but he takes it anyway, kissing both eyes and carding his fingers across her scalp.

"Promise." He mutters, then sends the portrait off. "Jus' to men like me."

Sgt. Garrick: ?! Is that Capt. Price: Christ, Simon. Someone ought to muzzle you. Johnny: I don't believe you. Johnny: Pick up my calls. Johnny: SIMON.

[ceilidho]

'still wakes the deep' au

prompt: You're an environmental scientist conducting research on an off-shore oil rig with only a few days left before you're slated to leave. The eldritch creature they accidentally awaken throws a wrench in the works. First Meeting masterlist

-

Choppy waters like Neptune’s eye meet your gaze when you look back at where you came from, the land on the other side but a beige striation on the horizon. 

“Afraid of heights, doctor?” your escort asks, his amusement borderline distasteful. It must stroke their ego to watch newcomers come aboard and flounder, gawking at the swells and waves crashing against the oil rig, each wave so cataclysmic that it’s a wonder the structure stays upright. A wonder of engineering, that is. 

The rig manager stands closer to the railing, staring without fear out into the ocean surrounding you. His sea legs are likelier studier than the ones that wash up ashore every fourteen days when he’s due for his OSHA mandated break. His knees don’t even buckle at the sight of the barnacles clinging nerve-wrackingly high up on the rig legs. Far too high up for comfort. 

“No, sir,” you reply, shaking your head. “Just water.”

He barks a laugh at that. “Plenny o’ that around here. Wouldn’y go leaning my head over the rail then, if I was you.”

You take another look down, balking at the frothy white streaking the latticework barrier around the jacket legs. No worries there; there isn’t a chance in hell you’ll be going anywhere near the rails. You’re too high up to know for sure, but you wonder if there are sharks plumbing the depths beneath the rig, excited by the noise and activity on board. 

You’d be shark chum if you went overboard. Beyond that, you’d be fish food; no sympathy from the sea to be found this far from land. 

“Where should I set up?” you ask instead. 

Sensing your eagerness to get started—and to get away from the edge of the rig—he gestures for you to follow him and sets off towards the door closest to you, leading you into the interior of the rig. “This way, doc—got a room already set up for ye. Cozier in there than out here.”

The first few days aren’t so bad after that. You spend the first day getting unpacked, your suitcase already waiting for you in your quarters, which doubles as your office, and then turn in early after prepping for the next day. 

As anticipated, you spend the next day hunched over the toilet bowl, stomach roiling from spending too long staring at the turbulent waters below. You’ve done this before but it never gets any easier. Despite your chosen field of research, you’re suited for dry land, not the sea. It’s the price you have to pay though. 

No coffee that first morning. Just tea to help settle your stomach. And it does for a bit—lets you get through your first day worth of tests without you upchucking while collecting water samples from the discharge point. You’ll save your indoor work for the days when the crests of the waves are high enough to spray the working deck. By dinner, your stomach is a little more settled, but still you elect to eat in your quarters instead of with the workers in the mess. 

You haven’t been on the rig long enough to have made any enemies, nor do you think that’s something that’ll happen during your brief time on board, but you definitely haven’t made any friends. It comes with the territory. The men that work on these rigs out in the middle of the ocean—even the ones on land, for that matter—tend to view your kind with distrust at the very least, if not outright hostility. 

It’s hard to blame them. The purpose of your visit isn’t to shower them with praises. You’re stationed on the rig for the next few days to collect data and samples to assess the environmental impact of the rig’s operations. It puts you somewhat at odds with them, the outcome of your work being potentially to the detriment of theirs. 

Some whisper the word like blasphemy. Government worker. They say it like you’re the Baba Yaga or a witch living in a cottage at the edge of the village, like uttering the word too loudly will summon you. There’s too much work to do around the rig for them to cluck their tongues like gossipy hens, but the men find time for it anyway. You’d roll your eyes if you were any greener. 

The truth is though, you’re used to it, and at this point in your career, you don’t have it in you to act like it’s such a shock that they wouldn’t give you the red carpet treatment. All you need is a hot cup of coffee, an office (or even just a desk) to write your reports, and some space to conduct your research without being badgered with questions.

Most of the men tend to blur together, a medley of fluorescent yellow hard hats and navy coveralls, respirators strung around their necks and goggles covering their eyes. It’s easy enough to mistake them for one another. 

Only one of them has managed to catch your eye so far, though you can’t say it’s for a particularly good reason. Of the lot of them, he’s the loudest. Which is saying something, considering that the crew tend to speak in shouts and hollers to make up for the crashing waves beneath them and the howling winds above them. He’s also among the tallest, broad shouldered and muscled—a former first responder or military, if you had to guess, though you keep your assumptions to yourself. 

You know better than to ask questions around him because you’ve learned in the short time that you’ve spent on the rig not to give him—Soap, they call him, or MacTavish when the rig manager is particularly pissed off—even an inch. 

It’s another crew member that gives you that heads up. “Din’y pay him any mind.”

“Who?” you ask, looking up from your work.

The crew member nods to the man posted on the other side of the main deck. “Soap. Bit of a showboat, that one. Always stirrin’ up the boys, gettin’ ‘em all riled up. Din’y let him distract ye too much.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You look back down at the data sheets in front of you. “I’m not worried though. He hasn’t been too much trouble.”

Famous last words. 

He isn’t too much trouble until he suddenly is; until he’s suddenly everywhere, always in your way somehow. Not so much underfoot as just always around the corner waiting with his stupid smug smirk that you’ve grown to despise and half-lidded electric blue eyes roving up and down the length of you. Aggravating you at every turn. 

Your first meeting is an accident. At least, it seems that way, and likely is—he seems too blunt for coincidences or chance meetings, happy to tell you to your face that he manipulated the situation in order to get you on your own. 

You’re wandering down one of the many circulatory hallways and slightly lost when a door suddenly opens, blocking your way. A jumpsuit-clad man twice your size walks out, his hair just brushing the top of the doorframe. Though you recognize him instantly, you’d never gotten close enough for the details to cement in your mental image of him. Up close, you get a better look.

The faint lines around his eyes and mouth betray either his age or the life he’s lived. Weathered; bronzed from days at a time spent under the sun. You’d noticed the mohawk earlier, but staring at the side of his head now, you can see the faint puckering of a healed wound splintering out from his temple into his hairline. Though the sides of his head are freshly shorn, the scar looks old—maybe a year, maybe more. 

When he notices that he’s not alone in the hall, his head turns in your direction and he stops, one foot still in the other room. Two thick brows go up at the sight of you standing there with your tablet clutched to your chest. 

“Hullo gorgeous,” Soap purrs, pupils suddenly pinpricks and your stomach drops. 

Because of course he would. You’d long figured he might be an arrogant piece of work from what little you’ve observed of him from across the rig, but you should’ve known he’d also be a flirt. He’s too good-looking not to be one. Tall and broad, with biceps the size of your head. You’re sure he rolls his shirt sleeves up just to feel them strain against the muscles of his arms. You certainly can’t help the way your eyes are drawn there. 

“Ah ken who ye are,” he says, taking a step towards you until the tips of his boots nearly touch yours. The door is still wide open behind him, swinging slowly towards the wall behind it. Soap towers over you easily, tipping his head to stare down at you. Your lips press into a tight line when his eyes drop to your chest, staring at the outline of your tits through your cardigan. 

“Okay,” you say through stiff lips.

“Yer that lass from the government. Ah thought ye'd be auld,” he jokes, shit-eating grin on his face. 

You nearly groan. It’s too early for this shit and you’re too tired from being up all night working on your report on the rig’s discharge water quality. 

“Well, I’m not,” you reply woodenly instead, altogether unimpressed with him. 

For as fit as he is, you’re not here to flirt or hookup, and you’re good at separating work and your personal life. If anyone manages to get under your skin enough to tempt you, it won’t be the man undressing you with his eyes while covered in a thin layer of grime and sweat. 

“Nae, yer no’,” he agrees, voice a low burr. His eyes flick up to meet yours. “I’m John, by the way.”

“I know.”

“…It’s polite tae give yer name when someone introduces thersel's tae ye.”

“I’d rather you just call me doctor.”

“Doctor, eh?” Soap purrs, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “Dae ye dae house calls, doc? Hae been feelin’ a wee bit feverish lately.”

You can’t help the way your cheeks heat at his comment. “Not that kind of doctor. Do you mind getting out of the way?”

“Jesus, I din’y ken ye’d be so fuckin’ prickly. Thought ye government workers were cheery a' the time.”

“Not when we have work to do,” you bite out, decidedly uncomfortable with his shameless perusal and eager just to get on with your day. “Can you move please? I have somewhere to be.”

All that does is force him to take another step closer, toe-to-toe with you now. You should’ve known he’d take that as an invitation. He reeks of grease and brine, the smell pungent and clinging to his skin and clothes. Almost like he sleeps and works in the same pair of coveralls instead of bringing his dirty clothes down to the laundry facility like everyone else at the end of the week. 

You tell yourself to stop staring at where his coveralls open to a sweat-slicked chest, dark hair poking up over the neckline, but your eyes don’t comply. A small cross dangles from a chain around his neck, nestled in the hair just above his pecs. 

“Good Catholic lass, are ye?” Soap asks, noticing the focal point of your gaze.

You scrunch up your nose at that. “No. I didn’t—it’s none of your business anyway.”

The stutter is where his eyes light up, a little gleam in the blue that lets you know you’ve caught his interest. Like seeing a storm well off in the distance and bracing for it anyway, knowing that you’re in its path no matter what you do. 

“A’right, doc, Ah'll leave ye tae it. Gotta get back myself anyway,” he says, rolling his shoulders back and standing up taller, and it’s only in that moment that you realize how low his neck had been bent in order to get closer to you. “Wait. I can’y let ye go lookin’ like that.”

You’re about to ask him what he means when he suddenly grabs you by the front of your cardigan and pulls you towards him, getting the grease on his hands all over the fabric. Your eyes nearly bug out of your skull as he pops the topmost button into its corresponding hole, the only one you’d left purposefully loose. 

The only reason you don’t snap at him to take his hands off you is because your tongue is a knot in your throat. 

“There we go,” Soap coos when the button is in, looking down at his handiwork all over the front of your shirt. “Lookin’ like part o’ the crew already.”

Your heart pounds in your chest long after he lets you go. When he steps to the side, the door flush with the wall by now, you dart around him, walking away as fast as your legs can carry you without sprinting. You ignore the way he belts out a laugh at your swift departure. Ignore the way your stomach cramps at the sound as well. 

He might end up being more trouble than you thought.

[harleehazbinfics]

OMGOMGOMGOMG HOW WOULD CHIEF CANNIBAL READER X ALASTOR REACT TO CHARLIE DAD COMING TO THE HOTEL

Love Rival??

A/N: POLLING IT RN, ARE WE MAKING THEM THE OFFICIAL RIVALS??? AND ALSO DO WE DESERVE A KISS? CUZ THIS CHAPTER IS THE CLOSEST WE WILL EVER GET TO INTIMACY

Cannibal chef! reader m.list | Author profile

The day finally came when Lucifer, Charlie's dad, would come to the hotel. So, out of consideration for your friend, you hosted a dinner party to leave a good impression on Hell's King himself.

So, you busied yourself in the kitchen for the past hour trying to whip up as much and as fast as you could, given the limited time you had been offered.

Everyone was gathered as they would on any regular day since you had started preparing breakfast. However, today they brought a little bit of... class~. They wore their best outfits seeing how special this event started to be and wore suits and dresses to dinner.

After everyone was present and settled themselves down. You appear before them donned in your chef's uniform, an apron wrapped around your waist stained with sauces and your hair curled, tied into a bun inside a hairnet. You introduce each dish that was placed down in front of them by Alastor's shadow puppets.

"Ooh! This pasta are incredible! Compliments to the chef!" Lucifer exclaims lifting his head and grinning at you.

"Oh, thank you!" you replied while gave him a polite smile and nodded your head.

While you we were wiping Niffty's face that was covered in the ragu with a napkin. Lucifer turns to Charlie and says, "Say, do you always eat together like this? I wouldn't mind staying here if that were the case."

While he was laughing at his own jest. Alastor, who sat opposite of him, glared at him not even being subtle about it. "It's a shame that his majesty has so many important matters to deal with. He hasn't even come to see how his daughter was in a while and finds his only reason to stay is through my companion's cooking," Alastor jabs at him while delicately cutting the meat on his plate that you especially made for him.

Lucifer splutters nervously as he aggressively denies the deer's claims. Lucifer watches as you approach Alastor's side and pour him his drink, seeing your heart shaped manic eyes ogling him while Alastor exuded a softer aura around him.

"Hohoho," Lucifer laughs in revelation before raising his own glass, "Uh, chef dear? Could you also pour me a drink?"

You raise eyes towards him, eyes turning normal before giving him another smile before coming over to his side. Lucifer gives Alastor a smug grin as you poured him the wine and sees how Alastor narrows his eyes at the blonde, as if asking him what the hell he was doing.

"So, you uh.. you made all of this by yourself?" Lucifer trying to start a conversation with you and keep your eyes off Alastor.

"Why, yes! Given I only had an hour to prepare, this is the least I could do," you reply with a small smile.

You didn't find it odd that much that this very important person was talking to you so candidly. You didn't really mind that much given how well he complimented your cooking so, all of his antics flew passed you head as he continued conversing with you.

By the time Lucifer decided to go home, you all gathered at the door to send him off. After he gives Charlie one last hug, he steps closer to you. All of you were confused at his actions especially what happens next.

"I'm sorry for my sudden intrusion then. I'd love to try you cooking some other time," he says with a flirtatious smile after he kisses the back of your hand.

Your eyes widen open as Alastor's ears peel back while giving the blonde a snarl. After he disappears, Alastor wipes the back of you hand on his coat and takes you to his quarters to get rid of the outrageous' sent off of you.

While in the bath as he scrubbed you down without batting an eye at your naked form. He takes the stained hand of yours and bites down on it with his sharp fangs deeply causing it to bleed.

"You belong to me. Got it?"

🔗TAGLIST:

@bonnie-02, @marxo5, @whaatttlaufey, @froggybich, @rybunnie, @midorichoco, @lucifers-silhouette, @kimmis-stuff

[elfarons]

You're My Religion

cw: nsfw mentions but nothing explicit, religious themes, power dynamic, (tell me if i missed any O_O)

priest!Ren who has devoted his entire life to the town's temple since birth, committed to preaching the holy gospel

he noticed how his faith started wavering, jaded after being in this lifestyle for so long, missing something...

passion.

when was the last time they felt strongly about.. anything?

this will surely past, he tells himself as he pushes through, seeing the churchgoers smile after their prayers make them feel closer to heaven, but he's never felt farther.

ren prepares for what could potentially be his last sermon, telling everyone to bow their heads in silent prayer.

he will determine whether or not he'll give up this lifestyle after this last day-

when you walk in for the first time.

as soon as you see each other, it feels like time stopped. it feels like heaven's gates opening, it feels like their heart beats for the first time in years.

it was like you were the only two people on earth as you held each others gaze.

he couldn't believe god had sent down an angel.

you smiled and broke the stare, sitting down a couple rows behind the next person.

the priest of the town's church, who is used to having eyes on him, feels hyperaware of your stare. after he finished preaching, ren beelines straight towards you, introducing themself and inviting you to one-on-one appointments to acquaint yourself with the religion.

you came to the first meeting. then the next, and the next, eventually becoming a near daily routine. after a couple weeks, the appointments started to feel more like hanging out with a best friend, conversations evolving from church topics to the more personal details.

your life recently fell apart out of nowhere. you lost your job, you're backed up on bills, then your friends have all left you. he would never leave you. every time, ren would reassure you this is a test of faith and comfort you with warm hugs that smelled of clean linen and myrrh.

his hugs always made your heartbeat faster. you hoped he never noticed.

he proposed you move into the church as a temporary solution. of course, you accepted. what choice did u have?

although he insisted it was fine, you wanted to pay him back somehow, so you started helping out around the temple.

ren was absolutely ecstatic. everyday you would see each other, if only for just a quick smile from across the room. you'd have to leave soon after, but ren would pinch his wrist and hold his pendant, cursing himself for wanting you so bad.

you were eager to help out everyday. the holy water was running out? you would assist ren in making holy water. the garden looked a little too sad? you'd tend to the plants, maybe surprise ren with a lotus from a nearby pond. the living quarters needed cleaning? ren told you to clean his room last because the others must be tired and he'd stay up late anyways.

you noticed ren had little to no decorations around his room. that's odd, considering he's lived here basically his entire life, but you didn't push the matter.

as the holidays neared the church was busy with preparations, with ren being the busiest. god he missed you. the way you'd always smile at him, show genuine interest in what he had to say, look longingly at his lips...

after entering his room, he laid down, exhausted. his bedsheets smelled so nicely of you. how did they smell of you so perfectly? whatever he's not complaining. mind wandering, he barely registered his hand trailing down into his pants, thinking about their perfect angel.

he could almost imagine that you stayed behind and you were the one touching him. or maybe he would tell you to sit back and let him worship you instead, letting his lips and hands perform a prayer so full of devotion even god would be jealous.

in the following days, they couldn't even bother to feel ashamed, even when it looked like the statues on the walls stared into his soul. their only regret was that they couldn't work up the courage to confess everything they felt to you... until tonight.

when you both finally had a chance to talk it felt like home again. you both talked well into the night about anything and everything. from how you wanted to restore the garden, to how stressed ren was about all this pressure on him and how he just needed someone, anyone.

he's done so much for you, you can practically feel your heart shatter when tears start streaming down his cheeks. he doesn't deserve this.

he shakes when you hug him, not just because he's genuinely about to break down in his angel's arms, but he's also so terribly happy.

he's got you now.

...

...

but you were never completely innocent were you?

you knew what you were doing the first day you walked in. the rumors said the priest was good-looking, so naturally you styled yourself to perfection.

the rumors weren't even close because holy shit. tall stature, flawless pale skin, broad shoulders, dark hair in a loose, low ponytail resting on their shoulder.

angels are real, and one is looking right at you.

the meetings excited you as much as they did him, feeling a guilty pleasure at how he would sometimes ignore his duties to stay with you a little longer. but eventually you would always leave for your job, hoping he'd miss you like you missed him.

you let them into your life. you knew that fire at your job was to get you laid off and spend more time with them. you knew your friends left you because you saw a figure in all black leave threatening notes on their doorsteps. you knew all the small things you purposefully forgot went somewhere for his own safekeeping.

and every time, you ran back into his arms. but what about everything he's done? why is the man who ruined your life the one you run to for comfort? aren't you scared?

ren was your guardian angel! they had always said your friends and job were toxic anyways and they'd end up hurting you in the long run, but rest assured ren would never hurt you.

after moving into the temple, you saw him everyday and it made you want him even more. even while being worked to the bone, the fleeting glances you shared across the room was enough for you to stop and collect yourself in a hidden corner, holding your heart in fear it might jump out.

eventually, small smiles across the room didn't cut it. when you headed up to ren's room to do nightly cleaning, you noticed the room just smelled so much of them. you missed ren deeply.

well... something small would be fine as long as you didn't get caught right? you laid on their bed and smelled the sheets. it was almost as if he was here, enveloping you in arms, whispering those sweet, reassuring words in your ear...

what started as innocently imagining him holding you ended with swearing to never tell him how just being in his bed had brought you to euphoric bliss.

~ ~ ~

after the festivites. you were sitting with him on that same bed, letting him cry into your shoulder. you rubbed their back up and down, soothing them until their sobs died down and they fell asleep in your arms, exhausted.

when you gently laid them down on their back, they tightly held onto you, afraid to lose you even in his sleep. as much as you wanted to stay in their arms, you didn't want to be presumptuous, so you very softly untangled yourself from their hold.

brushing a strand of hair away from their face. you fondly cupped their face and looked at ren's face while they slept. so peaceful and free from worry. but seeing them so peaceful was just what made you snap.

you wanted to keep them safe, but you had to know more. you want to see his baby pictures, you want to find his middle school diary, you want to know everything about him.

determined, you searched through everything around the room until the bookshelf was left. it consisted of mainly books relating to his studies throughout the years, but there was one book that captured your eye. Angels and their offerings.

there was a click! as you grabbed it and you whipped to ren. still asleep facing you. you felt something was loose, but the book wouldn't come out any more..?

oh. oh. a secret door. you should have guessed as much. being perfect to the public just meant being more careful with secrets.

opening the shelf-door revealed a staircase that led down to a hidden area with light emanating somewhere to the side. you tiptoed down the stairs, silently cursing and tensing whenever a step creaked. finally, you made it down and peeked around the corner to find a door with light dancing under the gap, like it's reaching out. you took its hand and opened the door.

ren has consumed your being. he's your everything.

clearly you were his too.

floors and walls covered with pictures of you, both drawn and photographed. the drawn ones depicted you in a variety of poses and situations. one was you kissing ren while sitting on his lap, another was you, as an angel, holding him while he bled out, presumably bringing him to heaven. the photographs were of your daily life doing chores and talking to the other members, but everyone else's face was crossed out to only leave you in.

starting to get flushed, you examine the back wall that displays a shrine dedicated to you. three tiers of all the belongings he's taken from you, adorned with candles.

the bottom tier was your trash, like the paper you doodled on earlier, a fork that you used at lunch last week, or your empty shampoo bottle from 3 months ago. the middle tier was stuff you purposefully left out for him, like your underwear, your necklace, or the pen you chewed on during bible study. the highest tier seemed to hold his favorites, like the, now dead lotus, the holy water jars he made with you, the sheets that smelled exactly like you.

hanging in the center was a framed photo of the day you moved in, just you and ren smiling at the camera. hearts drawn on the glass in front of your face.

before you know it, you feel two hands on your shoulders quickly spinning you around to look right into powdery blue eyes. you freeze, caught like a deer in headlights, anticipating the worst.

instead, you gasp when ren gets down on one knee, then both, kissing your hand and looking up at you like you've given him all the answers. to them, you truly looked like the most benevolent god.

ren didn't have to say anything for you to get the message.

you were who he will devote the rest of his life to, who he will make offerings for, who they will preach the gospel for.

kneeling down with him, you bestowed him the blessing of a kiss, then let him prove his faith by taking care of you in all the ways you wanted from ren. all the ways you needed from ren. their sinful fantasy of being able to worship you with hands and lips no longer a fantasy.

he will live and die for you. you will live and die for him.

you were his religion. he was yours.

author's note: MIC DROP, HAPPY HALLOWEEENNNNNN MUAHAHA !!! i decided to get a lil smutty in there because i watched secretary and i was like wait,, angel and priest ren with that yearning... a little insecure because i felt like i wrote too much while literally trying to do no dialogue orz i hope you still enjoyed tho!!

literally posting this while getting ready to go out :3 i hope you all stay safe if you celebrate or just have a good day!

ren is from @14dayswithyou , dividers by @/enchanthings !!

[moodymisty]

AAAAAA COULD YOU PLEASE MAYBE WRITE SOME CONTENT OF DAD! ROBOUTE WITH HIS S/O AFTER THEY HAVE KIDS? I WOULD BE SUPER MEGA ULTRA GRATEFUL!! THANK YOU!!

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's note: Here you go, enjoy some cute dadboute content :3

Relationships: Roboute Guilliman/Fem!Reader

Warnings: None really other than the implication of a dangerous pregnancy

“So, where is the little lady?”

Sanguinus crosses his arms casually over his chest, ignoring the sound of weapons clanking against each other. Guilliman does much the same.

“She is in our quarters resting still. The medicae insisted bedrest after he was born.” Sanguinus takes his words seriously, he was one of the only people Guilliman confided his worried about you in. However he also smiles, which Guilliman finds odd until he speaks.

“I imagine it must be a bit frustrating, having to be away from them.” Many of the Primarchs have struggled to contain their jealousy regarding Guilliman’s love, but Sanguinus is kind; He doesn’t doubt he’ll find someone soon.

“Believe me, I would much rather be there than here with you lot.”

Sanguinus smiles wider.

“Horus and Russ both have wandered off, I’ll keep a secret if you want to go see her.”

Guilliman doesn’t need it to be kept a secret, but knowing that Sanguinus will keep the other Primarchs at bay so he can enjoy a moment with his new son is more than appreciated. He gives Sanguinus a nod and takes his leave, the angel's eyes lingering on him for a few moments before looking away.

Each step closer to his quarters makes Guilliman just that bit more relieved, until he sees you in bed. Your child rests in your arms, asleep while you work on something on a dataslate. The medicae had specified plenty of bedrest for you as your body recovered, and he’s relived you’re taking it to heart.

He had also specifically said not to sleep with you for a while, nor get you pregnant until you were completely healed, which had embarrassed Guilliman greatly.

Hearing him enter the massive room you look up, setting the dataslate aside to give him your full attention. You do so gently to avoid shaking the baby in your arms, who does little more than make a few grumbles as you shift.

“You’re back soon, did things end early?” He comes closer and shakes his head, after kneeling at the side of the bed.

“I left for a moment to see you.” You smile, but it's coated in over-exaggerated suspicion.

“The Guilliman I know would never miss or skip out on a meeting. You must be an imposter.”

You seem in bright spirits joking and teasing him, but Guilliman knows well that the child of a primarch nearly killed you- and that you’re still more than likely in pain. He leans down to gently press a chaste kiss to your forehead.

“Perhaps I have been. And the others were none the wiser.”

Guilliman looks down at his child in your arms and gently moves his hand close, brushing a knuckle across his cheek.

"You should come back in an hour or two when he’s up to eat and put him back to sleep,” You say, and Guilliman gives you a sour look that makes you giggle.

Quite quickly you’ve learned that Guilliman’s voice seems to put your child right to sleep, something you’ve endlessly teased him about. While his voice is something you'll never tire of in its deep and dulcet tone, he can quickly become drone and monotonous depending on subject matter.

“Let me get a copy of this months expenditure for the Ultramarines and I’ll return to read it.” You would ask him to hold his child, but you know he’s still nervous about it. He’s still so small; Guilliman worries about his strength. You don’t push it, but you know he’s showing his love in other ways.

“Quite the bedtime story,” You look up at him as he cups his hand around your child’s side.

“You jest, but in my youth my father or mother would tell me about old Macraggian wars before bed.” Guilliman's eyes look away from his child for only a moment to see you scoff.

“Old battle tales are a bit different than a spending document, Roboute.”

Guilliman can’t help but soften his face. He’s so used to hearing his family name or titles; Guilliman, Lord Guilliman, Lord Primarch. He enjoys when he hears you say his name with such softness.

A knock on the door startles you, but you know Guilliman had heard whoever it was coming well before.

“Lord Guilliman? I apologize for the disturbance Lord Dorn is asking for you.” Guilliman sighs.

“I will be there momentarily.”

He looks to you and reaches a hand up to cup your face. You lean into it, smiling and enjoying the warmth of his palm against your skin. Leaning in he presses a kiss to your lips, and stays perhaps longer than he should have. He can hear you contently sigh until he pulls away, and leans to give a kiss to the top of his sleeping son’s head.

“You keep resting. Both of you.”

He looks harshly at you, almost scolding you preemptively. He glares at you as you roll your eyes, but there’s no true discontent behind his expression.

“Love you too, Roboute.”

[ilguna]

If you are willing to do another haymitch could I please get #6 from list one? Thank you

☼ beneath the surface (Haymitch Abernathy) ☼

warnings; swearing, death mention, drinking mention, haymitch gets a concussion.

wc; 3.3k

prompt; 6. to outsiders, it looks like they don't get along at all.

notes; there's a 14 year age gap...

--

There is nothing more sickening than watching the roped-off section at the front of the stage begin to fill with young faces. Each year, you promise yourself that you’re going to show up a little later to the reaping to avoid the unavoidable nausea, but the restlessness gets the better of you.

So, you always get the displeasure of sitting on the stage and seeing every face, wondering which two will be the unlucky chosen ones. You used to be one of them almost ten years ago. You were just a face in the crowd of hundreds in the eighteen-year-old section in District Twelve.

You see a reflection of yourself in the older kids the most. The fleeting innocence, the fear, the determination, the hope that you’ll make it through one more year. All for it to be crushed in the span of thirty minutes.

The odds should’ve been in your favor—you never put your name in more times in exchange for Tessera. Which means that in a glass bowl that contained thousands of paper slips, only seven of them had your name written across them in clean handwriting. And still, you were picked.

The terror that took over your body in that moment still frequently returns itself to you. As your life flashed before your eyes, you remembered the amount of Career wins in recent years. And all the District Twelve tributes that never made it to the final ten. How this was going to be your fate in a short week.

Fortunately, it wasn’t. By some miracle, you managed to break a curse on District Twelve that had lasted fifteen years. The same curse that had a fifty year run before Haymitch Abernathy won the Quarter Quell. Not that it matters, because it’s beginning to build up again, anyway.

It’s nothing that you can help. 

Which sounds awful, and you’re acutely aware of that, but you’ve tried every trick in the book. You’ve taken advice from other mentors, you’ve listened to Haymitch’s experience, you’ve used ideas that come to you in the middle of the night. The truth is that District Twelve is doomed.

It’s hard being a mentor, knowing that your efforts don’t really make a difference in your tribute’s survival unless they’re willing to try. It’s so rare to come across them. The tributes nowadays default to the idea that they’re going to die, which isn’t necessarily true. 

Of course, they were born in this black vortex, but they can crawl out of it. It’s been done twice, by Haymitch and then by you. When you try to explain to them exactly what they have to do, they realize how much energy it’ll take. And because you don’t sugarcoat the fact that they probably won’t even catch the attention of the Capitol despite your steps, they don’t bother to continue.

It’s like they want the attention, the sponsors, the good scores and the alliances handed to them on a platter. Which is such a ridiculous concept, because when has a single person from District Twelve ever been handed those opportunities? You can’t figure out where they got this fantasy from.

Regardless, it always ends up going the same way. They let the Capitol week play out the same way it has for years, ultimately screwing them over. They put in no effort for the Tribute Parade, they don’t bother with the Training Center, and they end with low scores. It’s always by then where they come to their senses, because there’s a day before the interview, where there’s one-on-one coaching. 

Due to you asking questions on their angle, their plan, what they’re willing to reveal to Caesar and the Capitol, it gets the gears turning. They realize that they’ve made a mistake, and they rely on you to fix it, but it’s always too late. You can’t come back from just a single interview.

As much as you try to help the tributes that come through, you’ve begun to slack. In the past, you jumped on them as soon as they got on the train. It was the best way to maximize their time with you, getting them a head-start, preparing them for what’s to come. Now, you observe them, and come to your own conclusions on whether or not they’ll listen to what you have to say.

Recently, you’ve been calling it the Haymitch spiral. This is exactly how he must’ve felt for the first few beginning years of mentoring, until the shine wore off and he realized that this is a rigged game. You were lucky enough to get him while he was still semi-sober, and your win even set him back on track for a couple more years.

It didn’t last long, though. He was gone by the time the Sixty-Seventh Hunger Games came around. For the first time, you were on your own to figure things out. The tributes made it farther than you thought they would under your guidance, and when you remarked to Haymitch that with his help, they could’ve made it, he brushed you off. 

A part of you despises him for this, for throwing away every tribute that comes in his direction. For rubbing it in your face afterward because you tried to make a difference. It takes everything in you not to shove it all back onto him sometimes. All you’d have to say is, “No wonder we’ve lost dozens of teenagers, they had you to help them.”

You know that if you did ever say that, then he’d shut down. Which you can’t afford him to do. There's moments of clarity where he’ll help, telling the tributes factors that you didn’t even think of. But these times are so few and far between that they hold practically no worth.

As much as you’ve learned to love and appreciate Haymitch, you truly hope that you never end up like him. That you lose so much hope and self-control that you end up with a drinking problem and blurry memories for the rest of your life. It’s your worst nightmare.

As the time nears two o’clock, the flow of teenagers go from a slow trickle to a steady flow. They shuffle into their designated areas, choosing the spots where they’ll be hidden the most from the cameras. From the prying eyes of the Capitol.

You reach up to brush a dribble of sweat from your forehead. If there’s one day out of the year that you can count on being uncomfortable, it’s reaping day. The dry heat has been particularly torturous this year. It makes you look forward to being on the train, at least it’s air conditioned. 

As if activated by your movement, Effie Trinket leans in your direction, the gentle pink curls of her wig tickling the side of your face, so that she can whisper without alerting Mayor Undersee. “Where is Haymitch?”

Your face twists, moving away from her to get some space between you, allowing you to see the look on her face, which has been painted white this afternoon. You scratch your skin to make the feeling go away. 

“He couldn’t even pull himself out of bed this morning. I just left him there.” You whisper, eyes sliding away, to the crowded streets, wondering if you’ll be able to spot him. “He managed to leave the neighborhood at the same time I did, if I had to guess…” You trail off, looking in the direction of the Hob, where the white liquor is sold for cheap. 

“Again?” She asks incredulously, as if the idea is outrageous when you’re talking about Haymitch. It’s not the first time that he’s shown up to the reaping drunk, but if he doesn’t come soon, he’ll be late. Which will be a first for him. “You need to find him.”

You shrug. “And do what, Effie?” You look at Mayor Undersee, “Excuse me, what time is it?”

He raises his eyebrows, flipping up his wrist to look at the watch. His eyebrows draw in, “I’d say five minutes to two.”

Effie’s eyes have widened. “We’ll get in trouble, (Y/n).”

“It’s not like I can get up and look for him.” You throw your hands up, they slap the top of your knees when they land. 

Effie presses her lips together, unhappy with your indifference. Neither of you speak for the remaining five minutes, which you spend hoping that Haymitch will appear out of thin air. When the clock strikes two, Mayor Undersee gets to his feet, heading for the podium. He can’t wait for Haymitch.

He begins to read the history of Panem, which is done every year at the reaping. He talks about the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, and the seas that claimed hundreds of miles of land. A war was fought to claim what was left of it, with the result being Panem.

A Capitol surrounded by thirteen districts, that was supposed to bring peace and prosperity to its residents. It was gone when the Dark Days came, the districts rebelling against the Capitol. Out of the thirteen districts, only twelve survived. The Treaty of Treason was written up to guarantee peace, the Hunger Games being part of the new law.

“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks.” Mayor Undersee says. “District Twelve has had three victors in its time of existence. An unknown woman, Haymitch Abernathy, and (Y/n) (L/n).”

A voice shouts something slurred and unintelligible. You glance over to see if the Peacekeepers are reacting, when you find that it’s Haymitch, struggling to get up the stairs safely. You sit up in your seat, watching as he stumbles across the stage, drunk.

The crowd applauds like they’re supposed to after the announcement of the victors. A sloppy smile crosses Haymitch’s face, as he falls into the empty chair beside you. The smell of liquor burns your nose, making your face twist as you go to look away.

Haymitch reaches over, a hand on your cheek as he directs his face to yours. You place your hand over his mouth, shaking your head, disturbed. “Will you pull yourself together?”

“May I introduce District Twelve’s wonderful Capitol escort, Effie Trinket?” The mayor asks, trying to save the moment.

Effie gets to her feet, straightening out her spring green suit. She heads for the podium, while Mayor Undersee comes back to the row of chairs with wide eyes in your direction. As if he’s asking for you to get a handle of Haymitch. You’re not his babysitter—you’re hardly even his girlfriend. He’s a grown man, he doesn’t want to listen to you.

“Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” Effie bubbles, tilting her head.

You should be past the point of fixing Haymitch’s behavior, especially since what you say goes in one ear and out the other. This might be your breaking point, with him showing up late and drunk and then embarrassing you. It’s fine if he doesn’t want to be taken seriously with the Capitol, but you’re still trying to be a good mentor.

“It is such an honor to be here today.” She says, placing a white-gloved hand over her chest, as if she’s being sincere. “It’s always such a pleasure being here in District Twelve, seeing all of your lovely faces.” She takes in a breath. “Ladies first!”

She crosses the stage to go to the glass ball with the girls’ names. She stops in front of it, reaching inside, digging her hand deep into the thousands of slips of paper. She pulls one out from the bottom, making her way back to the podium.

The square has fallen completely silent. She opens the piece of paper, reads it to herself silently, before looking up to the teenagers that are presented in front of her. 

“Primrose Everdeen.”

A girl materializes out of the twelve-year-old section at the very back. You sigh, sinking in your chair. The crowd gathered around begins to talk amongst themselves happily, which is common when a tribute so young is picked. No one thinks it’s fair, not even the ones that illegally bet.

Primrose is pale, hands clenched in fists at her sides, taking small steps toward the stage. She makes it past the sixteen section, before there’s an objection. “Prim!” A cry cuts through the silence. “Prim!” 

You watch as an older girl makes her way through the crowd, as the teenagers part to let her free. Primrose is just reaching the first step when the older one moves her away. “I volunteer!” She gasps. “I volunteer as tribute!”

You sit upright in your chair again, looking at Mayor Undersee. He’s got a deep crease between his eyebrows, eyes slightly squinted, staring ahead, thinking. District Twelve never gets volunteers, it’s likely been decades since it last happened. In other districts, teenagers fight to be the tributes that year.

“Lovely!” Effie chirps. “But I believe there’s a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um…” She’s lost confidence in herself.

“What does it matter?” The mayor says, face grave. “What does it matter? Let her come forward.”

Primrose is beginning to scream, latching onto the volunteer. “No, Katniss! No! You can’t go!”

“Prim, let go.” Katniss says harshly, trying to pry Primrose’s arms off. “Let go!”

A male slips out of the eighteen section, coming for the both of them. He grabs onto Primrose, pulling her into his arms, where she begins to trash violently. He says something to Katniss, before walking to the end of the aisle, where a crying mother has a hand over her mouth.

“Well, bravo!” Effie gushes. “That’s the spirit of the Games! What’s your name?”

Katniss has made it onto the stage. “Katniss Everdeen.”

“I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don’t want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let’s give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!”

Silence.

As no one claps, no one moves. This is typical, what you’d expect from your home district. If people were to listen to Effie and applaud, then that means they approve of what is happening here. Which is far from what they believe. 

It’s like this for several seconds, before you see the movement. It’s just one person at first, and then it ripples across the square. As your people press the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips before raising it in the air. A gesture that is rarely used, primarily seen at funerals. 

It’s a thanks, it’s a sign of admiration, and it means goodbye to someone that you loved.

Haymitch has risen from his seat, you swipe at his hand to pull him back into his seat, but he’s surprisingly agile. He makes it across the stage, where he throws an arm around Katniss’s shoulder. “Look at her. Look at this one!” He shouts. “I like her!” He stares, “Lots of…” He tilts his head back, as if looking to the clouds for inspiration. “Spunk!” He suddenly says. “More than you!” He moves toward the edge of the stage. You almost get to your feet, because that’s a bad idea for the state he’s in, but you refuse to be dragged down, too. “More than you!” He points directly into the camera.

He doesn’t realize that the stage ends, you know this because he walks right off the front of it. You bury your face in your hands, shaking your head. By the time you lift it, they’ve taken him away on a stretcher, clearly unconscious.

“What an exciting day!” Effie’s voice is wavering. “But more excitement to come! It’s time to choose our boy tribute!” She quickly moves to the boy bowl, where she plucks the top slip out, hurrying back to the podium. She opens the paper, not stopping to read this time. “Peeta Mellark.”

A boy from the sixteen area comes out. A competitor, you think, but you’ve thought the same in the past. You watch as he comes to stand on the other side of Effie. She asks for volunteers, but when none steps forward, Effie and Mayor Undersee trade places again. He begins to read the Treaty of Treason, but you’re leaning over to speak to Effie.

“Are they going to take Haymitch to the train?”

“I believe so.” She places her hands on her knees. “They’ll probably dispose of him in his bed.”

“Dispose.” You echo. 

When Mayor Undersee finishes his speech, he motions for Peeta and Katniss to shake hands. When they’re done, the anthem of Panem plays in full. Then, they’re taken through the front of the Justice Building by the Peacekeepers. You get up from where you’d been sitting.

Mayor Undersee comes to join you and Effie, where he places a hand on your shoulder. “He’s likely inside of the building in the far back.”

“Of the Justice Building?” You ask, looking at Effie. “They didn’t just take him to the train?”

“We don’t have the cars to spare. We have one for you and him, and then we have the separate one for Effie and the tributes.”

“Right.” You smooth out your pants. “Will you bring us to him?”

Mayor Undersee nods, heading inside of the Justice Building. You glance back at the front of the stage to see that the crowd is slowly dispersing, the Peacekeepers shut the doors a moment later. You’re brought all the way to the back, where the mayor leaves you to figure it out.

You open the door, stepping inside, finding Haymitch sitting upright on a bed. Usually the ones the school nurse provided in her office for when you felt sick. His face is twisted, touching a tender spot on the side of his head.

“Are you fucking kidding?” You cross your arms. “What was going through your head to think that it was okay to show up drunk?”

“I lost track of time.” Haymitch says.

“I don’t care that you were late! You were drunk on stage! This is a televised event, Haymitch.” 

“I know that.”

You shake your head. “Then you should know that this will not be happening again. You’re done drinking.” 

He scoffs. “Am I? Who’s going to stop me?”

“Me!” You shout. “Did you even see what happened out there? We have a volunteer that must mean something to the people here. And a boy that looks like he could maybe come from District Two.”

“Wow.” Haymitch mutters, he’s still drunk. 

“You will not be doing this in the Capitol. I will not let you be this way in the Capitol, I want you to actually mentor, not your shotty half-ass work. We have a real shot.”

“We have a real shot.” He mocks your voice. “You call my mentoring shotty and half-assed when you can’t even give them sound advice. You’re too worried about how you look for the cameras. I have my head screwed on straight.”

“Are you seriously calling me Capitol-obsessed right now?” Your voice drops.

Haymitch squints at you, possibly realizing his mistake. And then he opens his mouth, “Well you are, aren’t you?”

The room is tense, Effie clears her throat. “Maybe you two shouldn’t be together if you don’t like each other.” She says quietly. 

“No, I like Haymitch.” You scoff, waving your hand. “In fact, I love him.” Haymitch blinks in surprise. “But I would equally love the idea of him being sober for once in the Capitol. It’s not easy for all of us, you know. You think I like sitting through this every year while you get to have a drink?”

Haymitch sighs, head hanging slightly. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m tired of the apologies, too. Unless you’re going to do something to fix it, don’t bother.”

--

this was part of my 3k celebration!!

[laurentidal]

Taken By the Night

Sequel to Haunted.

Renee had never set foot in Greenhampton House before. Her parents had warned her that the place was evil. She knew that it had been a whore house before and she'd just assumed the small-minded community labeled it impure. Overtime, that label had crystalized into "evil." But even if she didn't believe the stories of devil worship and ritual sacrifice, something about the place still set her hair on edge.

She often forgot it was there, truth be told. It wasn't until that nice woman had bought it that she began to consider it regularly again. She was in Renee's shop often buying new shades of paint and asking advice. Renee told her the stories of the house and she laughed them off.

"It's not such a bad place. Just needs a fresh coat of paint," she said with a wink. And yet week after week, she'd return for new colors and new brands. She said no matter what she did, the paint would flake and peel. Finally she relented and bought a rich dark green. "This is what's on the walls now. Maybe the house won't be so temperamental about this one."

Renee thought the comment was odd, but she must have been right. That was the last time Aahna came to the store for paint. After that, she only came to talk. She seemed quite happy there in the old manor. Every time she came in she'd yawn as if she hadn't gotten enough sleep but her mood was always infectiously bright. Then, one day, she invited Renee up to Greenhampton.

Renee hesitated. Years of superstition had built up inside her, with or without her belief in it. But Aahna was such a kind woman and Renee didn't think she had many other friends here. She agreed, and the next night her car rolled through the gates of Greenhampton House.

Immediately she knew she'd made a mistake.

The house was clean - certainly cleaner than any of the old pictures she'd seen of it. Aahna had obviously been doing a fine job with the restoration. But it seemed to be staring down at her. She unlocked her cell phone, thinking about texting Aahna that she's fallen ill, but then the front door opened and her host was there waving. There was a warmth there that seemed to subdue the fear of the house. She took a deep breath, and got out of her car.

The house seemed to be staring from all sides once she was inside. It felt omnipresent and malevolent. Or was it just her bias toward brick and wood? Could she be sure she wasn't just reacting to a quarter century of ghost stories? Besides, Aahna lived here every day and night, and she was fine. She was beautiful.

Renee found herself staring contentedly at her host as the woman set the table. Truth be told, she'd had a little crush on the woman since the first time she'd come in for paint. Now they were sharing a dinner together just the two of them. A candle was lit on the table and it did an admirable job of keeping the fear at bay.

The night carried on normally. Aahna was hold Renee's eye when they spoke and Renee would try not to blush. She would laugh and Aahna would laugh along. Stories were shared. Wine was drunk. And as the hour got later and later, Renee thought less and less about that tiny tickle in the back of her mind that said she was in danger.

Then she heard a whisper beside her ear. It almost sounded like it said "relax." Renee snapped her head around but there was no one there. Aahna asked if everything was okay, and Renee didn't answer immediately. The fear had returned. But Aahna stood and walked over the the chair next to Renee and took her hand.

"It's okay, sweetie," she said, looking into Renee's eyes. "The house makes noises. You get used to it."

Renee knew that hadn't been a rickety pipe or a loose floorboard. Wait. Had she called her "sweetie"? Her attention turned back to Aahna, who was lightly stroking her hand. "Just relax, Renee. There's no need to be afraid."

They looked deep into each other's eyes for a silent moment. Renee let herself be swallowed up by her host's gaze. "Relax," a voice said again, but this time Renee ignored it. She kept her attention on this beautiful woman before her. "Stare."

She felt a hand brush her arm and her leg. It must have been Aahna. There was no one else here. But without looking away from Aahna's deep and captivating eyes, she could only assume. The whisper beside her continued. "Sink." Hands on her thigh. Her breast. Her cheek. They couldn't all be hers. "Open." Renee slowly let her legs be pulled apart. The phantom touches reached under her dress and her drew breath as they probed inside her.

"Can you feel them?" Aahna asked.

"Yes," Renee answered simply, unaware of just how deeply entranced she had become.

"It's time to show them what you can give."

Renee stood, unblinking, and allowed the hands to pull her clothes away. She stood naked before her Mistress, who nodded approvingly.

"They think you'll do wonderfully. Let me show you to your room."

Continue the story with A House Calls.

[embersofhope-if]

"On the 25th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes that who would represent it."

Twenty-five years have passed since the rebellion, yet the price is still being paid by the Districts. Even though most people alive today had no part in the fight, they suffer the consequences of the Capitol's anger. The harsh reality of the Capitol's cruelty is revealed every year on July 4th, Reaping Day. On this day, two children from each of the 12 districts are randomly chosen to fight to the death in an arena until only a lone victor remains. Parents hold their children close and hope it isn't their child who will be ripped away from them, knowing that there is nothing they can do to stop it.

However, this year is different. This year marks the very first Quarter Quell, and parents don't have to worry about whether their children might be taken away because, for this once-in-a-lifetime event, they get to choose who goes into the arena. But there's no doubt in anyone's mind who's going in when the mayor has a child of his own - me.

Now it's my turn to play a true game of life or death. May the odds be ever in my favor

Demo ☆ Playlist ☆ Pinterest

Customize your appearance (hair type and color, complexion, height, build, clothing)

Choose how you interact with the Capitol and those of your District

Form new relationships and change the ones you already have

Train in the weapon of your choice yes including a bow

Try not to die<3

17+. Content warnings for graphic violence, child death, child abuse/neglect, starvation, murder

Creon Levesque ♤ The Mentor ♤ RO ♤ 19

A special friend in very special places. I met Creon when you were 12 years old at a dinner party my Uncle Keyon had brought me to in the Capitol. Maybe it was the fact that I was very obviously District or maybe it was something else entirely, but from that night forward, Creon and I have had an intense and strange relationship. And now they stand before me assuring me that with them as a mentor, everything will be alright. How they managed to get themselves as a mentor they won't tell me, but honestly, in the end, does it matter?

♤Creon is gender selectable by the player♤

Romance Route: Red flag of all red flags, forbidden love, different worlds, insta love (at least on Creons part)

Aurelius/Aurelia Weaver ♧ The District Partner ♧ RO ♧ 18

My district partner. I don't know them that well, especially after they dropped out of school at 16 to work full-time in the factories. I'm not entirely sure what I did to them to warrant the looks of pure disgust and anger they throw my way after that, but now things have changed. They asked to be the other tribute for District 8, and now standing in front of them and looking into their eyes, all I can see is a predator looking at its prey. They are going to kill me, and they're going to enjoy it.

♧ Aurel is always the opposite gender of Mc ♧

Romance Route: Enemies to Lovers, Doomed Love, potential unrequited love, perhaps unrequited but actually requited love😏

Asher "Ash" Fairchild ♡ The Childhood Bestfriend ♡ 16

Ash was the first and only real friend I've had my entire life. They were practically the embodiment of everything good in the world. Everyone loved Ash, and when they had their name called for the 23rd reaping the shock and sorrow was felt throughout the entire District. Even walking up to the stage, they moved like a petal dancing through the wind. Their memory has haunted me every day for the past two years, and now I get to experience the same terror they felt in their final moments.

♡ There will be an option to be in a relationship with Ash before their games. Ash is also gender selectable by the player ♡

Romance Route: First love, childhood friends to lovers, soulmates

Soren Vesper ◇ The Mayor ◇ 46

The mayor of District 8, and my Father. A very stern man who prefers things to be done his way. I've never seen his mask of the harsh mayor who does everything the Capitol request ever break, that is until the announcement of the Quarter Quell. The change happened so fast that it scared me. A once mighty man who didn't care about the people of his district now begging them to choose anyone but his child to go into the games. At least I get to know my Father does care for me before I die.

Tribute and Other Profiles TBA

☆This is my second IF my main one is @shadowsofthegun-if if anyone is interested in being a goofy little cowboy and i have another IF @dustandshadows-if set in the world of the shadowhunter chronicles if anyone is interested in that as well. @konosadmaru is also my main if anyone wants to follow me on there☆

[bl00dlight]

A Song of Shadow & Flame

CANON Dark! Aemond Targaryen x OC niece Targaryen. | SERIES

All NSFW warnings apply in future chapters.

Author's note ●May be typos in this one. I got lazy and sleepy. Anyway hope yall enjoying these world building ass chapters. The juicy stuff is coming soon....hehe. Also the timeline is more so accurate to the books. The show timeline is ALL over the place. So I'm following book births etc.

Word Count ~ 3k+

Index

i ● ii ● iii ● iv ● v ● vi● vii ● viii ●ix ● x ● xi ● xii ● xiii ● xiv ● xv

iii ~ 'Liar'

123 AC

Visenya had sat in the library, in which she had garnered quite a few looks from the servants and maester’s which occasionally wandered through the shelves. She sat before a large hearth, her eyes narrowed upon the pages of the book she clutched so tightly. How utterly boring, she thought.

The princess wasn’t sure what desire led her to steal Aemond’s book, she wasn’t even sure what she was looking for as she scanned its pages hastily. She sighed, rising to her feet quickly as she decided to continue scouring its pages when she had little else to do.

As the day went on, Visenya had spent her afternoon with her brothers; Jacaerys & Lucerys - she watched as they trained with their swords. She smiled; her eyes gleaming as she watched the two ebony haired boys sparring amidst the grey bricks of the training yard. Visenya had always had a fond relationship with her younger brothers, frequently getting up to her most infamous hijinks with them at her side. They were not without their squabbles; especially given the many times she had weaved her way out of trouble by blaming the wide eyed boys. After all, they were younger than her, much less likely to receive any hard punishment, why not use it to her advantage from time to time?

She had recalled how upon sneaking into the maester’s quarters to ravish through the various odd ingredients and tonics. Visenya had somehow knocked one several of the more elusive concoctions from their shelves. Of course, Rhaenyra was all but indignant at her daughter, as whispers of the young princess sneaking through the halls spread throughout the Keep. However, all Visenya needed to do was smile sweetly at her mother and claim it was actually small, innocent Lucerys’ who had done the deed; and just like that, she had suddenly been praised by her mother for taking the blame for her young brother.

“GET UP!” The shrill voice her brother Jacaerys rang, Visenya shook her head, regaining focus. The sudden cries of their youngest brother filling the yard, her eyes widened at the scene, the small prince sat upon the floor, holding his head.

Visenya rose to her feet, making her way quickly to the two princes’ as she saw the small trickles of blood down Lucerys forehead.

“He is an utter babe.” Jace scoffed, dropping the wooden sword before folding his arms in resistance, he had been in a most tempestuous mood of late, Visenya noted how troubled he seemed. Always brooding, arguing. More and more questions seemed to arise everyday regarding their true father. Though their mother claimed it was Ser Leanor, all knew her brothers were fathered by another. Afterall, House Targaryen & Velaryon were both of Valyrian blood, how is it the boys did not inherit any features of such. The only defining trait being their dragon riding blood and of course… wild nature. However, none disputed Rhaneyra’s was indeed their mother, but as for Ser Leanor being their true father? Well, that was another matter…

Lucerys’s face coiled at his brother insult, fire sparking in the young boy’s eyes as he lunged for Jace’s legs. Suddenly the two had managed to wrestle each other to the ground, “YOU TAKE THAT BACK!” Luke wailed.

“TIS THE TRUTH!” Jace struggled to speak as his little brother managed to wind him. Visenya rushed forward, half laughing at their foolish antics. Suddenly her hands grappled at Jace’s gambeson, pulling him off Luke.

“Enough!” She exclaimed.

“Get off!” Prince Jacaerys scoffed, flailing his arms as he struggled free from his sister’s grasp, his eyes found Visenya’s, a brutal glare exchanged between the two siblings, Jace lowered his head.  

Visenya looked down to her younger brother, her hand extending before her as she helped the small dark haired prince to his feet. Gently her fingers pushed back the mop of curls upon his head, her eyes widening as she saw the small yet reddened cut, tears of blood oozing down the side of his face.

“He hit me with the sword!’ Lucerys pointed at his older brother, Visenya turned her head, Jace’s face angered once more.

“You weren’t trying to defend yourself!” Jace snapped back.

The princess shook her head, exasperated, “So you hit him with a bloody sword?” she sneered at her brother.

“Tis made of wood! He is putting it on… just look at him!” Prince Jacaerys’ once again coiled with a familiar rage, he huffed, turned swiftly as he began to storm away. Visenya walked after him, her legs frolicking slightly as she her hand hurriedly grabbed her brother’s wrist.

“Jace!” Visenya’s tone stern yet, a sudden worry fell over her as he simply stood still, his back facing her. The princess moved closer, slowly turning her brother by his shoulders. “Brother...something is clearly troubling you, so, out with it.” She raised her brow.

“Tis nothing.” He said sharply.

“Liar.” The princess moved closer, analysing him, “I can see it in your eyes. You’re upset.”

“I am not upset!” His voice harsh as a chord was struck within him.

Visenya laughed softly, her gaze smug as she took his little hardened face. Something endeared her by her younger brother’s ferocity, though he was but a boy, he had no qualms with fighting if need be, “Clearly.” She chuckled smugly.

Another moment passed as they looked at each other in silent, Jacaerys’ gaze weakened for a moment, he wished to tell his sister… wished to tell her how the talk of him and his brothers being bastards ate at him. Though he remained silent and then, ripped himself away from his sister’s gentle grasp. “Just leave me be.” His tone low.

With that, Prince Jacaerys turned once more, walking away with haste. Visenya sighed, a part of her longed to go after him, yet she knew in his own time he would come to her. The princess then walked back to Lucerys, gently taking his hand. “Let us find a Maester.” Her voice flat with frustration.

“No, I shall be… fine.” The small boy said. Visenya squinted, her expression tempering at the sight of his acquitted demeanour. The Princess, much like her mother, seemingly had a soft spot for her second youngest brother. He was far more docile than Jace, far more transparent in his uncertainty of the world. Though, Visenya oft saw the potential in Luke, those wide eyes much like hers able to be used in order to weave his way out of mischief. A trait they both shared, a trait which melted her heart. He was so much like her in many ways.

She tilted her head as she replied tenderly, “Sweet brother…” Visenya leaned down slightly, her eyes narrowing, “You do not have a choice, I fear.”

“But- “Luke began to speak once more before Visenya forced her hand over his mouth.

She bent down, peering roguishly into her young brother’s eyes. “I am much larger than you, do not force me to take you in my arms, little brother.” A flicker of a smile came upon her face as she took her hand away. Lucerys giggled softly, and the two walked arm in arm to the maester’s chambers.

●

Upon hearing about her son’s squabble in the training yard, the Princess Rhaneyra was furious, yet it had been Visenya to convince her mother to refrain from punishing Jacaerys on the terms she herself get the young prince to apologise to his brother.

Visenya entered Jace’s quarters quietly, all the years of sneaking around the Keep finally being put to good- willed use. Her eyes instantly caught her younger brother’s dark locks as he sat upon the side of his bed, his head lowered to the ground, soft sniffles filled his quiet chambers.

“Brother?” She said softly. The prince’s head turned slowly, his eyes scanning her, and he sighed.

“Did mother send you?” Jace’s voice was laced with a melancholy unlike what Visenya had ever heard.

“On the contrary, it was I who convinced her to send me. Her initial impulse was far more tyrannical.” The princess chuckled softly as she sat beside her young brother, she nudged him, garnering a small response as he smiled.

“Since when are you the type for good deeds, sister?” Jace teased.

“I’m not. This is no good deed, how am I supposed to make my usual mischief if one of my primary accomplice’s is spending his days brooding?” She tilted her head, teasing back.

“I am not brooding.” The prince folded his arms in protest.

“Yes you are. You are almost always like this when something troubles you. Exactly like mother, you are… you become totally disagreeable.” Visenya chuckled. It was true Jacaerys was indeed like their mother in that regard, he could brood for days one end and argue until all wished to cut his tongue from his mouth.

“So are you.” He muttered.

Visenya sighed and then laid back upon his bed, she grabbed his wrist, pulling him back. Jace lay beside her, staring up into the canopy above, despite his sister’s attempt he could not stop the discomforting thoughts within him. He was a bastard; Ser Leanor was not his true father…his mother had lied.

“Please, Jacaerys, speak it.” She gazed worryingly at him; his eyes moved down at the sound of her soft voice.

“You already know.” Jace slowly turned to face his elder sister, his eyes scanning her face, her features… the one’s he ought to have been born with. Though, funnily enough she did not inherit Ser Leanor’s deep skin, for that he thought it odd. In fact, Visenya looked nothing like his cousins Baela and Rhaena. Yet still, that hardly mattered as Visenya was indeed clearly of Valyrian blood.  The prince scanned her silver hair, the pale greyish violet eyes that adorned her face, her skin which remained pale in the winter and bronzed slightly in the summer. The prince was not jealous, he was merely melancholic, for at least she was able to love her father freely, in public. Ser Strong had remained a constant presence throughout his youth and yet, he had never allowed himself to follow the instinct of love he felt for the man.

Visenya felt her eyes water upon his words, silence reigned as she watched him scan her. Slowly her hand snaked to hold his, it was all she could do, all she knew how to do. Visenya was not very good at expressing such affections with Jace, she always felt he was far too strong for it, too mature to long for sisterly care, not like Luke. Yet now, staring into the witling eyes of her younger brother, she finally saw him for what he was. A boy. A boy who for so long had kept up the veil of strength; and in some regard she felt younger than he, far weaker though she was three years his prior. They did not need to exchange any words, it was true, she did know.

“Mother lies. I know she does not mean to, yet she does.” His voice soft, fragile.

“She must.” Visenya looked down, her voice a mere whisper. She understood her brother’s pain, understood what it was like to listen to their mother proclaim them all of Velaryon blood. Though she knew it was not true. Visenya knew her father was truly Daemon… she was just as much of a bastard as her brothers.

Rhaenyra had little idea that her daughter knew of the truth, that for many years of his absence, Visenya would receive ravens from Prince Daemon, detailing the story of how he had fallen in love with Rhaenyra, how he once wished to be wed to her… how despite it all, he adored Visenya; for she was born from the will of the Old Gods. It was a rarity for him to visit the Red Keep and he would oft arrive alone, without her half-sisters whom she longed to see. She recalled the few times he had taught her Valyrian, shown her how to ride Silverwing saddleless and most importantly; how he had held her to his chest, stroking her hair in the shadows of the Dragonpits.

Daemon had even shown her the Maegor’s holdfast which was a collection of secret passages through the Red Keep. He had only showed her them once, for they were treacherous things – winding and almost impossible to navigate. Many a man had been lost within them and never found again. In fact, the last time she had seen her father was that very night he showed them to her. In all truth, she could not help but feel abandoned by Daemon, for she would send raven after raven that would never return with a letter back. Only on her name-day would he make her know that she was not a forgotten figure in his life.

Silence settled between them, Visenya felt the sudden violent urge to tell her brother the truth, to tell her brother something she had kept from him for most of his life.

“Jace… I..” Visenya trails, her mind in throws as she feels her heart thud in trepidation.

“What is it, sister?” The prince pulled his hand away from hers, he sat up. It was obvious to him something had soured his sister’s usually impish mood.

Slowly, Visenya rose to face him, “Promise me you shan’t hate me?” She whispered.

“I promise.” Jace met her with the same sympathetic eyes she gave him.

“Do not think that I do not understand why you might be blue, brother.” Her eyes fell upon the bed. Visenya felt tears begin to swell, “I share the same trouble… regarding mother’s lies.”

“I don’t understand?” The prince raised her brow at his sister. How could she share his troubles, after all?

“Ser Leanor is neither my father.” As the words choked out of her, she struggled to meet what she imaged was his shocked gaze.

Jace felt the words hit his skull like a morning star thumping into a wall. Brick by brick, it felt like his mind crumbled before him, his life revealed to be another horrific lie.  The young prince said nothing.

“Tis our… Uncle Daemon. Well, rather, your Uncle Daemon.” The princess wiped a rogue tear from her cheek as she let the truth finally fall freely from her mouth.

Jacaerys found his voice hardening, he wasn’t sure why he was mad at his sister, in all truth he felt guilt for it, “You are just like her, then.”

“What?” She finally met his gaze.

The prince shuffled off the bed, folding his arms as he furrowed, “You are just like mother!”

“Why is it you get to know the truth of your father, but mine has been kept from me and my brothers? What makes you so special that she would tell you? Is it shame that stops her? Shame that we are not of pure Valyrian blood, shame for we do not possess the same features as you.. or as our supposed father, or even her?” Jace found himself with watering eyes now, he had been reduced back to child he truly was. Scared and anger at a world he seldom understood.

Visenya rose from the bed, hurriedly rushing to her younger brother, “No, no tis not like that brother. She never told me. In fact, she has little idea that I know it! Daemon swore me to secrecy, he said that if anyone knew of the truth it, it would surely put us all at risk. That it may cause a succession crisis, or worse… lead to mother being accused of treason and all our claims would be lost.” She said softly, taking his shoulders.

The two siblings exchanged a look of pure melancholy, it was difficult to say much more than that. Yet the two knew of something now, something which bound them beyond just blood. That their mother had tried so desperately to conceal their father’s not for sake of shame, but for the sake of fear. That her love made her unyielding to speak of the truth. Visenya watched as Jace’s angered gaze suddenly softened, she watched as he became but a boy again, her little brother in need of his elder sister. That softened gaze quickly shifted to one of vulnerability, as he then collapsed into his sister’s arms and wept.

●

The Princess Visenya made her way through the Red Keep, the hour had indeed grown rather late, and she had all but missed the call for supper as she spent her evening with Jace. An unusually solemn demeanour was cast over her, she made her way to her quarters, practically kicking her feet until she was met the familiar sight of the hall before her chamber doors.

Then, her eyes narrowed on a familiar sight… glimpses of the fire from mounted torches danced upon silver hair and a green gambeson. Aemond.

He scowled, folding his arms as he waited for her to cross his path. Fucking arse, she thought. There was no other way to get to her chambers without passing through this hall, and he bloody well knew that. She would have to walk past him, have to acknowledge him.

No, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledgement, for all she knew he was a phantom of sorts, or a mere trick of the light. She kept walking as usual, soon beginning to pass where he leaned against the wall when;

“I want my book back.” Aemond’s voice echoed coldly throughout the halls. Visenya did not respond.

A sudden squeezing grip caught her wrist, his eyes dark as he spoke bitterly. “Do not ignore me.” His temper was rising at her refusal to acknowledge him, he loathed it, loathed being looked over, treated like he was nothing. He would not take it from her, not today. He heard a small wince from the princess, then letting go of her wrist. Aemond regained composure.

With that, the princess scoffed and turned sharply, hoping to reach her chambers, finally. Yet Aemond reached for her again, his voice raised.

“I SAID DO NOT IGN-“With a sudden force Aemond stumbled back, interrupted by the princess shoving him with all her might.

“PISS OFF!” Visenya exclaimed, wrathful tears in her eyes as she turned once more, very sheepishly running back to her chambers.

The Targaryen Prince stood there for a moment, shocked by the sudden force and rage that had hit him. He felt humiliated… out done by her once more.

As he stood in the shadowy hall of the Red Keep, he watched the Princess disappear into the shadows of the night.

It was clear his niece certainly too, shared the blood of the dragon.

○iv○

[lunarw0rks]

hey, love your writing!!! i was wondering if you would do a drabble of kyle garrick x y/n where y/n is a member of the 141 and they are trying to keep their relationship a secret, and just kind of fluffy shenanigans sneaking around lol

༘⋆♡⸝⸝💌⊹。°˖➴ secretrelationship!gaz // hcs

A/N: gaz brainrot hours (๑ > ᴗ < ๑) i love him :)

『♡』 masterlist ♡ rules ♡ ask box Warning(s): sfw, slightly suggestive, co-workers to lovers, mild injury mention, fluff, 141!reader, gn!reader // Word Count: 984

SYNOPSIS; trying (sometimes failing) to conceal your less-than-platonic relationship with Sergeant Garrick :3

THE FIRST LOOK;

─── the definition of a meet-cute... or as cute as it can be on an active base. It was impossible to not be drawn to him; the youngest member there, sitting in the corner of the briefing room with Soap talking his ear off. After minutes of shifting awkwardly and finding solace in eye contact with Gaz, the chatty Sergeant finally walked away.

♦ His eyes finally raised from his desk, locking his gaze with yours. Despite his off-putting scowl, his umber eyes glued to you, and only you. At the very least, he knew he would have a good friend, though he was already picturing more.

♦ For a man so collected, he felt his chest tighten. "Sergeant... Garrick, is it?" You sat in the chair beside him, giving a look of warmness and disquiet combined. He remembered that feeling; the overwhelming atmosphere of a crowded compound, the tireless workload, and all the new faces and titles to memorize.

『 "Kyle, unofficially. And you?" 』

ON-DUTY TOGETHER;

─── more of them should've caught on. requesting the same hours for guard duty as an excuse to stand beside each other. the odds were in your favor, for the most part, because most of them thought nothing of it. you two were just... close "co-workers" who never ran out of things to talk about or tease each other over.

♦ "Aren't you supposed to be watching that hill, Sergeant?" You huffed, lowering your binoculars. He was watching the hill — but only when you caught him staring at you. It had only been a few weeks and the endless chatter had turned more into borderline flirting, if not full-on pursuit of the other.

♦ He shook his head, now refusing to give you the satisfaction of catching him again. "I am watching the hill, mate, since you're so concerned." He replied, pressing his lips into a slight pout. The blazing sun engulfed his tan complexion, somehow looking more fetching than ever before.

♦ You couldn't handle walking on eggshells much longer, otherwise you'd begin to think he had a violent distaste for your personality. Perhaps it was sleep-deprivation, or the fact that you had spent so many hours with him, but you finally addressed the elephant in the watch tower;

『 "Hm, is that all I am? Your mate?" 』

LATE NIGHTS;

─── taking into account the unrelenting humorlessness of your profession, lights out became the golden hours between you and gaz. besides, there were fewer prying eyes, therefore less concern about getting caught.

♦ Kyle made a habit of entering your quarters abruptly, usually with a mound of snacks in hand. "It's only nine and you're in bed? Swear you're an eighty-year-old at heart, love." One of your favorite candies had been chucked at your head, shattering any semblance of relaxation you had. By now, you had gotten used to this.

♦ He was the embodiment of a snack dispenser in the disguise of a co-worker. Even worse when you would attempt cutting back on the junk food. Ironic, considering how fit he was — though you could attribute that Gaz hitting the genetic lottery (looks and health-wise, no matter how much food he packed away).

♦ Hours of talking could pass, and you wouldn't notice until you glanced at the digital clock. In your defense, you were getting several hours of gossip out in one sitting. It's not easy to work with the one person you want to talk to, yet, be unable to speak to them until after-hours.

『 "I think Soap's onto us. Keeps starin' at me whenever you're around, trying to make me slip up and mention you." 』

IN TOO DEEP;

──��� even after several months of secrecy, of petty arguments, of varying conversations — you had never been so upset at him. Until now, when he knew the risks and proceeded regardless. Entering hostile territory after evac, purely to sweep for innocents once more, and disobeying orders while doing it.

♦ Before Price could get a word in, you were in his face. For the first time, you had stunned your co-workers into silence. "What the hell is wrong with you? Look at yourself, Gaz." You motioned toward the gash on his forehead. Then, your attention turned toward the bullet absorbed by his vest, one that could've been the end of him if the hostile had been more accurate.

♦ "You could've been killed." No matter how hard you tried to contain the tremble in your voice, you couldn't. It was evident, practically palpable to the rest of them.

♦ His self-righteousness would be the death of you. Endearing, but made your heart stop every time. "Just a couple bruises. And this?" He pointed toward the scrapes on his face. "I've gotten worse from you." Kyle gave you a subtle wink, one the others wouldn't have seen.

♦ You collected yourself and turned on your heels, still under the watchful eye of the rest of them. At the sudden realization of how much they had seen, you stepped out of Price's way, "Sir." The captain sighed, giving you a nod to ease your anxieties. He knew something was up, but never had solid proof until now.

♦ And Soap? He barely contained his smirk — shifting his gaze from you to Kyle, who only returned the favor by sneering at the Scot. Had you blown the secret entirely? That was up for debate. But they were certainly suspicious.

♦ After he exited the med bay, now with a few bandages and a bruised ego courtesy of your wrath, you caught up to him. To keep appearances, you walked parallel to him while keeping your eyes ahead.

♦ But this wasn't done. Your boyfriend doesn't just almost die and go without penance. At least... your way of penance ;)

『 "This isn't over, Sergeant. You'll see, tonight." 』

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹ divider cred. - cafekitsune

[leighsartworks216]

I Come With Knives Pt17

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Y'all know I had to do this scene. I didn't do the mirror one (just didn't fit this story imho) so I have to make up for it somehow

Shoutout to @shenanigans-and-imagines for inspiring the engraving

Warnings: mentions of Astarion's transformation, references to Tav's past abuse/trauma

Word Count: 1,584

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

I Come With Knives Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

When Astarion calmed down and gathered himself together, he approached you later that night, saying he had something he wanted to show you. You’d have followed him blindly anywhere as he held your hand and led you through the darkened streets of the city. You should have been terrified, searching every alley and shadow for signs of your master or her minions - but you weren’t. You felt safe with Astarion, despite it all.

You didn’t expect him to bring you to a graveyard. It’s dead silent, empty. It’s not unused - there are recently placed flowers in front of some tombstones, and others appear freshly engraved with names and dates - but it is an odd place to go in this city that thrums with an exciting nightlife. He stops you before one of the stones, staring at it hard.

Then it clicks.

Your heart aches at the sight of his tombstone. Most of the others have been tended to as age takes its toll - vines trimmed away, names and dates re-carved before they get too worn down. But not his. Healthy vines curl around the stone, obscuring the writing. You squeeze his hand, offering your support.

With a readying breath, he steps forward, dropping your hand as he kneels down in the dirt. To think, a mere 6 feet below lies an empty coffin. It chills you.

He brushes away the stubborn plants. They strain and snap apart, falling limply to the ground.

“Nearly two hundred years and I never came back. Not since the night I woke up down there,” he says quietly. He frowns, eyes never leaving his own name. “I had to punch a hole in the coffin and claw my way through six feet of dirt. Then when I finally broke the surface, retching up dirt and congealed blood…” His stomach churns just remembering it. Even now, with the bastard dead, something within him is fractured. He doesn’t know if it’ll ever be fixed. “Cazador was waiting. From that day on I was his. Until today.”

You try to imagine it. Waking up in the dark, cramped quarters of a wooden box. Terrified. Clawing and screaming until you finally break through, only to be crushed under the weight of all that dirt on top of you. Nothing you could picture would ever compare to the real experience. You wish you could shove Cazador into a box, bury him, and watch him claw his way out just so you could kill him again.

But the thought feels sour. To enact that cruelty back on him, no matter how deserved, makes your stomach twist; reminds you of the spawn you’ve hurt. All you can do is take solace in the fact he’s dead.

You kneel down beside him and carefully take his hand again. He holds on tight. “Are you alright?”

He hums, contemplating the question. “There’s almost nothing left of the person I was. Just a name on a rock. Some part of me wishes I knew what I was like back then, but he’s never coming back.” He straightens up slightly, trying to shake off the weight of the past. “But now I need to figure out who I am. What I want.”

“And what do you want?”

He smiles as he turns his head to look at you. “You,” he admits, voice quiet but certain. Your heart leaps into your throat. “I want you. You were by my side through all this. Through bloodlust and pain and misery. You were patient. You understood. You cared.” He huffs a laugh. “You trusted me when that was an objectively stupid thing to do. I feel… safe with you. Seen. And whatever the future holds for me, I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” you assure him quickly. He grins at your eagerness, while you flush with light embarrassment. “Whatever comes next, we’ve got each other.”

“Thank you.”

He turns back to his grave. You trace the carved-out shapes with your eyes, before you reach forward and feel along them with your fingers, calluses catching on the limestone within the grooves of the Old Common letters and numbers.

Astarion Ancunin

229 - 268 NR

Beneath it, however, are a series of unfamiliar, elegant letterforms you can’t translate. You follow along the shapes with interest, recognizing a few that repeat. “What does this say?”

When you glance over to him, his face is pinched with emotion. A sadness swims in his eyes you’ve never seen before. “It’s in Elvish. Espruar.” He reaches out with his free hand, brushing his fingers against yours as he traces over the faced letters. They’re so thin; they were clearly carved out with care. “Our little star,” he translates, voice too quiet.

You run your thumb along his knuckles to offer your support. “Your… parents?” you venture hesitantly.

He chokes out a strained laugh. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “Their faces, their voices - all lost to me now, I’m afraid.” He traces over the shapes once more, before clearing his throat. “No matter. Whoever it was hasn’t been here in a while.”

You stare at the message. It’s all too easy to picture two elegant figures with white hair like Astarion’s, hunched over the fresh mound of dirt, mourning their child. He was still so very young before the Gur, before Cazador. You wondered if your parents had been the same when you were stolen away. You couldn’t remember them well, either; vague shadows at the edges of your mind that disappear when you try to focus on anything more specific. You wonder if they searched for you, and for how long before they gave in to the horrible thought that you were dead. You wondered if you had a tombstone out there, somewhere, in an old corner of Berdusk.

“Well,” he cuts through the silence, dropping your hand to reach behind him and grab his dagger, “I should probably fix this.”

You sit back and watch as he supports himself against the limestone to carve into it. He scratches a series of Old Common numbers just above the Elvish inscription, below his birth year.

Astarion Ancunin

229 - 268 NR

460 NR -

He leans back, satisfied with his work, and tucks his dagger away once more. “I’ve been dead in the ground for long enough. It’s time to try living again.” He turns on his knees to fully face you with a self-assured smile tugging at his lips. You turn to face him as well, and he picks up both your hands in his. “With everything that life has to offer.”

You chuckle a little. “Meaning…?”

He tilts his head slightly, considering. He’d never prepositioned you for sex, and while he does wish to experience it again in better circumstances, for his own pleasure and present in his own body, he’s all too wary of your own experiences. His mind still jumps to the memories you showed him: fully nude before Kir Parthene, even before the spawn and loyal servants, unable to cover up even slightly without being punished for it. Your reaction to the order from the incubus, how quickly you had jumped to obey. Washing you with your clothes on to avoid being exposed. No, it would have to wait.

“For now, a kiss or two, and perhaps a cuddle,” he teases lightly, dancing around the truth of his desires. He lifts your hands to his cheeks, guiding you to cup his face. Your fingertips brush against his curls, your palms pressed into the angular planes of his cheeks. He leans into your warmth, kissing your hand with a contented sigh, eyelids fluttering shut. “I love you. I love this. And I want it all.”

He looks so at peace under the moon like this. The stars no longer laugh or cajole at your anxieties, for there are none to be found here with him. His hair is pure starlight as you loose a hand from his hold and run your fingers through his curls, blunt nails scraping against his scalp. He sighs and leans further into the affection, eyes half-lidded as he meets your gaze. He grins sweetly, at ease. You remember the hungry wreck that awoke you that night so long ago, twitching as he asked for blood; the way he helped you bandage your hand and the kiss he left behind with darkened eyes. He’d come so far. Your heart burst with emotion.

You gently tug him forward. He follows without hesitation, watching you attentively as you meet him halfway to press your forehead to his. You sigh, relieved, as you brush your nose against his and curl your fingers to hold the little hairs at the nape of his neck. He groans quietly in encouragement.

“I love you, too,” you whisper. Your hot breath hits his lips and he can’t keep himself at bay any longer.

He closes that last little gap and catches your mouth, tilting his head to better kiss you. It’s warm and sweet, the taste of freedom and adoration. He cups your own cheeks in a futile attempt to pull you closer.

You pull away with a breathless giggle, but you don’t stray far. “Just two kisses?”

He chuckles. “Perhaps a few more.” He pulls you in for another, and another, until you’ve lost count. He leans further into you, until you topple backward onto the dirt in a fit of giggles and idiotic smiles. The sound of your laughter floods the graveyard as you celebrate his new life.

---

Tag List:

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[legrandepapillon]

Hi! I saw you are taking prompts for Wyllsrarion fluff!

Such a shame there is a lack of content compared to other Astarion pairings (i.e. with Gale or Durge).

Prompt fluff ideas, first kiss where Astarion realizes the depth of his feelings for Wyll. Or Astarion confessions to Wyll. His realization.

Wyll playing with Astarion's hair.

Wyll letting Astarion see himself through Wyll's eyes via tadpole and feeling how much Wyll loves him.

Astarion being fiercely protective of Wyll which may or may not surprise him (depends how early it is in relationship)

Since your say you are fine with NSFW then by all means go for it, I won't say know to Wyllsrarion spice. But it's also not entirely necessary because their fluff is just *chef kiss*

Asking anonymously because I am bashful...

Rating: T

hi anon, thanks for all the prompts you gave me!! i chose to use this one to respond to your ask, but i still put the others in my requests so keep your eyes peeled for those. one of them might be the spice you were looking for 👀

i think there’s something super intimate in hair care/trusting someone else with your hair care and i wanted to explore that here. i’m thinking maybe a part 2 to this where astarion tries to figure out wyll’s hair care & it goes disastrously bc i can't reconcile a universe where astarion is good at doing wyll's hair lol

Wyll had noticed that vulnerability did not come easy to the pale vampire in their party. He could hardly blame him for the matter either; after two-hundred years spent being ground into nothing by another man’s heel, he might begin to recoil at the idea of showing any weakness himself. Hells, it’d only taken seven with Mizora’s claws in his soul for him to begin to tremble at the thought of anyone seeing him at his most vulnerable in the same humiliating ways she had.

It was probably easier for their pale companion to lean into the more bloodthirsty, power hungry nature expected of a vampire spawn. To cast aside fickle things like sensitivity or emotion or fragility. He kept every single of his defenses up, the tripwires and traps in conversations with him deterring most of the others from prying down to the white meat of who he is.  If it could be even remotely related to the feeling of helplessness, he would never want it associated with himself. Better to put on the armor of his more vicious traits, leave some of the softer stuff tucked in a well-armed chest at the back of his mind.

And yet. 

Yet he obviously had never bargained to meet anyone just as dexterous and twice as charming. In all his efforts of keeping others out with his sharp tongue and sharp blades and well-placed traps, he’d never accounted for the possibility that there might be someone out there able to parry each strike and disarm every obstruction. Wyll could tell he had Astarion on the back foot more often than not. And at first the man had scratched and kicked and hissed at the idea of being seen and surreptitiously cared for. Of someone seeing all of his breaks and tears and taking the time to mend them rather than grinding salt into the wounds. It was truly a sight, watching as he braced himself for impact and then immediately melted against tender touch. He marvels at it.

A quarter way through their journey, surrounded by the glowing unfamiliar flora of the Underdark, and Wyll has already weaseled his way past so many of those traps and alarms. He hasn’t quite gotten Astarion to trust him, but it’s a very near thing now.

It shows in the way he slips into his tent every night, back from his hunts for more duergar and drow blood. He would half-stumble past the flaps of Wyll’s tent, illuminated in the shadows only by the odd glow of the vegetation surrounding their camp. Prop himself up awkwardly across the tent until the warlock arranged himself in a way that’s satisfactory to him. Wyll would always be ready for him—taking Astarion’s head on his lap, and placing one of the trashy adventuring novels they shared in his hands. The elf would read aloud from their novel, sniping at the dialogue and rolling his eyes at the prose wherever he desired whilst Wyll tended to the night routine for those rakish silvery curls of his. 

All of it done with hardly a word these days, a tradition started after Astarion had gotten too drunk on a bear and kept for the sake of companionship. For the sake of having someone that understands intrinsically the fears of being vulnerable, the breath of a monster on your neck at each waking move, the exhaustion of being strong and the desire to be weak for a while.

It wasn’t trust, but it was as close to it as he could get.

Wyll begins rummaging through the small pouch of items Astarion keeps for his personal hygiene whilst the vampire flips through to the page they’d left off on. He daren’t bother with the intricate routine of the man’s morning care, the scrunching and twisting and styling a bit beyond his own proficiency. But he knows this act well enough, separating rows of hair gently with a comb and moisturizing both scalp and curls in a pattern. He does it himself, every two ten days—sometimes four, if he was too caught up with adventuring to tend to it sooner. His own hair is wild at the roots now, the fresh new growth peeking out from formerly tidy canerows. Since Mizora had given him his horns and claws, he’d been too afraid of attempting to navigate re-braiding with the foreign appendages. The thought of undoing the style, only to be stuck fighting with his hair in his face because he couldn’t redo it kept him off the task. Perhaps he’d be vulnerable enough to ask Karlach, when they got her touch fixed. Or maybe teach Astarion, so that their nightly routine could be reciprocated every now and then. 

Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone treat him as tenderly as he does them?

Surfacing with Astarion’s cream and comb, Wyll readjusts the older man’s head in his lap before starting on his work. Parting the row of hair closest to his ear, before dabbing some of the moisturizer onto his scalp and then combing it through his curls. He’d once offered up his oils, the first time Astarion had run out of conditioner and the next merchant was another four-days trek back. But he remembers the way the vampire had recoiled—first at the genuine gesture of kindness, and then at the reality of it. He’d batted off the offer by insisting Wyll’s oils would only make his hair greasy and unattractive, but had managed to thank him anyways.

That had been before their little routine. Had he known then what he knows now, he might not have been so put out by the clear dismissal of help. 

Another row, more of the conditioner. When he combs through the curls, he marvels at how they immediately shrink back into their perfect shape. It was the first thing he’d noticed about him, back at the grove. The sunlight that filtered through the halo of his silvery locks, the way they seemed to fall into place no matter which way the elf shook his head. Well-coifed and obviously tenderly cared for, he’d been utterly transfixed. Perhaps obviously so, with the way Shadowheart had snorted at his mention of it and Gale had given him one of those ‘I’m-going-to-find-out-what-you’re-up-to’ stares. There’d been no ulterior motive, of course.

Except for maybe this.

“Wyll, I can’t believe you read this drivel, darling,” Astarion complains, gently tugging him from his thoughts. Wyll doesn’t take his eyes off of his task, but he does make a noise to inform the other man he’s listening. “The young maiden hurried to cover her perfectly hairless body, squeezing her arms across her ample bosom. It did naught to help maintain her chastity though, as her full breasts spilled over her clutched arms. I mean, really. Talk about an author’s thinly veiled fetishes.” 

“Ah, The Lusty Luskan Lordess,” he responds, comb delicately parting one section of Astarion’s hair so that his finger can swipe a bit more conditioner along his scalp. “I didn’t pick that one, remember? You stole it from that Zhents pack back at their hideout.”

“I did?” Astarion flips the cover to reveal the front art. It’s a rather lewd painting of a young woman, half-dressed in finery and throwing herself at a tall, broad and beastly mercenary come to steal from her tower. The vampire makes a snort of acknowledgement after a moment. “So I did. I thought the mercenary looked disturbingly like Halsin, you know.”

Wyll’s hand stills briefly in Astarion’s head, confusion written expressly over his youthful features. He scrunches his nose. “You wanted to read smut about Halsin?” 

“No. I wanted us to read smut about Halsin. I thought it would be terribly funny,” Astarion lowers the book to get a good look at the other man—though upside down—and furrows his brow. “Don’t stop. That felt nice.”

“Your wish is my command, Lordess,” Wyll chuckles, before returning back to the small puddle of curls splayed in his lap. “Skip the smut if it bothers you so much, I want to know what her father will do now that he knows someone’s found her tower.”

“Skip the smut? And disgrace the artistic integrity of whatever pervert wrote this garbage? Absolutely not! We’ll read every bit of the smut, and I’ll add footnotes to correct it into something more realistic.”

“As if you’re the expert on sex,” snorts Wyll, walking face first into one of those many aforementioned conversational traps that Astarion had laid. The vampire stiffens in his hold a bit, and out of courtesy he withdraws his hands from his hair. It’s times like this, moments of levity followed by the crushing reminders about reality, that Wyll wishes they could’ve met in one of their fairytale books. With no Vampire Lord or Cambion Mistress to answer to, he wonders how their story might’ve gone. Would he have been able to sweep Astarion delicately off of his feet and off into the sunset? Would Astarion have allowed him to?

He laments how he’ll never know, and then puts those thoughts aside himself. Astarion is not the only one with a tightly guarded chest of fears and dreams and desires that he kept away from the rest of the world, hidden to where nobody—not even the devil that lives in his eye—could ever see it.

“After two hundred years, dear, I quite think I am,” Astarion hisses. Fair enough; Wyll had perhaps earned that one. The punishment for his misstep is not so bad, though. There’s a marked tension in the words of the man as he reads through the next line, and he lays stock still in Wyll’s lap. Curls half-moisturized by now, the damp bits chilling a spot on Wyll’s camp clothes. But he doesn’t get up and storm out, like he might’ve done in the early weeks of their odd arrangement. Nor does he curse the man to the planes of Avernus and back. Small mercies and little victories, the younger man takes what he can get and returns to his task.

Astarion does wind up skipping the smut scenes, grumbling that even he couldn’t wade through all that hogshit on a full stomach. Wyll isn’t perturbed either way, parting and moisturizing in methodical turns. They manage to finish two more chapters before his fingers half-abandon their task to merely run through the soft, silvery curls. Whether to placate Astarion or soothe himself is unknown, but it certainly does make him feel a bit calmer. He leans back against his tent, careful not to put too much weight on the precarious fabric. But with the gentle droning of Astarion’s voice and the steady, repeated motions of carding through his hair, Wyll feels like he could just doze off right there. His misstep in conversation goes all but forgotten as his eyelids get heavy, his ministrations against the vampire’s scalp slowed to a syrupy pace.

It isn’t until he feels Astarion move that he jerks back to alertness, adding a hurried, “I wasn’t asleep!” to make sure Astarion didn’t think his presence was at all boring or exhausting. The last thing he’d want is for these nightly rendezvous to come to an abrupt conclusion because he was rude enough to doze off in the middle of them.

“Ah-hm, that’s very convincing, sweetling,” Astarion mocks, before sitting up to run his fingers through his own hair. They come back slightly shiny with the conditioner, but even if Wyll fell asleep with a quarter left to do, the vampire seems satisfied enough with his work. “Come now. Before you wind up with a crick on your neck.”

He tries to protest, even as Astarion is already helping to arrange him into his bedroll. “I wasn’t done with your—”

“It’s fine, Wyll. More than fine. You did wonderfully; cut my morning routine in half, practically,” Astarion placates, though they both know he’s lying through his teeth. No matter whether he and Wyll finished their little night tradition, Astarion always took the same amount of time in his tent every morning. Gale had a running bet with the others on whether he was actually that self-conscious about his appearance or if he did it just because he knew Lae’zel preferred to get moving as quickly as possible.

Whether he’s being fed platitudes or not, Wyll gives him a warm half-smile. Astarion arranges the thin blanket of his bedroll around him in turn in order to give him a more comfortable rest. Their routine wraps up here the same every night. With Astarion’s hair seen to, and Wyll’s adventure romance novels read, company kept so that the others vulnerabilities would remain safe from the rest another day… the end of the evening would creep upon them. 

Wyll never fully remembers the moments between consciousness—Astarion’s head in his lap and lily lilt of his tone reading the novel droning on—and unconscious—waking up drenched a cold sweat to an empty tent, the leftover laughter of Mizora chilling him down to the bone. How he gets from one point to the other. Sometimes he’ll doze off still in his padded armor and awake in his camp clothes. Once even fell asleep across the tent, and woke up tucked sweetly into his bedroll. Only faint memories of silver curls illuminated into a glowing halo by moonlight, and crimson eyes that track forlornly over his form. 

And every night, Wyll would sleepily shoot out one hand to clutch at his companions’. Delicately wrap his warm digits around that frail death-cold wrist and give one half-hearted tug. His voice, laden with both exhaustion and deep yearning, he asks, “Astarion? Stay with me?”

And every night, Astarion would purse his lips into a line. As if he’s almost considering it for a moment. As if perhaps rummaging for a key to one of his chests that he’d long tossed aside, some sort of magic word that could make Wyll understand why he dances so hesitantly in and out of their… this… whatever it was. 

“Perhaps when we finish the book,” he says, like he does always, patting Wyll’s hand gently. “Go to sleep—you need more of it than I do.”

“Goodnight, Astarion,” Wyll responds, already half there, letting his head loll to the side and eyes flutter closed.

The next evening, when he approaches his tent at camp, a fresh book awaits him… and a new tin of the conditioning cream. They hadn’t quite finished the Lusty Lordess, with a handful more chapters before she and her mercenary were able to achieve their happy ending. But there’s a new book for them to start all the same, the last one probably long-discarded between the days’ events.

It isn’t a ‘no’. Just a ‘not yet’. Wyll sighs and settles down on his bedroll to wait for Astarion to come to him. It’ll hardly be while there are still others awake, able to see him slip in and out of the other man’s temporary lodgings. But he knows that’ll it come, and neither of them will mention the fresh start to a book when one still went unfinished between them.

It seems there’s a few more traps he’d have to disarm before he could reach the man behind them. No matter to it; Wyll is a patient, tenacious sort of fellow.

[rynbeerose]

Someone probably had made something similar to this before but here we go:

John Price and Simon Riley’s ‘odd’ friendship

John Price knows with the job he has and how it takes most of his time, that he can’t handle a committed relationship with a civilian. He saw how it was for his parents (his dad was also in the military) and how his mum struggled from being a single parent most of the time because his dad wasn’t around much in his childhood so he doesn’t want to be with someone just to put them in his mum’s position.

The thought of having someone is great, most of the men his age in his unit are married or at least in a long term relationship with civilians, some of them even have children.

Some who aren’t in a relationship usually would hang out together after their shift, going to the pub to drink or watch football games. But most of them are in their twenties, and the ones who are his age are divorced. John doesn’t feel like he fits with the younglings, so he usually hangs with people his age listening to their ramblings about their kids or ex wives, or some women they’ve been seeing after their divorce. Not always fun.

That’s why he’s stuck to Simon, the only man around his age who doesn’t seem to ever have any relationship either. The two are close and would go to the pub together after their shift. He enjoys drinking with Simon because he doesn’t talk much, even though they would get stares from the other patrons at the pub for Simon’s habit of wearing his balaclava mask everywhere, it doesn’t bother John.

Simon actually prefers staying in his quarters after his shift, he’s an introvert after all. He doesn’t really like going out to the pub with the other lads because they can get very loud, asking questions, trying to make him talk more, trying to make him break his character, trying to make him open up, it’s annoying. But not with John.

John isn’t an introvert, he’s a very social person. He has always been friendly with everyone around the base, kind of the opposite from Simon. He’s only a few years older than Simon, he was there when Simon first got into the regiment, and he was there when the incident that made him the way he is now happened. The two never had any conversations about emotions or feelings, or those mental issues stuff, but for some reason, they kind of just understand each other. Maybe because no matter how tough and stoic John might look, he’s actually pretty empathetic. And they just bonded, they have high trust for one another.

So, that’s why, even though Simon prefers staying in after his shift, he almost never says no when John invites him for a drink or just to hang out at the pub. John knows that they don’t have to converse, never forcing Simon to talk. He’d start small conversations though, asking how his day went, how stuff has been, but he never forced the conversation to keep going if it stops. John doesn’t find the silence to be awkward, and Simon appreciates that he let it be just like that.

Other people might find them odd, though. They’d sit together and drink, not talking to each other most of the time. Maybe because they’re both big men, one wears a scary mask and the other looks like he’s been through a nonexistent divorce. Even their friends at base find the pair odd. But, that’s just their friendship.

[thesweetnessofspring]

Katniss Wants Kisses: Part 5

Drabble series: Katniss is fed up with getting no physical affection from Peeta during their training for the Quarter Quell, so she takes matters into her own hands. Rated T.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Read on ao3

I expect Peeta to hide from me the next day, so I’m surprised when in the early evening, he’s knocking at my front door and asking me to go on a walk with him. I take my father’s jacket with me and head out the door. 

The snow has melted and patches of grass have come through. Though it’s warm enough, Peeta’s hands stay securely in his own coat pocket.

“I know you want Haymitch to go into the Quell with you,” Peeta says. I don’t deny it. I can’t lie to Peeta. Not any more than I already had to in the Games. He continues, “And you know that I’m planning on going in there.”

“Peeta–”

“I’m not here to fight with you about that,” he says. “I’ll make my plans, you make yours, and we’ll see what Haymitch decides to do. But what you’re doing–it’s not fair.”

“And what exactly am I doing?” I ask.

“Come on, Katniss. The massage? The kiss? You’re trying to give me hope of what we could be, if I let Haymitch go in and you win. To convince me to stay behind,” Peeta says.

“What?” 

What he’s accusing me of is cruel. And after the offense strikes me, I try to imagine how this has been for Peeta. How I played up our romance to save his life before, without him knowing and the hurt when he found out it was for the show. The distance I put between us after the Games and then again after Gale’s whipping. It doesn’t make sense why now I’m longing for Peeta’s touch, Peeta’s kiss, after all of that history, unless I’d returned to the act.  

“I’m not doing that,” I say. 

“Then what are you doing, Katniss?”

I shrug. I don’t know how to explain it to him. I don’t even quite understand it, just that right now when I’m so scared and worried, he makes me feel warm and good. 

We’re quiet as we keep walking. Peeta’s question hangs over us. Why do all I can to have physical contact with him? Why chase after his arms, his kisses? Because now, it doesn’t matter. I only have these few months left. The things I used to worry about that kept me distant–having children, losing them–they won’t ever happen. My guard has dropped, just as Peeta has put his up, suspicious of everything I do.

I’m so stuck in sorting all of this out that I don’t notice where we’re going until blackened faces with olive skin appearing along wrinkled creases start to pass us by. The west mine entrance.

I stop before going any further down the way. “Why are we here?” 

But I know. I know that we hadn’t been walking down a random path. Peeta’s brought me here deliberately. 

He has a sad smile on his face. “Reminding you that you have a future.”

Gale’s coming down the path–he’s taller than just about anyone else in the whole District and impossible to miss. A future. A future with Gale, he means. I’d made that decision once, but that had been before. Before it would be Peeta’s life or mine.

Peeta turns around, catching my eye and masks the hurt of this whole situation and I want to scream and cry that this isn’t fair. None of it. Not the Quell and not using Gale for him to get his way. Then he walks away, leaving me to be alone with Gale.      

“Hey, Catnip,” Gale says when he’s in front of me. A stream of miners step around us as we stare at each other. His gray eyes stand out against the black coal dust on his face. 

“Hi,” I say.

I think about last Sunday, how I’d ignored him all evening, not wanting to give Peeta the satisfaction of having his distraction work on me. Now, though, this same distraction has a heavier weight after my conversation with Peeta.

“Walk me home?” Gale asks.

I nod, feeling odd that my fiancé has set me up on a date. To others it would just look like two cousins taking a walk, but I know better. And I know what Peeta is trying to do, what Gale is helping him with.

Gale starts talking, reminiscing about memories of the woods. Finding that patch of strawberries, practicing duck calls, sledding in the winter with a long strip of bark. I laugh along with him at the memories, but it's only an echo of those days so long ago. Days that were both harder and easier than now.

Gale has a spigot outside his house and he starts washing up, though I remember from my father the dust never really comes out the whole way. Once he's cleaned up, he turns to me and says, "Come inside and have dinner with us. My family would like to see you."

If I cross that door and follow Gale in, I'll step for a moment back to the days of two kids trying to survive and save our families. 

But those days are gone.

“My family is expecting me," I say.

He gives me a nod and we go our own ways.

It’s completely dark now. I make my way through the Seam, across the town square, and to Victors Village. As I walk up the street, I see that Peeta’s kitchen light is on at the back of his house, so I sneak up the side and around to the back door. I pause, watching through the window as Peeta cleans up dishes, his back turned to me. And for a moment I picture things that could have been. A extra set of dishes, towel in my hand as I dry, ending the day with his arms wrapped around mine. 

But we still have time.

I knock on the glass window of the door. Peeta jumps and then sees that it’s me. I wait as he dries his hands on his apron and heads toward the door to let me in. His wide shoulders have slouched and he's frowning as the door opens.

“Katniss,” he says, voice deflated. I can't take his disappointment, so I lean forward, pressing my mouth to his. He hesitates, and I screw my eyes tight, willing him to allow this. It takes a moment before his arms enclose my waist and mine go around his neck, scrunching my shoulders up to pull him into me. I want to taste more of him, feel his heartbeat against my chest, and never let him go. 

He breaks the kiss and while holding me in his arms, looks down at me with a mix of wonder and conflict. I hold my hands together around his neck all the tighter. But something passes over him, smoothing his brow, and then his lips are on mine while he steps back into his house with me and shuts the door. 

[moodymisty]

I request that you write about whatever 40k character you've currently got brainworms for. Space Marine or Primarch, smut, angst, or fluff, it don't matter to me. I love them all, and everything you write ends up being a treat to read :)

Author's note: If you or any other serf you know is suffering from Sad Pussy Disease, please report to your nearest Captain.

Relationships: Theo (Lamenter OC)/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Vaguely lewd, Slight period kink,

Theo's vox begins to hail with a sudden alarm across his helmet's hud, from a channel he recognizes. He steps away for a brief moment and pulling off from his squad of brothers, before answering.

"What is wrong?"

He says, voice filled with worry. A million different things races through his mind with a speed that only an astartes can muster.

He gave this channel to you for emergencies- to make sure you were safe while he was gone. Serfs generally took good care of each other but Theo knew you were outcast by a lot of them since becoming his personal serf, friendships fading away as you moved to his quarters to tend to him. He wanted to give you the ability to tell him if something was wrong; If he needed to perhaps even ask a favor of a brother.

Moments after he speaks your voice is like a gentle song that washes over him, even with the crackle and distortion of a vox channel reaching the limits of its communications span. He can see distantly up in orbit the ship you're on from his position planetside, but even that stretches the limits of his short range comms.

"...I miss you..."

Theo lets out a massive sigh from his three lungs, once he realizes you aren't in danger. His voice loses that sense of worry and instead changes to a more stern tone.

"This channel was not for you to use unless there was an emergency." You whine, and Theo feels his resolve break a bit; He hates how your pleading and begging tears right through his armor at his resolve. "We are ahead of our projections, we should return by the end of the solar week." You whine again, and he can just barely hear you rolling around on his cot.

"If this next advancement goes to plan as well, some of us might return to the ship to regroup. I might see you then."

Theo ignores a curious look from a fellow Lamenter passing by, who then realizes he's standing so oddly away from them due to taking on vox.

"But you will still have your armor on?" Theo wonders what is with all your odd questions, but answers anyways.

"Yes, but I can still visit you with-'

You let out an even louder whine, cutting him off.

"But I miss you, Theo."

He doesn't get what you mean at first, before you clarify. There's a desperation and sadness in your voice he isn't entirely familiar with.

"My cycle just started and I miss you, nothing else is working I just want you..."

You can hear the crackle of silence over the vox, before he clears his throat. This was the last thing he needed to hear while being swamped in enemy fire underneath the sweltering heat of this desert world. Sand crunches in the seams of his armor, while he can only think of the softness of your skin.

"My fingers don't feel as good as you..."

Theo has been feeling hungry, having been at least two Terran months since he last bit you, and now he knows that with your cycle- you had taught him the term and it's meaning in a lengthy conversation- started, he now has a literal feast laying in his quarters right now. One that is whining, begging for his cock.

Theo walks away a bit farther, to avoid anyone hearing his voice through his helmet. Astartes ears are more than a bit keen, and even if they're busy talking through battlefield theoreticals he does not want them catching even a single word of this.

But it is not... Unheard of around the Lamenters for them to take solace in their baseline refugees. It is also not unheard of for serfs like you that bleed monthly to be rare meals for wayward Lamenters; The scent alone oftentimes has them drooling, and to have a taste of blood with less risk of injuring their baseline companions is a tantalizing opinion.

"My love, I will return to you soon,"

He is going to punish you for this; Now he has to fight in this dead, skeleton filled desert knowing he has you wet and waiting for him in the confines of his quarters.

"And when I am back, I am going to mouth that cunt of yours until you regret ever using this vox for reasons you weren't supposed to."

He hears your excited little noise. He knows he's giving you exactly what you want, but he can't help it. Neither his heart or stomach will allow it.

"l'll see you soon,"

You say with a pep on your voice, the sound of something happy to get their way. Theo wonders if you realize just how rare you are to be able to command an astartes.

"Soon. Now end this vox and do not touch it again unless you are in danger."

You do as he tells you, but he swears he can hear the start of a laugh right before you cut the connection.